4851
Eh. I'm not fond of this. The idea was cool, but I didn't like the way it came out.
Rewrite
The rain fell heavily on Spanner’s face as he stared at the sky, through the ruined ceiling of the base. So they’ve done it, he thought hazily, smiling, They brought the Millefiore down around us. Somehow it seemed fitting that he should be here to meet this sort of end, with the people he had betrayed. They were still his people, he wasn’t Vongola. He wasn’t anything anymore.
He had lost the lollipop somewhere along the way, all the bullets gone from his gun. It was odd, he had found, that when it became his life on the line it really became nothing to pull that trigger. No problem at all. When the jail cell had broken open and he had been free once more, he had calmly picked the revolver off the dead soldier and gone about his way, back to the workshop, back to the world of gears and wires. Not the sky, which he was seeing now, but something more real and tangible beneath his fingers. He had wanted that computer, that was all, his data, wherever it was.
He still hadn’t found it. He had shot Vongola, Millefiore, anyone who got in his way. When it came down to it, the data had been more important. An engineer’s lifeblood, his thoughts put down on paper and gigabytes and then made real. The Moscas could be rebuilt, given time, materials. His work couldn’t.
Rain. It was raining. They had lost to the Vongola-from-the-past. Spanner smiled bitterly, feeling the water run into his dry eyes. Halfway there, to the ruins that had once been Shouichi’s lab, where his computer must inevitably be. His thin frame shuddered with the cold, and the water running into the gouge in his left shoulder bleeding through the green coveralls. It burned like a fire and the tendrils of pain stretched throughout his entire arm; he almost dropped the gun. And why not? It was empty.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to be done with these tired and lonely people-not Japan, but these people who had no right to claim it. This place…he blinked against the rain. It didn’t belong to the Millefiore. It belonged to people who knew how to appreciate it. So maybe he didn’t like people, but he wanted to be able to walk those streets and call them his own. Was that why he had turned coat to help the young Vongola? No, that had been research, data, no less important, life in another form.
No. Shouichi’s lab. Not the past. That was where he was going. He summoned his energy and picked his way through the peculiar twisted shapes of the metal walls of Shouichi’s box, like the curving forms of abstract, modern art, except this was art that would kill. Like Spanner’s own art.
There was a gaping hole where the machine had stood. Spanner gazed at it from the doorway in silent contemplation; Shouichi’s work, gone from the world without a trace, destroyed when the Vongola had crossed back. So the program could never be rewritten, ever again. It was going to be, soon, Spanner thought, time paradox and all that. Fairly soon he and Shouichi would cease to exist in this time and space, would be erased and rewritten. Streams of panic stabbed his chest; what would become of his work, then?
And Shouichi.
Shouichi lay in a puddle of his own blood, which drained from the small red hole in his shirt, right through the logo of some obscure band that Spanner had never bothered to learn. He stopped, bent to look his former friend in the face, touching him with pale and trembling fingers.
“Hey, Shouichi,” he said softly. “Get up.”
Green eyes through red bangs opened slowly in a too-pale face. “Spanner?” Shouichi rasps. “You…you came for me…?”
Not for you. For the data. Spanner can’t bring himself to say it. “We need to get you out of here.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Shouichi coughed roughly. “It’s already started.”
“What?”
“The rewrite. It’s changing already. Look…look at the walls…colors…”
Spanner glanced up. The pale walls of Shouchi’s lab were no longer pristine, not with dirt and blood, but with the soft grey of rising shadows. Panicked, he stared up at the sky, growing dark with what he had supposed had been storm clouds but he could see now was nothing, nothing but rising night. The rain ran down his skin and left greying tracks on his body.
“We’re going,” he said, panic rising in his voice. “We’re going.”
Spanner bent his head, unwilling to watch the color drain from Shouichi’s vibrant hair into cold grey. The computer, where was the computer? He had to get the data out, had to get Shouichi out, so they could try again on the streets of Japan and drink green tea…
“It’s too late, isn’t it,” he said flatly, quietly, in a voice so tired he wanted to cry. “We can’t escape it.”
“It’s just…old data…” Shouichi rasped. “You take the old and improve on it, right?...and then it becomes…yours…”
Spanner shook his head.
“We’ll be…there…” Shouichi gasped. “In the other…it’ll be us…we’ll have another chance…” He reached out, seized Spanner’s hand in a painful grasp.
“Promise me…we won’t make these mistakes…”
Spanner thought, remembered in memory bleeding grey with every second, of the two boys in the high school contest and the black and white uniforms and flowers and painful, awkward silences, half-finished phone calls and abandoned plans and unbearable tension. And the feeling of Shouichi’s hand on his, so cold in this place.
“Yeah,” he said. “I promise.”
Shouichi smiled, the first real smile Spanner could remember seeing on his face, and sighed deeply. He didn’t draw breath again.
Spanner stood up, eyes dry despite the rain that ran through, over, down his cheeks. In the ruins of the desk was the computer with the Mosca data, all that he possessed now. He raised his face again, looked at the black sky drawing ever closer now on the Earth.
He picked it up, cradled it to his chest, and sat back down next to Shouichi’s body to wait. They would stay together, and this way, they would come to the other program together. That’s the way it’ll be, Spanner told himself, that’s the way it has to be.
Darkness closed over his mind.
Hey, said the red-haired boy, in passable English, That robot’s pretty good.
Yeah? said the blonde. You think? But you won.
Well, that…
A smirk, through the lollipop stick, and the question, What’s your name?
