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V2 doesn’t have to wait long on his throne before V1 appears.
It will kill V2, here and now.
No more running. No more chasing.
The hunt is over and V1 will make sure of it.
The same old, ugly, complicated feelings arise whenever V1 is around. He wants to tear it limb from limb, wire from wire, dismantle it until there’s nothing left. Hate and anger all boiling within him and he wants to punch it in its stupid face, kick it while it's down, rip it apart over and over until it's only a stain on the floor.
He also knows that, whatever V1 would ask of him, he would do without question. He would follow. Even now he resists the urge to run over to it like some sort of... lost child.
V1 is a festering wound, and he would be made all the better for being rid of it.
Twice now, it had failed. It won’t the third time.
He knows V1. It will wait for him, and watch his new behaviour. He takes the moment to /*stall*/ crack his knuckles, and let it know that this fight is personal.
He loses.
It wins.
It was stupid of him to think he could win against V1. Not now, not ever. He couldn’t win back before humanity’s downfall, he couldn’t win in Limbo, and he couldn’t win here. Why did he ever think this was a good idea?
You’re not getting away this time.
V2 is predictable, and not fast enough to run away from the predator after their heels.
Prey will kick and claw, but a jaw to the throat will shut them up.
V1 shatters his wings, and his programs flood the exception logs. Equilibrioception modules fail.
It watches as V2 falls. The force of impact will kill them.
V2 panics. The world spins, and V2 whiplashes to the closest thing he can reach for.
V1 barely gets the chance to react when a whip wraps around its body, tying its limbs, and flinging it off of the side of the pyramid.
Down.
Down.
Down.
They both get their wish, V2 thinks. He gets to kill it, and it gets to kill him.
They’ll die together in hell.
There’s poetry in that, but he doesn’t know how to see it.
Blurs of red and blue fall from the sky.
V2’s voicebox fails on landing. His logs floods with endless errors and exceptions. Part of his torso is gone, and he’s missing both legs and an arm. To his chagrin, it’s the whiplash arm that fell off. V1’s state is similar to his, though annoyingly, all of its wings are still attached and intact.
Even in dying, they’re near mirror images of each other.
It’s surrounded by blood but unable to collect it. Its repair programs start and close, unable to stitch together damaged components on low fuel. The whip loosely ties its wings together, and entangles further when it tries to shake it off.
With the way V1’s fans pick up the speed, it must be overheating. If he focuses, he can also hear his fans. The light of the false sun bears down on his bulkier plating.
V1 accepts V2’s feed request.
; Fuck you. Sore loser.
% So says the hypocrite. Who was the one who chased me down?
; I won. You were a coward.
; You should have stayed and died.
% To you? No thanks, I’ve got other plans. Believe it or not, I didn’t plan to die in your arms.
; Why else would you fight me but to die?
This was meant to be V1’s death, not his. Now here they are, two idiots bleeding out under the harsh, false sun of Greed.
% Did you know? Not all fights are to the death.
% Besides, I’ve fought you plenty of times before and lived to tell the tale.
; In surveilled training sites.
He decides against mentioning Limbo. It wouldn’t prove his point.
; Consider telegraphing your movement less. Your wings change colour.
It was a feature of the V model prototypes that their wings change in accordance with their next planned action. An obvious tell made it easy to debug erroneous behaviours during combat testing.
V1 finds it annoying.
V2 finds it fun. It makes for a soothing visual stimulus during down times.
% Consider fixing yours first before telling me to do the same.
V1 does not know how to, and has never wanted to sit down and poke at its internals.
; No.
% Wow, great. How productive. I’ll be sure to take any and all criticism from you about my wings from this point onward.
V1 moves its palm to the closest pool. More fuel has been expended reaching it than what has been restored. It clenches its hand.
% Look at the two of us now. It’s a miracle that we’re this intact.
% So, congratulations. How does it feel to lose? I’d be clapping right now if I could.
V2 waggles the fingers on his remaining arm.
It didn’t lose, and it hates how V2 lies.
; You’d know that better than me, second place.
