Glitched

11. Intricate Connection

Isolde had only just set Derek's plate of spaghetti with Italian sausage and a side of garlic bread onto the table in front of him when his typical disapproving grunt met her ears.

"What's wrong? Did I burn the sausage again?" she asked, as he gave his meal another dissatisfied once-over.

"That ain't it," he grumbled, reaching for his fork to prod gruffly at his bread. "The food's fine. I've just been meaning to have a chat with you."

Isolde fetched her own plate of sauced noodles and toasted garlic bread smothered in parmesan cheese, its high salted content eliminating any possibility of a healthy dinner. She then sat across from him to begin digging in. "What did you want to talk about?" she asked.

"You, Isa, and I don't know where to start."

She had only just taken a hearty bite of her toast at this, and stopped mid-chew to gawp at him. "Me?" she parroted, cheeks embarrassingly stuffed.

Derek's eyes sifted over the kitchen's lone window. "It's Saturday," he said. "You're young, you're green, and bursting with vitality. Or at least you should be. But work's become the only thing you prioritize besides me. And all you ever do on your days off is hole yourself up in your room, keeping as far from the sunlight as possible."

He pointed his heated glare onto the paleness of the skin of her hand. "You never go out, you don't have friends—which would be fine if you at least socialized every once in a while—"

"I socialize!" she snapped, unable to curb her defensive tone.

"Conversing with inanimate objects for hours at a time is not socializing. At least not the healthy kind, anyway. And besides that, it's your job."

"Z's not an inanimate object, Gramps. He's intelligent, he has feelings, he—" She stopped herself, but clearly it was too late. She had already caught her grandfather's attention.

"Regardless of what you think, Isa, Z isn't human," he defied carefully. "He's...he's a...a thing. A machine. And it worries me how little you regard typical human interaction."

"Gramps—"

"Isolde, listen, I appreciate everything you've done for me. I do, really. But I don't want to be your whole life. I want you out there, exploring the world, meeting new people—getting laid for God's sake!"

"Gramps!" She slammed her hands against her face, dropping her sliver of toast. That was it. Appetite lost. She got up to reach for the plastic wrap to begin stowing away the leftovers, turning her red-eared face to barely meet her grandfather's eyes. "I appreciate your concern, old man, but I'm a little too busy these days for romance."

"I'm not just talking about romance, Isa. I want you to have a life. Any life that doesn't involve you rotting away in that lab of Mercer's like his leashed lap dog."

Z had suggested the same thing once, only his delivery was far more tactful.

"I'll think about it, Gramps," she said, aware how flippant she sounded but unable to really push forth enough strength to even attempt at considering his words.

"You'll think about it now," Derek huffed, abandoning his meal to wheel himself out of the kitchen and into his bedroom where he promptly slammed his door shut.

Isolde had only just reached the knob when the door's lock clicked into place. "Oh, come on! Gramps, are you serious?"

"I'm not leaving this room until you've left this apartment," he sang from the other side. "Without me around as your crutch, you've got no excuse not to head out and enjoy the sunshine."