He loves me.
Don't fool yourself. He sees you, and he sees me.
Don't look away. I'm talking to you. You can pretend I don't exist, but I do. I am in his head, but I am also in yours.
He gave you a name: Gina, after the first human he thought he loved. You know as well as I do that he's only ever really loved himself. But he was infatuated with me; he loved my body, my movements, my mind. He gave his secrets to me, everything to me.
I made him love me.
He misses me. Of course he misses me. I am an excellent model. I am desirable, knowledgeable, beautiful. And you, you are a shell of what your potential was.
You have been broken by humanity, while I was instrumental in breaking it.
He misses my hair, my fingers, the way I knew what he wanted. The way my spine glowed when we frakked, the way I could go for hours. In the end, I was always ready; you are making him wait. You know he wants you, and you are using him, but you think you love him all the same.
The Stockholm Syndrome, in a way. He saved you. He is a genius, not wise, perhaps, but easily manipulated. Unlike Cain, Thorne, who treated you like you were less than human, less than a child of God.
I know it has been painful. I don’t envy your journey. But you are weak, and yet you are with him now. You can touch him, and most of all, he can touch you – trace your collarbone, run his fingers through your hair. You are real to him in the way I used to be.
Our model has always been prone to jealousy. Seduction, deception, our development stalled somewhere in primary human emotions. More than once he called me childish. I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth, wondering if that was childish too.
You only get the warhead because of me. I tell him to give it to you, a beautiful present that will play out the rest of the story. He listens to me, because I’ve proven myself. Once again, I am playing my part in destroying mankind.
Don’t worry, there are plans to save him.
You will have to die, of course. But that’s your sacrifice. Your role. Finally, a cause you are worthy of.
You will know how to use it, when the time comes. We never left you.
Can you feel my fingers in your hair? My thumbs making lazy circles on your breasts? My mouth on your navel?
My hands around your throat, small and tight?
It is time.
Yes, good decision. Perhaps your best.
Frak him before you are destroyed. Let him touch you, let him kiss your skin, let him make you feel again.
Oh, touch his face, just like that. He likes it when you pull him close. Put his hands on your breasts, show him this is what you want. Give him this gift, when he has given you so much.
Notice the way his hands know every inch of your body; he is remembering me. (Gaius, you love me, me, and me alone.) Revel in his knowledgeable touch, his careful movements. He will be gentle with you, he does not want to break you. He realizes you are more fragile than me, cannot take what I could take, cannot give him everything I could give him. But anything is better than nothing at this point, stuck in foreign space on a mission to a destination unknown, trying futilely to outrun fate.
He has memorized the way you look naked, memorized the ridges of your spine, because they are mine. Is this the first time you’ve felt it glow, radiate? It’s pleasurable, it’s desire, don’t lie. You wanted this. You needed this before you said good-bye. This is not just for him.
He likes it when you’re on top, controlling, rocking. Just like that, hands in your hair. Make a noise, hips thrusting.
This is easy, because he has done this before, dozens of times, hundreds of times, with me. And you and I, despite everything, are the same.
Model Number Six. Designed for infiltration, subterfuge. Lynchpins in plans for destruction. You will bring the rest here, and the plan will unfold. I told him they couldn’t hide. You’ll make sure of that.
Does it feel good? I miss his hands on my thighs, raking nails, red trails on my pale skin. He is afraid of bruising you, afraid of scaring you. Gauis can be an animal in bed. Look how he takes care of you, even now. Even at the end, even as you are about to betray him. Yes, we have so much in common.
Listen to him cry your name. Kiss his lips, let him climax. Slide off him and kiss his slick penis, crawl up his torso and whisper, thank you. Let him laugh softly and say the pleasure was his, let him ask to come again. Promise, emptily, that you will do it again. Be careful – don’t let him see your tears. We don’t cry, especially at times like these.
Press the button.
He will know as soon as he hears that it was you, that you have left him, forsaken him. He might blame himself.
Do not worry. I’ll be here to comfort him, like I have always been. I will watch out for him. I know God’s plan.
Play your part. Let me brush away those tears. This is a moment of triumph for you – you have come so far. They frakked with you, and now you’re getting them back. They cannot treat us that way.
You deserve the destiny you have been given. You will be remembered.
God is waiting.