With Eyes Wide Closed [6/9]
anonymous
July 12 2012, 02:25:37 UTC
Part II: Corvus
When they first met, four weeks ago, under Oren’s command, he thought that Zekiel belonged back in boot camp. Quiet, diffident, obeying nonsensical orders at the drop of a hat - those were not the traits you needed to survive this war.
He put up a mean barrier back there, though. Corvus owes him one. Which is why he’s screaming into the mic for Zekiel to turn back.
But he’s not responding. He’s frozen there, in the full glare of the Reaper’s spotlight, pistol clattering to his feet.
“Operative! If you can hear me, retreat! Retreat! Retreat!” He waves his arm in vain. “Retreat!”
He breaks down into a fit of coughing. When his eyes focus again, Zekiel hasn’t moved one bit. And then he shifts, slowly, to face the Reaper proper.
“Zekiel, listen to me! Listen to me! Go back now! Get cover!”
The Reaper’s not firing, either. It’s probably doing something to the kid’s head, not even giving him the chance to scream. It’s been trying to get to Corvus, too. That dust, that hint of darkness at the edges of his vision throughout their long trek - the fucking marauders searching for them -
Zekiel raises his good arm, and begins to unfasten his helmet.
“No.”
A seal is jammed, and he’s trying to get it open with his good hand, tugging at it in sporadic jerks.
“No!”
He half-expects to see a many-eyed monstrosity underneath, but it’s just Zekiel, with his rounded mandibles and two fringe-blades flared upwards. He drops the helmet on top of his pistol. And - oh, now he’s listening, now he’s sparing an explanation for Corvus-
“Come on,” Zekiel whispers, “it’s safe.”
It’s no longer Zekiel.
There are strange, glowing patterns burned into his dark plates, like molten green copper. They’re everywhere, over his browplates, his nose, even peeking from the crevices beneath his fringe. And the familiar yellow eyes are gone, replaced with cold, lifeless, green lights - dear Goddess. Is that how you turn into a marauder?
Suppressing bone-deep shudders, he aims for the thing’s head, aims straight and true. If Zekiel’s still in there, a clean death is the best he can give him.
The thing throws up a barrier just in time, and stumbles back, trailing lines of blue-violet energy. “Corvus,” it croaks. “Corvus, what are you doing?”
He gets off two more shots. The first misses, the second glances off of the fading barrier. The thing is scrambling backwards - it trips over a crack and lands on its burned side and screams, the sound amplified a thousandfold in his earpiece, rattling his brain inside his skull. It tries to get back up. Fails, and kicks itself along the ground with its feet.
That’s his chance. Corvus launches himself at it, biting back the pain in his foot, one arm swaying to ward off the smothering shroud, roiling in confusion. Its barriers can’t protect against his entire body, landing on its waist, winding it, possibly re-breaking its right arm. It screams again, tries to push him off, or failing that, push his gun away. He’s not having it. He rams its free hand into the concrete with his knee and jams the barrel of his pistol snug against its chin. The night ripples around him.
Fucking Reaper.
“Goodbye, brother.”
And would you look at that. The thing is sobbing. The thing is legitimately sobbing.
“Kiel?” I need to kill it now, kill it now, now before he’s completely gone. Pull it pull it pull it -
“Corvus.”
By the Goddess. If not for those eyes he might even fall for that disarming look with the mandibles spread and the lips half-open; there’s the green stuff inside its mouth, too, all over its cheeks and tongue. And he’s suddenly aware that he’s sitting between its legs, nice, slender legs warm to the touch when he caresses-
“Spirits,” it chokes out, “what’s wrong with me?”
It’s looking at its reflection. It’s looking at its reflection on my visor. He’s still in there, he’s still alive!
He brushes that last thought away. “The Reaper did something to you. I don’t know what it did, but I can’t let you go.” He softens his voice. “You know that, right?”
