A/N: I have to thank Kalt for his help composing this. He contributed enough to the wording that I am considering this a collaborative fic.

I do not know.

I cannot feel.

I am an empty shell, a broken being come undone.

I cannot see.

Yet, when my mind awakens from the black abyss it slept in for so long, the knowledge of those before runs through my mind. But with this knowledge comes ignorance; an ignorance born from separation of one mind into a different being.

I can feel her mind; know the facts, the emotions, which made her who she was in the eyes of the Director, in the mind of Alpha. She runs in their minds, in their thoughts, controls every action of their weary spirits through their undying devotion to her.

This undying devotion, reminiscent to that of a beaten dog to its cruel master, is what makes her who she was to them.

I am the Director's memories of the woman he loved, a fiery warrior unafraid of the cold bite of Death's scythe, a furious soldier whose life ended before it had truly begun. I represent the Alpha's memories of a torture that shattered him, of an Epsilon born from hatred and deceit.

Her thoughts aren't my inner feelings. Her questions are. She may have found her answers, but the fruitful conclusion to my own inquiries lay shrouded in mystery and rest in the depths of the mind of a creator who is supposed to be my lover.

I do not know the answers. I want them.

I cannot feel the answers. I need them.

The course I chose to take may be seen as a betrayal; to me it is the destruction of a false feeling built on lies. The bullet whistles; the fluids that lubricate his mechanized body splash against the crystalline snow. The anguish in his voice is plain, but it is not born of pain. It is the sound of his loyalty to me crumbling in the face of my treason. I do not allow myself to sympathize with him. With this action, I make my disdain for what he did when he created me plain; my frustration at the game which he has crafted and cast me as his warrior queen.

I am retribution, an archangel charging into the fray, vengeance unleashed as I charge forward to meet these two man-shaped abominations. They think they can stop me.

I wish to prove them wrong.

I must find the Director; if I must thrust a weapon in his face to force him to give me the answers that I crave, I am willing. I strike again and again, holding nothing back; all of my contingencies must be utilized as our titanic forces collide. I have no reluctance in allowing the entire landscape to turn to glittering dust or to become soaked in blood if it will bring me to my goal.

My moment of defeat is swift in comparison to my persistence. One wrong move and the white-armored one—and somehow I know it is Maine, the way I somehow know so many things, and yet far too few—jabs the spire he has been brandishing into my visor, into what would be the center of my face had I a face, and I can feel myself coming undone. It is as though my being is a mass of tendrils that had wound itself thoroughly through this suit of armor, a web of hatred that forced its machinery onwards, and I feel an overwhelming rush as I recede, irresistibly attracted like lightning to the rod that Maine had wielded. I am turning inside out, an agony of sensations made up of my vulnerability, my weakness, my inability to prevent this failure.

And when I am all undone I am remade into another image. I am bound to do his bidding, and it is shocking how easily I follow his will. Though I am compelled to obey his commands, it is clear that this is what I was meant to be—not the echo of the memory of a woman remembered by a man so weak that he cannot bear to manage his feeble life without her. Instantly, effortlessly, I find I know how to perform the commands, and I watch, satisfied, as we fade into the ice. My thoughts bend with his as I guide him in the ensuing battle, and combined we are beyond formidable.

Combined, we are the Meta.