Shouichi. You?
Spanner.
Rewrite
The rain fell heavily on Spanner’s face as he stared at the sky, through the ruined ceiling of the base. So they’ve done it, he thought hazily, smiling, They brought the Millefiore down around us. Somehow it seemed fitting that he should be here to meet this sort of end, with the people he had betrayed. They were still his people, he wasn’t Vongola. He wasn’t anything anymore.
He had lost the lollipop somewhere along the way, all the bullets gone from his gun. It was odd, he had found, that when it became his life on the line it really became nothing to pull that trigger. No problem at all. When the jail cell had broken open and he had been free once more, he had calmly picked the revolver off the dead soldier and gone about his way, back to the workshop, back to the world of gears and wires. Not the sky, which he was seeing now, but something more real and tangible beneath his fingers. He had wanted that computer, that was all, his data, wherever it was.
He still hadn’t found it. He had shot Vongola, Millefiore, anyone who got in his way. When it came down to it, the data had been more important. An engineer’s lifeblood, his thoughts put down on paper and gigabytes and then made real. The Moscas could be rebuilt, given time, materials. His work couldn’t.
Rain. It was raining. They had lost to the Vongola-from-the-past. Spanner smiled bitterly, feeling the water run into his dry eyes. Halfway there, to the ruins that had once been Shouichi’s lab, where his computer must inevitably be. His thin frame shuddered with the cold, and the water running into the gouge in his left shoulder bleeding through the green coveralls. It burned like a fire and the tendrils of pain stretched throughout his entire arm; he almost dropped the gun. And why not? It was empty.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to be done with these tired and lonely people-not Japan, but these people who had no right to claim it. This place…he blinked against the rain. It didn’t belong to the Millefiore. It belonged to people who knew how to appreciate it. So maybe he didn’t like people, but he wanted to be able to walk those streets and call them his own. Was that why he had turned coat to help the young Vongola? No, that had been research, data, no less important, life in another form.
No. Shouichi’s lab. Not the past. That was where he was going. He summoned his energy and picked his way through the peculiar twisted shapes of the metal walls of Shouichi’s box, like the curving forms of abstract, modern art, except this was art that would kill. Like Spanner’s own art.
There was a gaping hole where the machine had stood. Spanner gazed at it from the doorway in silent contemplation; Shouichi’s work, gone from the world without a trace, destroyed when the Vongola had crossed back. So the program could never be rewritten, ever again. It was going to be, soon, Spanner thought, time paradox and all that. Fairly soon he and Shouichi would cease to exist in this time and space, would be erased and rewritten. Streams of panic stabbed his chest; what would become of his work, then?
And Shouichi.
Shouichi lay in a puddle of his own blood, which drained from the small red hole in his shirt, right through the logo of some obscure band that Spanner had never bothered to learn. He stopped, bent to look his former friend in the face, touching him with pale and trembling fingers.
“Hey, Shouichi,” he said softly. “Get up.”
Green eyes through red bangs opened slowly in a too-pale face. “Spanner?” Shouichi rasps. “You…you came for me…?”
Not for you. For the data. Spanner can’t bring himself to say it. “We need to get you out of here.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Shouichi coughed roughly. “It’s already started.”
“What?”
“The rewrite. It’s changing already. Look…look at the walls…colors…”
Spanner glanced up. The pale walls of Shouchi’s lab were no longer pristine, not with dirt and blood, but with the soft grey of rising shadows. Panicked, he stared up at the sky, growing dark with what he had supposed had been storm clouds but he could see now was nothing, nothing but rising night. The rain ran down his skin and left greying tracks on his body.
“We’re going,” he said, panic rising in his voice. “We’re going.”
Spanner bent his head, unwilling to watch the color drain from Shouichi’s vibrant hair into cold grey. The computer, where was the computer? He had to get the data out, had to get Shouichi out, so they could try again on the streets of Japan and drink green tea…
“It’s too late, isn’t it,” he said flatly, quietly, in a voice so tired he wanted to cry. “We can’t escape it.”
“It’s just…old data…” Shouichi rasped. “You take the old and improve on it, right?...and then it becomes…yours…”
Spanner shook his head.
“We’ll be…there…” Shouichi gasped. “In the other…it’ll be us…we’ll have another chance…” He reached out, seized Spanner’s hand in a painful grasp.
“Promise me…we won’t make these mistakes…”
Spanner thought, remembered in memory bleeding grey with every second, of the two boys in the high school contest and the black and white uniforms and flowers and painful, awkward silences, half-finished phone calls and abandoned plans and unbearable tension. And the feeling of Shouichi’s hand on his, so cold in this place.
“Yeah,” he said. “I promise.”
Shouichi smiled, the first real smile Spanner could remember seeing on his face, and sighed deeply. He didn’t draw breath again.
Spanner stood up, eyes dry despite the rain that ran through, over, down his cheeks. In the ruins of the desk was the computer with the Mosca data, all that he possessed now. He raised his face again, looked at the black sky drawing ever closer now on the Earth.
He picked it up, cradled it to his chest, and sat back down next to Shouichi’s body to wait. They would stay together, and this way, they would come to the other program together. That’s the way it’ll be, Spanner told himself, that’s the way it has to be.
Darkness closed over his mind.
Hey, said the red-haired boy, in passable English, That robot’s pretty good.
Yeah? said the blonde. You think? But you won.
Well, that…
A smirk, through the lollipop stick, and the question, What’s your name?
Shouichi. You?
Spanner.