With Eyes Wide Closed [7/never trust the word count]
anonymous
July 12 2012, 02:31:17 UTC
Zekiel shakes his head. “No, no, no. I just talked to them, they didn’t do anything! They didn’t do anything, I swe-“
He thrusts his pistol further into the soft underside of its jaw. It gags, an awful, wretched sound. “You’re indoctrinated. ‘Talk’ to it? We can’t ‘talk’ to it. We blow it sky-high, remember?”
“I’m not indoc-“ Zekiel coughs violently, heaving, struggling to arc his torso under Corvus’ weight like he used to do in the damp, dark privacy of Corvus’ cot. There are flecks of blood around his mouth and chin. “I’m not indoctrinated. Corvus, please. You have to believe me.”
“I’m sorry.”
When he opens his eyes again, Zekiel is very much alive, green eyes wide open and moist with tears. There’s a fresh pit in the concrete, centimetres beside his head.
--
Even a block away, he can’t shake the feeling from his head. Can’t seem to make the right decisions, the smart decisions.
He couldn’t have gone back for the bomb. That was true. The Reaper would have destroyed him.
But he shouldn’t have done this either.
Zekiel’s moaning, feverish, on the line between unconscious and frightfully aware. Calling for water when he knows there isn’t any. Out of morbid curiosity, Corvus stripped him of everything but the bits that were fused to his body, and the sight was a horrendous one. Lines. Everywhere, from the tip of his crest to his laminal plates to the flesh beneath his talons, flushing green in regular intervals, in time with his shallow breathing. Running smooth even where the skin was raw, burning cobalt. He took a combat knife to Zekiel’s bad palm, and, bating his breath, carved out a good chunk of flesh to find patterns just as intricate beneath the surface.
He’s never seen a case like this before. Too bad the channel to Command is so much dead air. If the Reapers can do this with just a glance…
No. There was a green wave. He hums, deep in thought, undisturbed by the reign of silence outside the balcony. Yes, that could be it. Zekiel’s armour was breached, so the nanotech must’ve taken hold. His stomach does a few flip-flops. Goddess. Command. The hundreds of people at command. Being blasted to oblivion by a Reaper dreadnought would have been a merciful death.
He’s interrupted by the sound of Zekiel tugging at his bonds. He’s struggling properly now, trying to squirm his wrists through the soaked seatbelt. Surprising for him to wake so soon; but then again, Reaper tech is some potent stuff.
“You’re with me, Kiel.”
He twists around, a wild set to his mandibles. “You sure…no water in your canteen…”
“No.” He glances at the empty street below; toppled streetlights and planters with their guts spilled out onto the ground. “There’s no clean water around here. There hasn’t been for a fucking month. Stop asking.”
Zekiel seems to deflate, his bloody hands hanging limp from the bit of exposed rebar above his head. Then, his slightly dazed eyes fix on the sniper rifle in Corvus’ arms. “Corvus. The war…is over.”
“Are you happy now?”
“What?”
“Was it nice when it told you to give yourself up? Was it nice when it fucked with your brain and you didn’t have to think for yourself anymore? You sure look too damn happy.”
“No! I mean, they didn’t…” He looks like he’s about to cry again - no, he’s never really stopped. The tears carved out clean paths over the coat of dust on his face.
It’s hurting him, he realises. It’s torturing him and breaking him and it’s my own damn fault for not having a damn quad.
The tones of comfort are alien, but he lets them saturate his voice. “What did it do?”
“They said the… they said the cycles will end… they said they’re free…”
“Free?” He narrows his eyes.
“Yeah.” Zekiel’s face is filthy, but his expression grows peaceful, as if reminiscing. “Free.”