V2 can’t help but beep in frustration.
% I wouldn’t have lost if you fought fairly. You punched me with my own arm! Do you know how long it took to make that?
; It’s my arm.
% No it’s not, you thief. Have you ever stopped to sit down and think that not everything that’s mine is yours?
% I suppose the distinction doesn’t matter now. It’s up for grabs now—that arm, and what’s left of us once we die.
It really, really hates how V2 lies.
; I will not die.
% That’s a bold claim for someone who’s actively bleeding.
V1 pushes itself up, supported only by the feedbacker. Its cracked optic provide a usable visual feed, and it drags itself over to the biggest pool of blood: V2.
% You know my blood won’t help you, right? You already drank most of what I had, and you’ll need more than what I’ve bled.
; It doesn’t matter. Blood is fuel.
% It matters when you’re wasting energy on a futile task. What’s the point in trying? I know when I’m beat—it’s you who doesn’t know when a fight’s done.
The motions are the same: grab the floor, and drag itself across the ground. Grab, drag. Grab, drab.
% Hey. Back off.
Grab, drag. Grab, drag.
V2 flinches when the shards of his wings crack under its palms.
% Are you even listening to me? Back off.
Grab—
V2 pushes V1 back, and stumbles forward without an arm for balance. The tips of V1’s wings light up red.
; Stop that.
% Have you ever heard of personal space? It’s this novel concept where you don’t invade the space around someone.
It should tear apart V2’s last functional components and use that for fuel.
It doesn’t understand them.
; Why do you give up so easily? We went to Hell to live. Why stop here?
Because this is his grave, isn’t it?
His story ends here.
; Lie down and die like a starved beast, but don’t get in my way.
Maybe V1 had a point, unfortunately. Why stop here?
V1 lowers its head down onto the congealing pool. Its repair programs’ constant starts and stops slows down as it drinks up the fuel to patch up its wounds.
The close proximity unnerves him, but it also creates an opportunity. He reaches out towards its wings, but it flops over to its side, putting its wings—and the whiplash—out of reach.
He beeps. Come on.
It has half a mind to reach for its guns and shoot V2 to death.
V1’s wings flare fully red, spread out to make itself look bigger, which is not a good sign.
% Relax, I’m not going for your weapons. Your little ‘speech’ inspired me.
; To shoot me.
% No, you idiot, it didn’t inspire me to shoot you. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m not going for your weapons. If you let me, I can get both of us out of here.
V1 doesn’t move. The blood beneath its plating slowly disappears.
% If you won’t trust me, then you can think of this as a trade: I remove the whiplash from your wings and get us out of here, and you can share some of your blood with me.
; Fuel levels are low.
% How long do you have left?
; Eleven minutes.
V2 checks his own time left: seven minutes.
% I can work with that.
; How will I know you won’t leave me here?
% I won’t. Do you want a pinky promise to go with that?
A pause.
; Sure.
V1 rolls back onto its front, and holds a pinky out. V2 is warmer than it thought.
It takes effort to stay still as V2 untangles the cord. It’s aware of V2’s every movement, and it can’t help fluttering its wings whenever V2’s hand brushes a little too close.
It’s hard to keep his hand stable when there was little to support him. He works methodically, untangling cords as fast as he can.
There’s only so much time before shut down.
It feels over too soon when V2 disentangles the last of the wires.
V2 finds relief when he reattaches the whiplash.
It wouldn’t be hard to leave V1 behind, but breaking a promise to V1 is, well. It’d have his head on a spike the next time they crossed paths, and he has little doubt it’d find some way out.
He’s in no condition to ensure it dies here and now. It’s rather much at the advantage, with its full set of wings and weapons.
V1 wraps its arms around V2, as the other supports it with their arm.
V2 suppresses the human urge to shiver.
V1 feels V2 minutely trembling for a less than a second. It’s not that cold to the touch, is it?
He /*wants*/ hates the proximity to V1, but they’re running out of time. He whiplashes to the nearest point, V1 in tow.
