The judgement of others

[mechanical_dream]

"I am, as I am; whether hideous, or handsome, depends on who is made judge." -- Herman Melville

As my beloved appears to be telling everyone I've snapped at over the last while (my apologies), old pain is riding close to the surface with me recently. *smiles wryly* I fear I've been rapidly eroding my reputation as the calm one in this relationship. *laughs* But I am, generally. The difference is, you see, Dowling is all flash and bang, rapid anger. He couldn't hold a grudge if you paid him, and has always managed to somehow let all the hate in the universe roll off him.

Me? I hold grudges. Long and cold and slow. *dark little smile* People who judge us ... well. Let me show you. I believe my beloved has even mentioned the incident to you. In passing.

He had to stay on the ship, while Dowling went down to the surface. This planet didn't allow machines to touch the 'sacred soil' of the home world, for all they were content to use them as labour on the moons and colonies. Isander tried not to feel too bitter about that. It was surprisingly easy. But then, he did have bigger things to worry about.

He could feel Dowling, down there, all grump and snark and rapidly rising frustration. His beloved didn't understand why they had asked him here, asked him to explain what he'd done and why, and then refused to listen to him. He'd been talking for more than two hours, now, and pretty much all they'd done was heckle him. Any machine inside of a lightyear had to be feeling Dowling's booming exasperation by this point. Isander certainly was.

But what was more worrying were the snatches of the accusations he was getting through his beloved's thoughts. There were currents here, of more than just intolerance. There was genuine, poisonous hatred in that place, and even Dowling, oblivious man that he was sometimes, was beginning to feel it.

And then someone shouted "Korundai!", and Isander was running for the shuttle-bay.

He felt his beloved's stunned panic as he negotiated with the ship's captain for an escort, and the shuttle now please. He felt Dowling begin to run as they piled in, all human, no machines, because machines weren't permitted on this world, but he really didn't care about that right now, and they were pulling free of the ship as he heard Dowling's first cry of shocked pain. Dimly, he heard himself cry out in sympathy, ignoring the looks he received from the crew, all his focus on {Dowling, beloved, hold on, wait for me ...}

By the time they landed, Dowling was screaming, surrounded and panicked and hazed with agony. Isander was running towards the crowd outside the lecture theater before the others were even unharnessed, hearing the screams out loud, now, hoarse little cries of pain, and Dowling was reaching for him, trying to stand underneath the assault, trying to reach him, and then he was there, and he was furious in a way he had never, ever been, a roaring, pulsing rage that screamed out of him as he literally threw the humans aside, strong as metal, strong as machinery, flinging them out of his way as he ran to Dowling's side ...

His beloved was face-down in mud. One hand was outflung towards him, towards where Dowling had sensed him coming, and that hand was shattered, crushed, covered in blood. Isander felt his soul screaming at the sight, distantly, wrapped in horror and numb agony. Dowling ...

{...'sander ... loved ...}

He had him. He had him, and he was running, and even as he ran he could feel the body in his arms dying, broken past any hope of repair, and there was a soul inside his soul, trickling in, numb and confused and needing, loving, trying without understanding to soothe Isander's panic, whispering in mazed gentility, and Isander thought he had never hated anyone, any creature, as much as he hated the people who'd done this ...

The ship didn't have any human bodies in hold. They were an interior ship, not an exploration ship, so they were only barely ready for an emergency, and the only body they had available was a mechanical shell designed to hold an energetic hybrid. Even as they laid Dowling's shattered form next to it in the change-berths, Isander could feel his beloved shying away from it, climbing further and further into Isander's own soul in revulsion, and with his body minutes from death, Isander knew that Dowling wouldn't survive the change this way, wouldn't be able to hold on ...

{Dowling! In that body now, nownownownow, get in, get in, beloved leave me, get in, you're dying, get in the body or so help me I'll never forgive you ...}

Dowling jumped, startled, stunned, braver than any person Isander had ever met, and he was leaving, climbing into the change back through his own shattered body, strained through the soul-conversion in screaming confusion, parsed into energy for the shell to hold, and then he came online in his new body, came back to the world, and the voicebox in the new form screamed, wrenching cries of absolutely agony and confusion, and Isander was kneeling, was pulling the bulky form to him, pulling them down onto the floor, uncaring for the audience, pushing himself in and around Dowling, wrapping his beloved in as much of his presence as he could bring to bear, whispering, crying, holding as tight as he could, feeling metal screech with the pressure.

{Dowlinglove, haveyou, haveyouDowlinglove, belovedmine, safeheresafe, minesafe, neverhurtagain, haveyou, haveyousafe, loveyoubeloved, loveyoumine, haveyousafe ...}

{Isander'sander, Isanderbeloved, hurtpainconfused, Isandermine, nearhelp, comehelp, loveyoupain, whatwrong?}

{Holdon, haveyoulove, holdon, changesoon, paingone, holdonbeloved, Dowlinglove}

And Dowling stopped screaming, subsiding into shudders of change-reaction, clinging helplessly, but warm and confident inside Isander's mind/soul, hushing, soothing, pushing his own pain back on raw instinct to reach out to his beloved, threading himself through Isander to reassure his beloved that he lived, that he was fine, that Isander needn't worry ...

They got him to a proper change center, got him to a compatible body. Two weeks, that took, while they built the thing. Mechanical. Not enough time to grow organic. Mechanical, but Dowling never minded that. Dowling never minded a lot of things. Isander did. Isander did.

And while he waited, he thought of that planet, of those people, who had torn Dowling apart for being something they judged evil, who had killed his beloved for no other crime than being the oblivious, loving man that he was. And he promised himself, in the calm darkness of his mind, that they would pay for acting on that judgement.