With Eyes Wide Closed [8/never trust the word count]
anonymous
July 12 2012, 02:37:05 UTC
“I don’t know what the hell you’re saying, but it doesn’t sound like freedom to me.” He lowers his pistol - at this rate, they’re screwed either way - and walks over. He kneels by Zekiel’s side and reaches for his hands, and they’re eager to clutch his own even with fingers slipping in a rush of fresh blood. “Look at what it did to you. Look at what it did out there! Look at what it’s still doing! Can’t you see it?”
Zekiel frowns, his eyeballs shuddering beneath the lids. “Everything’s changed. For better or for worse.”
On second thought, maybe that brackish water from the pits would come in handy right now. He’s infected and delirious. What’s the worst that can happen?
No, I’m not falling for that again. You bastards. You fucking bastards. He grits his teeth. Still a chance.
“Listen carefully, Kiel. Fight it. Fight it for as long as you can. I’m going to go kill that fucker. And then I’ll come back for you.”
“Don’t!” Electric green eyes snap open. ”It’ll leave us alone! It’ll help-“
“Listen to yourself!”
Zekiel lets go of his hand like it’s made of white-hot iron. He curls up his legs and tries to push himself into the corner, tries to be as small as possible. His elbows tremble, even the one that’s burned beyond recognition.
It’s afraid of him. It knows it can’t win.
Corvus takes calming breaths. “Rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Wait.”
He waits, one knee off the ground.
“You’ve changed too. Don’t you feel it?”
He considers for a second, avoiding Zekiel’s upturned eyes. “Only the Reaper trying to get me. And don’t worry, I won’t let it.”
“You have to believe me. Something happened when we were out. Something affecting us all.”
“Yeah. It’s called indoctrination. I don’t have time for--”
“Just take off your gloves and look, Corvus.”
The world is rippling again. Diluting Zekiel’s voice and distributing it over all his senses; his vision wavers with it, his nose twitches, his fingers tremble at the knots in the torn seatbelt. His knee lowers once more. But no, it’s only because he’s so tired. And sick and thirsty and lacking sleep.
“Take off my gloves.” He laughs, hollow even to his own ears. “So what? You’re saying that we’re all alike now? That we’re both marauders?”
Zekiel is looking at him. Beckoning him. Compelling him to believe with nothing but a watery gaze and the might of a Reaper’s will.
He shouldn’t give in. He shouldn’t. But he glances outside the balcony again, and the jagged horizon becomes the teeth behind disfigured lips and yeah, they’re all fucked anyway. The fire consumes. Command is gone. The fleets are gone. Ven is gone, Eta is gone, Asirik is gone. Aise is gone. Zekiel’s mind - and body - are lost to him forever. He pulls off a bloodstained glove.
--
Well, fuck.
The training vids are ingrained in his mind. Going into battle? Don’t take off your helmet. Evacuating civilians? Don’t take off your helmet. Undercover? Change your filters and don’t take off your helmet. Deep in Reaper territory with nothing but an antimatter bomb and a half-marauder? Don’t take off your damn helmet.
He takes it off and looks at his reflection on the mirrored visor. A pale, worn face, red paint, bright fucking green eyeballs.
His fingers fall loose, and the helmet rolls out of his hands and ends up nestled against Zekiel’s naked waist. He watches it wobble and time seems to slow as it does because the shroud shifts like sand and distends like skin, forcing his mind to travel that much further. Eventually he makes it back to his hand, his bony, calloused hand with Reaper blueprints stenciled on. Enthralled, he peels off his other glove. The sight is much the same.
The shroud is bulging, pregnant with exigency; he can see it and hear it and smell and almost touch it. His marks - marks - are thrumming with light and they want him to touch it. The presence wraps itself around the balcony frame like so much rotten flesh and it’s swelling, a sinuous wall of maggots opening into an enormous, dripping, speaking maw. This is the beginning of everything.
With Eyes Wide Closed [9/10]
anonymous
July 12 2012, 02:42:04 UTC
He hurls his glove at the banister. The shroud retracts in the span of a blink. There’s a sharp crack from the concrete, and the steady thump thump of the blood in his ears.