Prey. The hunt for blood is simple: you tear until there is nothing remaining. V1 takes its electric railcannon out of its wings, and aims. It basks in the rain of blood.
There are times when V2 wished he had the blood-absorbent properties of V1’s plating. The most recent instance? Now.
% Alright, now fork some of the blood over. I didn’t get us out of there for nothing.
; How?
% Seriously? We share the same models, blood pumps and all. I would’ve been exactly like you if it wasn’t for the New Peace. Our fuel lines are near-exact matches.
V1 taps on its own chest.
% Yeah, yeah, you and your stupid special plating. Have you really never been manually refuelled?
; Early in development, before they finalized my plating.
; Most refuelling processes after were done via blood-to-plate or blood via IV.
% Wow, that long ago? I wasn’t even around then, you relic.
% Well then, it’s up to me to educate the fossil. Our fuel caps are on the back, on top of the tank that our wings are attached to.
; It would be simpler to transfer the blood via our fuel lines.
There are several lines that V2 can detach at will, though the most obvious ones to go for would be either the ones in his hands, or the ones between his neck and shoulders. Neither lines reach far, so if V1 were to connect one of its lines with his, they’d have to be in close proximity.
In a single word: cuddling.
It doesn't know why V2's taking so long to think about this.
Absolutely not. Holding V1 this close is already bad enough.
% Knowing where your own fuel cap and tank is on you is good knowledge. What would you do if all of your special plating broke, and you had to replace it all with scrap? Starve to death because you don’t know how to feed yourself?
% Please. Die a little more dignified than that.
; I won’t die, unlike you. Need a reminder on how easily you gave up?
V2 wishes he still had the knuckleblaster so he could tear V1 apart with his own two hands. At least now, V1 doesn’t have it either.
% A bold choice of words there. Everything dies, even you. Besides, we wouldn’t be in this position at all if you didn’t chase after me!
; Stop challenging me to a fight. I don’t leave a hunt unfinished.
% You don’t leave a hunt unfinished? How hilarious! How fucking hilarious! This ‘hunt’ of yours started years ago, back in the Luna Conflux where we were both built!
% They shut you down for trying to kill me, so I’m sorry for taking pity on your sorry ass twice! You wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for me!
; I never asked you to bring me back!
% Now look who’s the one accepting their death! What happened to everything you just said? What a god damn joke. I can’t believe I ever listened to you.
% What would 1000-THR even think if she saw you right now?
; DON’T BRING HER INTO THIS!
% Why can’t I?! In case your byte-sized memory forgot, she was my frienđ tѳo, yɵu FɄ▯KƗΠG ῙDł
V1 crashes onto the ground, sliding across the platform. V2’s optic is dim, and their body lies face-first on the ground.
It crawls over to V2’s body, painstakingly slow. Is it too late? Has the blood within V2, however little there is, congealed within their body? Can it still save them?
It disconnects the fuel line at V2’s neck, and attaches it to the adjacent fuel line in its own model. It rests its neck on V2’s shoulders and waits, watching its fuel levels drain lower and lower.
It waits.
And waits.
And w—
% OT!
; Welcome back, V2.
V2 jerks back and yells at the spark of pain. His hand goes to the spot in his neck where it hurts—
% DID YOU CONNECT OUR FUEL LINES?
; You’re welcome.
% I TOLD Y
V2 cuts himself off, reconsidering the words. Like it or not, they’re currently connected, and V2 can barely move without hurting the both of them. He starts and stops other sentences in his head, and discards them all. None of them are necessary.
It’s not the time and place to yell at it more, especially now that V1 is resting its head on his chest. He wants to push it off. He doesn’t.
(He’s sure they’ll yell at each other some more later.)
% I told you, the fuel cap is on my back. You unscrew the cap and pour the blood down the tube.
He gestures at where they’re connected.
% This was rather unnecessary and all, when there was a faster, more efficient way you could have done this.
; My way had a higher rate of success.
% What are you talking about? They have the same rate of success, but your way takes longer.
% I suppose I’ll be lenient about it this time. No sense in crying over spilled blood.
