[ They are in it together, in more of a sense than Zack realizes, at least as far as Danse's slightly confused and divided dream-consciousness is concerned. It takes a second for his mind to adjust itself around the disorientation of the unfamiliar face, but he still has as strong a sense as he ever did in real life that without the person standing next to him, he wouldn't be walking out of this bunker alive.
Not that this is looking nearly as likely as it had a moment ago. Hope turns to ash in his mouth with whiplash-inducing speed, and his desperate attempt at shielding his companion here from consequence--"It's not his fault! It's mine!"--falls on deaf ears. In his true memories, he recalls at least being acknowledged, but already the dream is warping to accommodate the foreign presence in a way his dreams never ordinarily do. ]
Have you taken leave of your senses?
[ A vein twitches in Arthur's temple, a display of rage Danse has never found himself on this end of before. And still isn't, technically, because when he advances a step further with a barely-controlled gesticulation, it's still only toward Zack. ]
"What thing?" Danse isn't a man, it's a machine. An automaton created by the Institute. It wasn't born from the womb of a loving mother; it was grown within the cold confines of a laboratory. Flesh is flesh. Machine is machine. The two were never meant to intertwine.
no subject
Not that this is looking nearly as likely as it had a moment ago. Hope turns to ash in his mouth with whiplash-inducing speed, and his desperate attempt at shielding his companion here from consequence--"It's not his fault! It's mine!"--falls on deaf ears. In his true memories, he recalls at least being acknowledged, but already the dream is warping to accommodate the foreign presence in a way his dreams never ordinarily do. ]
Have you taken leave of your senses?
[ A vein twitches in Arthur's temple, a display of rage Danse has never found himself on this end of before. And still isn't, technically, because when he advances a step further with a barely-controlled gesticulation, it's still only toward Zack. ]
"What thing?" Danse isn't a man, it's a machine. An automaton created by the Institute. It wasn't born from the womb of a loving mother; it was grown within the cold confines of a laboratory. Flesh is flesh. Machine is machine. The two were never meant to intertwine.
I ask you again--why is it still alive?