He snatches the nearest thing - the helmet - and holds it close. Zekiel’s looking at him. Not smug or afraid, no; with more sadness than anything else.
“Shut up,” he whispers. “Just shut up. I’m going before I lose my mind.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No. You stay here until I come back.”
“Then I might as well be dead,” he cries, sharp notes reverberating in Corvus’ ears. Oh, yes, dead. He still has a pistol with a full clip and half a mind to reach for it. “Don’t throw your life away. The war is over. The war is over for good…”
“Fine,” he spits, bitterness seeping from his subharmonics. “Then what do you suppose we do? Celebrate?”
Zekiel unfurls his knees. A drop of blood drips down the end of the rebar and lands in his eye; he blinks it away.
Even with talons bared, the belt is damp and slippery and it takes much too long to undo the knots and unwrap the cloth. He catches Zekiel’s wrists before they can fall and lays his arms out neatly beside him. Zekiel would have none of it. He grabs on to Corvus’ hand without a heartbeat’s hesitation. The open wound is scabbing at the edges, filled with rust and dirt down the centre. He uses his tongue to clean some of it. Good thing he can still muster up enough moisture to spit.
Zekiel’s wincing, silent save for a few small squeaks.
“Sorry,” he gives it one last lick, “no gel.”
“Thank you.”
He sits down with a heavy sigh, his armour suddenly an unbearable burden on his limbs. “So how much time do you think we’ve got?”
Zekiel edges closer, tucking his mandibles and pushing with his good arm. “Long as we want. War is over.”
He shakes his head, bemused. You sad thing. What did you do? What did it do to you?
But what comes out of his mouth is: “I just never thought it would end - never thought we’d end like this.”
“How’d you think it would end?”
He reaches beneath Zekiel’s arms and pulls him into a sitting position, putting himself between Zekiel’s back and the crumbling wall. “Well,” he says, “I’d like the victory feast, for starters. Roasted meat, you know, and pastries topped with glazed fruits. And a nice, cool glass of Airijah tea on the side. Stick some fancy garnish on top.”
Zekiel coughs. “Beside the fountain?”
“No.” He’s tired and he leans into the crook of Zekiel’s neck and yes, beneath all that dust and sweat and Reaper tech he smells as sweet as before. “Somewhere private. Maybe a tent, maybe a … a home.”
“Home,” Zekiel rumbles; he feels the tremors through the hand supporting his keel. The patterns of green lightning quicken their pulse and he has to close his eyes for a moment. If only he can unsee it, if only he can undo it.
“Too much to ask?”
Zekiel chuckles, and coughs again, clutching his neck. “I’ll settle just for the tea.”
“You sure about that?” He rubs Zekiel’s mandible with his mouth - warm, smooth, melting with the copper paths - and nips it.
“No.” Zekiel leans back against his shoulder. “Can’t be sure about anything anymore.” A pause, a quiet breath. “I’m sorry.”
And as Zekiel falls silent, Corvus thinks about the bomb. He thinks about the detonator, lost in the blast, and the on-site backup, with its two levels of passcodes and twelve seconds of countdown. He thinks about the yield and the blast radius. He thinks about the men and women who made it, who delivered it to the resistance, who died on the way to hurling it against a Reaper.
He thinks about how much it weighs, and how the monstrosity in his arms weighs about the same.
With Eyes Wide Closed [10/10]
anonymous
July 12 2012, 02:44:05 UTC
It’s raining for the first time in a month, and Zekiel’s not here to see it.
Corvus is examining his radio. Nothing broken, as far as he can tell, and he was the back-up tech. Still no word from Command, or from the other teams. They must be out of range; the Reaper’s not jamming. Guess they’ll have to haul their sorry asses back to base after the mission if they want to find out what the heck is going on.
The bomb is still there, judging by a cautionary ping in its general direction. He has a pistol with two clips and a sniper rifle with one. Those should get him to the Reaper. Maybe even back.