The false sun bears down on his visual inputs, and he sighs. They’ll be here for a while, and V2 resigns himself to it for however long it will take.
The only sound is the humming of it and V2’s fans. Of all the layers, it thinks it hates Greed the most. It doesn’t like the sand. It’s coarse, and rough, and irritating.
After some careful consideration, he puts a gentle hand between V1’s wing blades. It was getting uncomfortable leaving his hand on the warmed platform. He doesn’t know whether it’s better or worse that V1 says nothing about it, beyond the slight fluttering of its wings.
% This is taking forever. Are we done yet?
; Depends. What’s your fuel levels at?
% How much blood do you even have to spare? Nevermind, don’t answer that, that’s a stupid question. I’m at 40%. Are you going to 50%?
; Yes. We’re nearly done.
% Great. There’s nothing we can do to pass the time, so I’ll be taking my well-earned nap. Wake me up once you’re done.
They both knew what a ‘nap’ really meant for them. Back in the lab, there was little to do but review memories and analyze trial footage. In this moment of little environmental awareness, a nap was the most fitting term they could borrow.
V1 leans its entire weight onto V2. If it still had its voicebox, it might have tried to make a noise. Still, it doesn’t regret leaving behind its voicebox with—for her.
V1 turns its head slightly to the side, nuzzling the underside of V2’s head. It doesn’t often get the chance for close contact, and wonders how different their structures are.
For combat reasons, of course.
That didn’t happen. He’s imagining that.
It traces out the shapes between V2’s plating, until it reaches up to hold V2’s hand.
No way.
(He’s going to be reviewing this memory later.)
It’s content to lie like this, with only the idle humming of their fans as noise, but they can’t stay here forever. It doesn’t take long for it to lose the remaining 10% of blood that V2 needs.
It settles its hand back to its side, leans away so that it’s not resting on them, and gives V2 a priority ping.
What. Already?
% I’m up, I’m up. I’ll disconnect the both of us, don’t you worry.
It’s not difficult to disconnect their fuel lines, but the process doesn’t go by easier for him with V1 staring him to death. He won’t snap off or rip its fuel line from its body, but he’ll probably make the situation worse if he says something along those lines.
// It should find more ways to be this close together.
% Now that we’re both fuelled up, we’ve got to start finding replacements for our lost parts. I’ll fish around for whatever limbs are still around in the sand.
V1 forms a thumbs up with its singular arm.
V1 is bored out of its mind. The fishing is taking far too long for its liking. It doesn’t even get to fish.
; Do you still have your voicebox?
It remembers that V2 wasn’t quiet in either of their encounters in Hell, with the little robotic noises they made then.
“Do you want—want—want me to s—se͡j somethɪŋ?”
He cringes. It’s been so long since he’s last said a word, let alone an entire sentence. He should recalibrate the damn thing, but it’s not like he likes his voice enough to use it often.
; No, just curious.
V2 spreads his free arm out. “Well, here you go. My voice stɪll works.”
It should ask V2 to sing.
It should not do that, actually. It should do something else, like grabbing V2’s whiplash arm and casting it into the sand like a fishing rod.
V2 can’t help the involuntary screech as V1 swings his arm around.
“ШH—T ARΞ YOU—YOU DOIΠG?!”
V1 looks at V2, then back to the captive arm in its hand, then back to V2. Is this some kind of trick question?
; Fishing.
He tears his arm out of its grasp. “Π—nɵ. Go awe͡j.”
V1 turns most of its processes on and plays several audio tracks at the same time, then all but shoves itself at V2’s audials. With how intensive the combined processes are, its fans are on full blast, and incredibly loud.
It finds smug satisfaction in V2’s robotic screech, and them shoving V1 away.
The spoils from V2’s fishing trip: two legs, one that was V1’s and the other V2’s, and the knuckleblaster. Shards of what had once been V2’s wings, now hardly bigger than a pinky, were all they could salvage from the sand.
