All things considered, he remained.  His presence was still, and his wants strong.  When moments, opportunities, presented themselves– he wavered.  The image he presented to the world was broken, fractured, incomplete.

                Unabated, he required something of no one.  When expectations on him were set, he cowered, clamored, feigned, aggressed.  He would receive, but not give.  He would deliver, but not purchase.  He was innocent, tired, unreachable, and without regret.  He was confident he could kill under the right conditions without feeling guilt, and he was afraid of his own capacity for self-aggrandizement, for pain.  Caring little about others, he sought only validation.  For this validation, he was willing to give his life, his faith, his friendship.  After he had his fill, he was willing to give these things still.

                But on and on went all the time slipping through the nails he left untrimmed as he wandered gracelessly through his quarters, wearing robes made of blankets and stares made of nothing, finding interest in only the evil that grew in him, watching his electronics with suspicion and his ceilings out of convenience, dreading the humanity of the world from which he retrieved his solace, hoping for another reason to excuse himself from the aid it required to spin ‘round.  His capture was imminent.  That is what he believed, but, from what, he could not conceptualize.  It was a sensation that bore through him like sugar through enamel.  And from it there was no reprieve.  It simply persisted, on and on.  Only when asleep did he experience its occasional recession, but this was not enough to maintain the kind of sanity expected of him.  So, through his days he wandered like a drone, commanded by the functions of his higher mind, seeing only times and duties and manners to uphold, and fulfilling these requests as would any skilled robotic-humanoid, lifeless, feigning emotion, impressing himself throughout with his ability to convince of his earnestness and sincerity, all the while detached like a door unhinged and yet still within its frame.  Only to turn the knob and push could reveal its dilapidation.  Only to engage him with true openness would reveal his person as incomplete.  He stuck by himself closely so that he could efficiently retreat from such occasional correspondences.  It was only then when he felt the sting of loss, when he found himself wanting again so profoundly.