And if they can’t?
The power’s running too low for his omni. He fiddles with the feed controls. The adjustments are accompanied by large, bold print: WARNING. SHIELDS COMPROMISED.
You know the drill. Save the last shot.
The chest piece he’s laid out to collect water is three-quarters full. He takes a sip. Not bad for acid rain. Grimacing at the aftertaste, he walks back indoors.
Re: With Eyes Wide Closed [10/10]
anonymous
September 19 2012, 04:47:27 UTC
That can't be it ._. I need to know what happens. A!A you've gotten my heart all tied up in a horrible bunch and I'm way attached to these two and need to know what happens to them and then it just stops any my heart's hanging out on a rope here and jdfgsdhgf damnit what happens?!??!!!?
When they first met, four weeks ago, under Oren’s command, he thought that Zekiel belonged back in boot camp. Quiet, diffident, obeying nonsensical orders at the drop of a hat - those were not the traits you needed to survive this war.
He put up a mean barrier back there, though. Corvus owes him one. Which is why he’s screaming into the mic for Zekiel to turn back.
But he’s not responding. He’s frozen there, in the full glare of the Reaper’s spotlight, pistol clattering to his feet.
“Operative! If you can hear me, retreat! Retreat! Retreat!” He waves his arm in vain. “Retreat!”
He breaks down into a fit of coughing. When his eyes focus again, Zekiel hasn’t moved one bit. And then he shifts, slowly, to face the Reaper proper.
“Zekiel, listen to me! Listen to me! Go back now! Get cover!”
The Reaper’s not firing, either. It’s probably doing something to the kid’s head, not even giving him the chance to scream. It’s been trying to get to Corvus, too. That dust, that hint of darkness at the edges of his vision throughout their long trek - the fucking marauders searching for them -
Zekiel raises his good arm, and begins to unfasten his helmet.
“No.”
A seal is jammed, and he’s trying to get it open with his good hand, tugging at it in sporadic jerks.
“No!”
He half-expects to see a many-eyed monstrosity underneath, but it’s just Zekiel, with his rounded mandibles and two fringe-blades flared upwards. He drops the helmet on top of his pistol. And - oh, now he’s listening, now he’s sparing an explanation for Corvus-
“Come on,” Zekiel whispers, “it’s safe.”
It’s no longer Zekiel.
There are strange, glowing patterns burned into his dark plates, like molten green copper. They’re everywhere, over his browplates, his nose, even peeking from the crevices beneath his fringe. And the familiar yellow eyes are gone, replaced with cold, lifeless, green lights - dear Goddess. Is that how you turn into a marauder?
Suppressing bone-deep shudders, he aims for the thing’s head, aims straight and true. If Zekiel’s still in there, a clean death is the best he can give him.
The thing throws up a barrier just in time, and stumbles back, trailing lines of blue-violet energy. “Corvus,” it croaks. “Corvus, what are you doing?”
He gets off two more shots. The first misses, the second glances off of the fading barrier. The thing is scrambling backwards - it trips over a crack and lands on its burned side and screams, the sound amplified a thousandfold in his earpiece, rattling his brain inside his skull. It tries to get back up. Fails, and kicks itself along the ground with its feet.
That’s his chance. Corvus launches himself at it, biting back the pain in his foot, one arm swaying to ward off the smothering shroud, roiling in confusion. Its barriers can’t protect against his entire body, landing on its waist, winding it, possibly re-breaking its right arm. It screams again, tries to push him off, or failing that, push his gun away. He’s not having it. He rams its free hand into the concrete with his knee and jams the barrel of his pistol snug against its chin. The night ripples around him.
Fucking Reaper.
“Goodbye, brother.”
And would you look at that. The thing is sobbing. The thing is legitimately sobbing.
“Kiel?” I need to kill it now, kill it now, now before he’s completely gone. Pull it pull it pull it -
“Corvus.”