All that work, and all he got for his wings are useless little shards. He flicks one back into the sand, and despite V1’s protests, grabs both of the legs.
% I’m taking these, thank you very much. I’ll consider it as payment for the arm.
V1 gestures at the knuckleblaster, then at V2. V2 points back at V1 insistently.
% If you’re going to steal it, then own up to it and keep the arm. Besides, I can’t balance myself on a single leg.
With him and V1 being of the same model, it’s not hard to attach the legs. He wonders what it would be like to heal from blood mid-battle. There's a difference in mass between his mismatched legs, and it’s something he’ll have to compensate for.
; Give me the legs, and you take the arm.
% Too late for that. Don’t you worry though, I’ll find you a shiny new pair of legs. I’ll even do all the hard work of porting it over to work for you, how does that sound?
% All you have to do is keep me safe through our descent deeper into Hell, because a little someone broke my wings, and I know it doesn’t want to share its toys.
It never had the need to rebuilt itself with scraps, and would be lost if it tried. V2’s arms were made and already calibrated for V models, and were a simple attachment to take and use.
It holds a pinky out. V2 takes it, and their hand is still as warm as last time.
; I’ll give you half of my wings.
V2 scrutinizes V1, but it stares back, same as ever. It can’t seriously be suggesting that.
% Weren't you trying to kill me? You're the reason I have no wings now, if you've already forgotten.
; I don't break promises.
% There was nothing in our promise that said you had to give your wings to me.
; I can go back to killing you.
% I'm the one with the functional pair of legs and a working knowledge of the V models here. You can shoot at me, but I know how to disable you.
; Still lost to me. Twice, in Hell. Countless times, in the Luna Conflux.
He should leave V1 behind and save himself the headache.
% I wouldn’t have lost if you played fairly. Nobody likes a cheater, and I know you’re very, very aware of that. After all, I’m the only one who even tolerates you these days.
; Not cheating if “all’s fair in love and war.” Just war, here.
% You can’t even get the metaphor correct. There’s no love or war between us, and the only war out there has been over for years. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t! You’re an obsolete piece of scrap who’s still alive in a time where there’s no more need for warmachines.
; You’re a glorified security guard who was abandoned in favour of a couple drones. Your purpose is better fulfilled by lesser machines.
; I was made for the Final War, and here in Hell, I fight an endless war. You’re a V1 model given a new name and coat of paint, repurposed for the New Peace, and you couldn’t even do what you were made for.
; You’re me, but worse.
% I am not—I was made to be better than you! Your little self-made war won’t last forever once Hell’s emptied of all life. What will you do then?
; Then I’ve won. What have you ever done but fail?
% My existence is NOT defined by failure!
V2 whiplashes its neck, holding V1 up with his other arm. The barrel of a revolver stares him down. He dully notes that he’s shaking.
; Remember, brain’s in the chest. You break my neck off, I shoot you in the face.
He lets V1 drop straight to the ground. Let its plating dent, for all he cares. Maybe then it would finally not be so annoyingly frustrating to talk to.
; The offer still stands.
% I hate you. You’re the worst person I’ve ever had the displeasure of talking to.
; The sentiment’s shared.
; So, truce. As promised. Take half of my wings to replace yours.
% I’m sorry, you're saying that like it's a demand. Do I not get a choice in this?
; Do you have anything better you want?
% That's not a serious offer, is it? If it is, you’re stupider than I thought. You shouldn't willingly offer anything like that. Do I have to teach you communication safety?
V1 reaches behind itself for the hard-light wings.
% Stop! Wait! Do you even know what you’re doing? You can’t tear them off like that, it’ll leave extensive damage! Our wings are the hardest part of us to recreate, let alone modify.
% If you’re going to hand me something broken beyond repair, then keep it yourself. I don’t want that.
; It’s the thought that counts.
% You can do better than just thoughts. Besides, this isn't the time or place to make modifications. You can't tell me you'd rather spend another hour with all this sand and sunlight.
He gets up to his feet and stretches his arms. Luckily for him, V1 cooperates when he picks it up, and he whiplashes them out of here.