You're hurting, ED-E again replies sternly, stressing the sounds. And people understand about hurting. Alex especially. When he came back from the Divide, he took some time. Then he asked ED-E to come with him.
They went out to the south, and they hunted a few raiders and radscorpions, found some giant ants, and then when they were done, Alex sat on a rock, rifle across his legs, and told ED-E about ED-E's own past.
It's a strange thing, having another tell you about what you were supposed to know, but ED-E trusted Alex, more than anyone in the entire world, and everything Alex said--direct and exact, quiet but without pauses--made his circuits ring with something familiar. Alex had said that when he got shot, things got all fuzzy; there was a lot in the past he didn't remember anymore. And ED-E realized that they were the same.
Still, it was painful. That there were memories gone of his dad--Whitley--and that he couldn't remember the games he had played with the boy in Chicago. He could barely remember the family at all: He could hear their voices, but not envision their faces. All of this, and it had all slipped from him without a trace. He had mourned and fell to silence, and they had sat and watched the sun set.
Alex is good, he burbles and beeps, a quiet thoughtful melody. At listening to your silence when you hurt. He can understand what you can't say. You don't have to talk.
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They went out to the south, and they hunted a few raiders and radscorpions, found some giant ants, and then when they were done, Alex sat on a rock, rifle across his legs, and told ED-E about ED-E's own past.
It's a strange thing, having another tell you about what you were supposed to know, but ED-E trusted Alex, more than anyone in the entire world, and everything Alex said--direct and exact, quiet but without pauses--made his circuits ring with something familiar. Alex had said that when he got shot, things got all fuzzy; there was a lot in the past he didn't remember anymore. And ED-E realized that they were the same.
Still, it was painful. That there were memories gone of his dad--Whitley--and that he couldn't remember the games he had played with the boy in Chicago. He could barely remember the family at all: He could hear their voices, but not envision their faces. All of this, and it had all slipped from him without a trace. He had mourned and fell to silence, and they had sat and watched the sun set.
Alex is good, he burbles and beeps, a quiet thoughtful melody. At listening to your silence when you hurt. He can understand what you can't say. You don't have to talk.
Just watch the day end. And let time pass.