By the Goddess. If not for those eyes he might even fall for that disarming look with the mandibles spread and the lips half-open; there’s the green stuff inside its mouth, too, all over its cheeks and tongue. And he’s suddenly aware that he’s sitting between its legs, nice, slender legs warm to the touch when he caresses-
“Spirits,” it chokes out, “what’s wrong with me?”
It’s looking at its reflection. It’s looking at its reflection on my visor. He’s still in there, he’s still alive!
He brushes that last thought away. “The Reaper did something to you. I don’t know what it did, but I can’t let you go.” He softens his voice. “You know that, right?”
Reply
He thrusts his pistol further into the soft underside of its jaw. It gags, an awful, wretched sound. “You’re indoctrinated. ‘Talk’ to it? We can’t ‘talk’ to it. We blow it sky-high, remember?”
“I’m not indoc-“ Zekiel coughs violently, heaving, struggling to arc his torso under Corvus’ weight like he used to do in the damp, dark privacy of Corvus’ cot. There are flecks of blood around his mouth and chin. “I’m not indoctrinated. Corvus, please. You have to believe me.”
“I’m sorry.”
When he opens his eyes again, Zekiel is very much alive, green eyes wide open and moist with tears. There’s a fresh pit in the concrete, centimetres beside his head.
--
Even a block away, he can’t shake the feeling from his head. Can’t seem to make the right decisions, the smart decisions.
He couldn’t have gone back for the bomb. That was true. The Reaper would have destroyed him.
But he shouldn’t have done this either.
Zekiel’s moaning, feverish, on the line between unconscious and frightfully aware. Calling for water when he knows there isn’t any. Out of morbid curiosity, Corvus stripped him of everything but the bits that were fused to his body, and the sight was a horrendous one. Lines. Everywhere, from the tip of his crest to his laminal plates to the flesh beneath his talons, flushing green in regular intervals, in time with his shallow breathing. Running smooth even where the skin was raw, burning cobalt. He took a combat knife to Zekiel’s bad palm, and, bating his breath, carved out a good chunk of flesh to find patterns just as intricate beneath the surface.
He’s never seen a case like this before. Too bad the channel to Command is so much dead air. If the Reapers can do this with just a glance…
No. There was a green wave. He hums, deep in thought, undisturbed by the reign of silence outside the balcony. Yes, that could be it. Zekiel’s armour was breached, so the nanotech must’ve taken hold. His stomach does a few flip-flops. Goddess. Command. The hundreds of people at command. Being blasted to oblivion by a Reaper dreadnought would have been a merciful death.
He’s interrupted by the sound of Zekiel tugging at his bonds. He’s struggling properly now, trying to squirm his wrists through the soaked seatbelt. Surprising for him to wake so soon; but then again, Reaper tech is some potent stuff.
“You’re with me, Kiel.”
He twists around, a wild set to his mandibles. “You sure…no water in your canteen…”
“No.” He glances at the empty street below; toppled streetlights and planters with their guts spilled out onto the ground. “There’s no clean water around here. There hasn’t been for a fucking month. Stop asking.”
Zekiel seems to deflate, his bloody hands hanging limp from the bit of exposed rebar above his head. Then, his slightly dazed eyes fix on the sniper rifle in Corvus’ arms.
“Corvus. The war…is over.”
“Are you happy now?”
“What?”
“Was it nice when it told you to give yourself up? Was it nice when it fucked with your brain and you didn’t have to think for yourself anymore? You sure look too damn happy.”
“No! I mean, they didn’t…” He looks like he’s about to cry again - no, he’s never really stopped. The tears carved out clean paths over the coat of dust on his face.
It’s hurting him, he realises. It’s torturing him and breaking him and it’s my own damn fault for not having a damn quad.
The tones of comfort are alien, but he lets them saturate his voice. “What did it do?”
“They said the… they said the cycles will end… they said they’re free…”
“Free?” He narrows his eyes.
“Yeah.” Zekiel’s face is filthy, but his expression grows peaceful, as if reminiscing. “Free.”
Reply
Zekiel frowns, his eyeballs shuddering beneath the lids. “Everything’s changed. For better or for worse.”
On second thought, maybe that brackish water from the pits would come in handy right now. He’s infected and delirious. What’s the worst that can happen?
No, I’m not falling for that again. You bastards. You fucking bastards. He grits his teeth. Still a chance.
“Listen carefully, Kiel. Fight it. Fight it for as long as you can. I’m going to go kill that fucker. And then I’ll come back for you.”
“Don’t!” Electric green eyes snap open. ”It’ll leave us alone! It’ll help-“
“Listen to yourself!”
Zekiel lets go of his hand like it’s made of white-hot iron. He curls up his legs and tries to push himself into the corner, tries to be as small as possible. His elbows tremble, even the one that’s burned beyond recognition.
It’s afraid of him. It knows it can’t win.
Corvus takes calming breaths. “Rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Wait.”
He waits, one knee off the ground.
“You’ve changed too. Don’t you feel it?”
He considers for a second, avoiding Zekiel’s upturned eyes. “Only the Reaper trying to get me. And don’t worry, I won’t let it.”
“You have to believe me. Something happened when we were out. Something affecting us all.”
“Yeah. It’s called indoctrination. I don’t have time for--”
“Just take off your gloves and look, Corvus.”
The world is rippling again. Diluting Zekiel’s voice and distributing it over all his senses; his vision wavers with it, his nose twitches, his fingers tremble at the knots in the torn seatbelt. His knee lowers once more. But no, it’s only because he’s so tired. And sick and thirsty and lacking sleep.
“Take off my gloves.” He laughs, hollow even to his own ears. “So what? You’re saying that we’re all alike now? That we’re both marauders?”
Zekiel is looking at him. Beckoning him. Compelling him to believe with nothing but a watery gaze and the might of a Reaper’s will.
He shouldn’t give in. He shouldn’t. But he glances outside the balcony again, and the jagged horizon becomes the teeth behind disfigured lips and yeah, they’re all fucked anyway. The fire consumes. Command is gone. The fleets are gone. Ven is gone, Eta is gone, Asirik is gone. Aise is gone. Zekiel’s mind - and body - are lost to him forever.
He pulls off a bloodstained glove.
--
Well, fuck.
The training vids are ingrained in his mind. Going into battle? Don’t take off your helmet. Evacuating civilians? Don’t take off your helmet. Undercover? Change your filters and don’t take off your helmet. Deep in Reaper territory with nothing but an antimatter bomb and a half-marauder? Don’t take off your damn helmet.
He takes it off and looks at his reflection on the mirrored visor. A pale, worn face, red paint, bright fucking green eyeballs.
His fingers fall loose, and the helmet rolls out of his hands and ends up nestled against Zekiel’s naked waist. He watches it wobble and time seems to slow as it does because the shroud shifts like sand and distends like skin, forcing his mind to travel that much further. Eventually he makes it back to his hand, his bony, calloused hand with Reaper blueprints stenciled on. Enthralled, he peels off his other glove. The sight is much the same.
The shroud is bulging, pregnant with exigency; he can see it and hear it and smell and almost touch it. His marks - marks - are thrumming with light and they want him to touch it. The presence wraps itself around the balcony frame like so much rotten flesh and it’s swelling, a sinuous wall of maggots opening into an enormous, dripping, speaking maw. This is the beginning of everything.
Reply
He snatches the nearest thing - the helmet - and holds it close. Zekiel’s looking at him. Not smug or afraid, no; with more sadness than anything else.
“Shut up,” he whispers. “Just shut up. I’m going before I lose my mind.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No. You stay here until I come back.”
“Then I might as well be dead,” he cries, sharp notes reverberating in Corvus’ ears. Oh, yes, dead. He still has a pistol with a full clip and half a mind to reach for it. “Don’t throw your life away. The war is over. The war is over for good…”
“Fine,” he spits, bitterness seeping from his subharmonics. “Then what do you suppose we do? Celebrate?”
Zekiel unfurls his knees. A drop of blood drips down the end of the rebar and lands in his eye; he blinks it away.
Even with talons bared, the belt is damp and slippery and it takes much too long to undo the knots and unwrap the cloth. He catches Zekiel’s wrists before they can fall and lays his arms out neatly beside him. Zekiel would have none of it. He grabs on to Corvus’ hand without a heartbeat’s hesitation. The open wound is scabbing at the edges, filled with rust and dirt down the centre. He uses his tongue to clean some of it. Good thing he can still muster up enough moisture to spit.
Zekiel’s wincing, silent save for a few small squeaks.
“Sorry,” he gives it one last lick, “no gel.”
“Thank you.”
He sits down with a heavy sigh, his armour suddenly an unbearable burden on his limbs. “So how much time do you think we’ve got?”
Zekiel edges closer, tucking his mandibles and pushing with his good arm. “Long as we want. War is over.”
He shakes his head, bemused. You sad thing. What did you do? What did it do to you?
But what comes out of his mouth is: “I just never thought it would end - never thought we’d end like this.”
“How’d you think it would end?”
He reaches beneath Zekiel’s arms and pulls him into a sitting position, putting himself between Zekiel’s back and the crumbling wall. “Well,” he says, “I’d like the victory feast, for starters. Roasted meat, you know, and pastries topped with glazed fruits. And a nice, cool glass of Airijah tea on the side. Stick some fancy garnish on top.”
Zekiel coughs. “Beside the fountain?”
“No.” He’s tired and he leans into the crook of Zekiel’s neck and yes, beneath all that dust and sweat and Reaper tech he smells as sweet as before. “Somewhere private. Maybe a tent, maybe a … a home.”
“Home,” Zekiel rumbles; he feels the tremors through the hand supporting his keel. The patterns of green lightning quicken their pulse and he has to close his eyes for a moment. If only he can unsee it, if only he can undo it.
“Too much to ask?”
Zekiel chuckles, and coughs again, clutching his neck. “I’ll settle just for the tea.”
“You sure about that?” He rubs Zekiel’s mandible with his mouth - warm, smooth, melting with the copper paths - and nips it.
“No.” Zekiel leans back against his shoulder. “Can’t be sure about anything anymore.” A pause, a quiet breath. “I’m sorry.”
And as Zekiel falls silent, Corvus thinks about the bomb. He thinks about the detonator, lost in the blast, and the on-site backup, with its two levels of passcodes and twelve seconds of countdown. He thinks about the yield and the blast radius. He thinks about the men and women who made it, who delivered it to the resistance, who died on the way to hurling it against a Reaper.
He thinks about how much it weighs, and how the monstrosity in his arms weighs about the same.
--
Reply
Corvus is examining his radio. Nothing broken, as far as he can tell, and he was the back-up tech. Still no word from Command, or from the other teams. They must be out of range; the Reaper’s not jamming. Guess they’ll have to haul their sorry asses back to base after the mission if they want to find out what the heck is going on.
The bomb is still there, judging by a cautionary ping in its general direction. He has a pistol with two clips and a sniper rifle with one. Those should get him to the Reaper. Maybe even back.
And if they can’t?
The power’s running too low for his omni. He fiddles with the feed controls. The adjustments are accompanied by large, bold print: WARNING. SHIELDS COMPROMISED.
You know the drill. Save the last shot.
The chest piece he’s laid out to collect water is three-quarters full. He takes a sip. Not bad for acid rain. Grimacing at the aftertaste, he walks back indoors.
“Wake up,” he says.
Reply
Tremendously done.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment