The End Of All Known Land
Also heads up: decided to just get all the tags posted here to save myself some time formatting. Any additional warnings for the remaining chapters will be posted here as well.
Chapter 6: Monsoon Landing
"Vee?"
Spotted. Damn it, they had hoped they were getting better at being stealthy. According to their latest combat simulation results, their scores were lacking in the covert missions. That would be their priority during practice tomorrow morning.
V1 sidles around the ajar door they'd been silently peering past, and into full view of tired brown eyes, observing them from behind horn-rimmed glasses. But the friendly smile on Miranda's face, framed with her frizzy black hair, has come to mean their presence isn't unwanted.
They wander over to where she's been sitting, gaze alternating between three different, flickering holo-screens. Two are a mess of code, and one is that social media website they've seen other technicians frequent.
"What are you doing up late, buddy?" She asks, stifling a yawn.
They could ask the same of her, but that's not why they'd stopped by this particular office. She isn't the only one still working at this hour.
Instead, they gesture at her hand, which had been resting on her desk. Tucked between her fingers is a round, metallic object. V1 had spotted its shine when they passed by the partly open door.
"What, this?" She holds the object up, and it glitters in their light of V1's optic. "It's just something my grandfather gave me; a coin from the Old World. People used to use them as money."
It's neat, but that's not what had caught their attention. They wiggle their fingers in a rough imitation of the motion they had seen her doing.
"Oh!" Her eyes widen, and her smile becomes laced with something like amusement. "I do this when I'm thinking."
Miranda demonstrates. Up close, they can more easily observe the coin twirl elegantly across her fingers. From thumb to pinky, and then back. Once, twice, and again.
After a moment of recording the movements, they raise their optic to stare at her, intently. She stops, clearly recognizing the shift in their stance. Miranda reaches into her lab coat pocket for her holo-pad, opens the note app, and hands it to them. Their fingers fly across the virtual keyboard, and they turn the digital screen around for her to see.
'I want to try.'
"Sure, go ahead." She places the coin into their outstretched hand, and takes the device back. This gives them a chance to examine the tiny metal disc much more closely.
It's mostly a tarnished gold, wreathed with silver; the auric color glints in the light of their optic. Most of the markings are faded or blemished, but they can make out the outline of a human head.
V1 slips it between their thumb and pointer, pushing it up-
And it slides off their middle finger, falling to the polished floor with a faint clink. It rolls in an arc before falling to its side. V1's wings twitch downwards with disappointment.
Miranda reaches down from her chair and picks it back up, returning it to them. Her smile is soft at the edges; it's an expression that few here look at them with.
(It's a new emotion for them; fondness. They know curiosity and confidence, they've experienced dislike and anger and frustration. This budding feeling is both warmth and excitement, curling in their chassis when a friendly face is in the observation booth adjacent to the simulation chambers.)
"Well, practice makes perfect." She assures with a phrase often used when they don't quite excel at something in combat. "You can keep it for a bit, if you want."
V1 nods enthusiastically, slipping it into their palm. Right after, Miranda stands up, stretching her arms with a quiet moan.
"I should probably get going." With a couple quick key presses, the projections shut off, disappearing into thin air.
"Come on Vee, I'll walk you back downstairs."
The video memory shuts off, and any creeping silence gives way to the clink of rough iron against refined, absorbent steel.
V1 blinks their focus back to the midday light, attention falling to the hypnotic movements of their hand. Back and forth the coin rolls across their fingers, from thumb to pinky and back. The repetitive motions act as a balm for the discomfort and uncertainty that has only grown in the following weeks.
They are seated at the kitchen counter, shifting the weight of their optic into their palm. Once more, they twirl the coin across the back of their fingers, before slipping it between their pointer and thumb. A moment later, V1's latest directive flashes across their HUD for the third time in the past fifteen minutes: "Refuel from Gabriel by 1500 hours."
And for the third time, they dismiss it. In its place, they open the search window for their built-in thesaurus application. The definition for their latest inquiry is the same as it always is.
Fond: adjective, having a liking or affection for. Synonyms: sentimental, sympathetic, addicted.
At first, Gabriel had fit this description and its metonyms neatly.
V1's initial reasons for sparing him, after he had survived three battles and subsequent feeding frenzies that would've easily killed several humans at once, were ones pertaining to self-interest. He is a renewable source of blood, where before there had been a rapidly increasing scarcity. It will allow them to live far past the extinction of their makers and the other machines. They could defy death itself. Sparring and sex had been unexpected but welcome bonuses to their arrangement. Yet they are still things they are familiar with, easily attachable to the word.
Now, V1 is being forced to consider another possibility; one they had very little in the way of information to cross-reference, let alone even begin to understand.
This new feeling that they are grappling with is even stronger than the fondness they once held for some of their makers. It flared up for the first time several weeks back, when they uncovered a seed packet, and knew right away Gabriel would make use of it more than them. An anomaly, easily rationalized by their growing curiosity of the the archangel's affinity for horticulture.
But then it happened again, when he had given them the gun keychain. And then again the week after, when he offered them a book he thought they might like. Now, it's happening every time he lets them watch him work, or when he asks for a spar, or when they look at his unkempt wings.
A possible term for their focus on these anomalies appears in another search window; they've had this one open for three days now, going back and forth on its implications, on its other meanings under different adjectives and adverbs. But it keeps narrowing down to this specific version.
Care: verb, to feel concern or interest; attach importance to something. Synonyms: cherish, worry, to hold dear.
There's never been a need to care about anything beyond their own survival. They can be gentle with delicate flesh and vigilant of their own strength. But to feel like this for another, to worry and think often of, or even anything remotely like cherishing... they don't know the first thing about that.
They don't know how to care.
With a whirr of internal fans, as if hoping it could expel their muted irritation with themselves, they glance to the cube projector. It sits innocently on the counter, right where they'd placed it after discovering it well over a month ago now, next to all the other scavenged things they deemed important or especially fascinating. A fine layer of dust has settled on it.
The information they hold, relevant to their current situation and Gabriel's bloody past, has long outlived its relevance. They could easily wipe it, and go about the rest of their likely very long life. A sustainable fuel source will be eternally available to them, and there would be time for the, literal, world of discoveries to be made.
It would be the optimal choice. And yet keeping this from Gabriel felt... wrong.
There isn't a need for this dilemma, not in this new reality they're both slowly settling into. They have, foreseeably, all the time they could ever want to accomplish their desires. But now this errant thought all but consumes them, about the archangel they had bested, had heard the most vile of vitriol from, and now fuels them so willingly.
They've glimpsed at something beyond the body they can slice open for blood and fight against for the thrill and fuck into for fun. There are facets of the archangel that were introspective, thoughtful, and, if the accounts of the souls in Hell were anything to go by, a wellspring of kindness at his core. And he has chosen to extend it to even them.
One day, that harrowing journey would be but a distant memory, buried under countless folders of new ones. Ones of Gabriel hunched over newly sprouted greenery, tending to them, of his swords dancing and their guns flashing as they spar. Recordings of Gabriel under them and writhing helplessly as he lost himself to their shared euphoria. Memories of Gabriel showing them things he thought they might like, paying rapt attention when they find things to show him-
The reminder flashes again like an insistent error box. V1 stands up immediately, chair scraping against the floor before teetering over. Everything is dismissed in nanoseconds, and they storm out of the townhouse. Their simmering frustration leads them down the dusty streets and drives every daring leap, navigating them seamlessly to where they know they'll find Gabriel.
Every errant thought is soon firmly pushed away by the need for fuel, and the want for a fight.
Gabriel comes down to the familiar sensations of pulsating agony and fading euphoria.
His nerves fire still with pain and pleasure, intertwined so perfectly. Liquid drips down his thighs in rivulets; blood, sweat, slick or lubricant; did it matter which?
He finds himself on his knees, trembling as the aftershocks at last begin to fade. V1 clings to his back, raw from countless scratches, and he thinks they might be shaking too. The archangel presses his helm to the crook of his elbow as he catches his breath, staring down at the glass road and the droplets that are drying in the dust.
It stings when the machine begins to peel themselves off of him, blood having dried during their frenzied feeding. As soon as they pull out, he lets himself slump against the car, easing onto his back. The sting and itch of healing wounds gradually fade into the background
His gaze absently fixes on the rolling blue above. The sky is clearer than when the pair of them first surfaced, smog long cleared. A gentle breeze, once heavy with acrid plastics and sour acids, now washes over him, cool and damp.
Rain is coming; he hasn't tasted it in the air in a century. He will have to make necessary preparations to collect it; it would save him time and allow for other opportunities. Gabriel can only hope this is the beginning of a summer storm system.
But for now, the archangel shuts his eyes, and breathes in the distant, almost electric scent, riding out the last dredges of his afterglow with a silent sigh.
There's a faint scrape of steel against acrylic, then metal digits dance up his chest to his shoulders. Gabriel doesn't bother with moving. There's hardly a single part of him they haven't touched, and he's usually too worn out to put up any protest, in these quiet moments after a fight.
That is, until a finger finds the soft auxiliary feathers of his inner wing.
It twitches away their touch, mostly on reflex. A single eye blinks opens, landing upon V1's blue arms frozen mid-movement. Their optic turns to his unseen gaze. Unwavering, fixated, burning.
"You may." He concedes, at last, slumping a little more against the side of the human vehicle. V1's hands go all along his right wing, and he can barely stifle a gasp. He's not sure why they're so fixated with his wing, but it's been eons since someone else has had their fingers upon his feathers.
And somehow, Gabriel finds himself relaxing into V1's searching touches. That same eye remains open, keeping them in immediate view as they run their hands along the grain, over and over again.
The machine's hand eventually comes away with a broken covert held between their fingers. It floats to the ground, unheeded, and they move a little further down the appendage. They are careful with the hands that have ruined every other part of him at least once, exploring the length of his wing.
His gaze lands on their own wings. These have no feathers, only some strange storage ability that allows them to carry as many weapons as they do. He can see their deadly arsenal outlined within the searing gold. It's really such a fascinating accomplishment, to not only be capable of holding things within, but to protect them, and summon them at will. Not entirely dissimilar to the bond he holds with his own swords.
Gabriel reaches for one before he can stop himself. It's hovering over his bent knee inconspicuously. Is it solid, or merely some projection like the rest of the holographs that dot the cityscape? Would they be warm like the rest of their plating, or as cool as the air surrounding them?
But before he can make contact, a hand snaps around his wrist, stopping him mid-movement, and the wing flickers quickly out of range. Their single, burning optic meeting Gabriel's hidden gaze. There's a charge to the air now, crackling like distant lightning between them.
Gabriel is the first to break eye contact, turning his head away, to the nearby crater in the sidewalk where he had almost pinned this enigmatic machine.
"I apologize." He says aloud. "I was only curious."
Neither of them move. A primary feather is still pinched between their fingers. He feels their gaze bore into his exposed skin for half-a-minute. But they seem to find this answer acceptable, releasing his hand, and returning their attention to his own wings.
Not yet then; maybe someday. If all he can do for now is look, then look he will.
His gaze trails from where the wings are attached to their pack, the reservoir container just poking above that, bright red and full of his blood. The plastic arteries that carry the precious fuel all across their body snake in and out of their plating. This metal upon their body that allowed for such efficient refueling, smeared still with dark crimson.
Truly, all of them is...
"Extraordinary." He breathes. V1 pauses in their administrations. "To think Mankind could build such a machine with the abilities you possess."
A twitch, a whirr of unseen servos as their wings fan out behind them, almost like a display of pride. He can't help but chuckle, softly. His hands remain at his side, but his eyes continue to take in all the intricate details of their form.
"You are truly magnificent, V1." He admits. Maybe it's the lingering afterglow, the fading adrenaline that has flushed his veins clean, or perhaps it's just the moment they've allowed him to finally stop and take all of them in at his own pace. "Your makers, their ingenuity is something to be admired."
A daring question bubbles up his throat before he can stop it.
"Do you miss them, at all?"
They pause, right in the middle of pressing their digits along the tops of his inner coverts. Silence stretches, and Gabriel faintly wonders if he overstepped some unseen line. But their shoulders slump, just a little. A hand rises from his wing to sit flat in the air, tilting from side-to-side.
"I see." He hums. It must be a more complicated answer than they can express.
Their free hand doesn't yet return to their exploration of his wings. Instead, V1 points a single finger at him, head tilting to the side in an unspoken question. It takes a moment for Gabriel to realize they are asking him the same thing.
"Me? Oh." Gabriel hesitates, just a moment. Such a question is easy enough for him to answer, but bitterness floods his tone as he does.
"Yes, I do." He admits.
A sigh escapes him, one knee bending as he adjusts his posture. His healing skin prickles uncomfortably against the metal vehicle. He can't even begin to discern what they think of that, just that his answer has made them still, suddenly. He's not sure if he should continue, but the words begin to tumble out anyways.
"The Father's death brought nothing but grief for us. Worse yet, everything that came after just inevitably made things worse for the masses of Heaven, the human souls resting there in particular."
As he speaks, their hands gently trail through the soft down near the base. Even with their attention upon something else, Gabriel can tell they're listening. The fingers carding through his feathers coaxes even more from him.
"When He disappeared, Heaven was plunged into senseless chaos." Gabriel says, gaze turning from the machine to the skies above. "No one was sure what to do; an angel's only as good as their orders. It didn't take long before the different hierarchies began fighting amongst themselves. Not very different from what happened here, when Mankind died out."
It's the most he's spoken to someone about this, aside from the Council and maybe Minos, in years, but he suddenly can't stop. Like a neglected fountain unclogged of algae buildup, it all gushes out of him.
"Eventually, word reached through all the anarchy of an insurrection in the layer of Greed, led by a Supreme Husk called Sisyphus." He's sure they know this. "It had been what Heaven needed; a purpose, an enemy to subdue, a reason to carry on God's will long after He was gone. It led to The Council's rise to power, rallying the Archangels and the Principalities to restore order to Hell... and to Heaven."
"But The Council had none of The Father's forgiving grace. They subjugated us, took His throne and claimed it was their divine right. We were desperate enough for direction to believe them, I suppose. In reality, they were nothing more than zealots looking for power, claiming to hold the remnants of The Father's Light over all of us."
"And that," he laughs, the sound heavy and humorless. "was just another lie. They readily 'stripped' me of my connection to His Light when you defeated me the first time. I was... meant to die after twenty-four hours."
V1's head whips around to stare at him. Gabriel pays it little mind.
"After our second fight, I returned to Heaven, and showed them just how much their power was worth." He still relishes that memory; their blood splattered upon his armor, fearful cries for unearned mercy, and the stunned silence as he presented the truth of their vulnerability to the audiences of Paradise.
"I killed them all, and returned to Hell to face you, one last time."
It occurs to Gabriel that he's gotten far off track. V1 has apparently grown bored of touching his wing, their hands resting lightly on their thighs as they kneel beside him. They gaze, still, with that unwavering look of theirs.
He still doesn't know where V1 ran off to after their battle, or why, but he has a feeling they might be remembering their final clash in Hell. The one that had inadvertently led them both to this very moment.
Gabriel doesn't like to reflect back on those first several hours. All it accomplishes is to make him feel raw, exposed, sapping his will to stand and face each new sunrise. He swiftly puts it out of mind. V1 knows enough about this part anyways.
"Well, I suppose none of that matters now." Gabriel straightens his skirt, and reaches for the closest discarded pauldron, lying forgotten by the crumpled back end of the car. "My creator is dead, as are yours."
His reflection catches in the polished surface, divinity smelted into every inch. His armor still repairs itself, his wounds still heal, and his blood still replenishes. In the end, his promised punishment had been nothing more than a fear tactic.
The fire is gone, and yet he remains.
"But sometimes," He murmurs, "I--I find myself wishing I knew why He died."
In the corner of his eyes, he sees V1 abruptly get to their feet, swiftly moving to grab his discarded cuirass and toss it over their shoulder. He catches it deftly with one hand, and Gabriel takes that as an end of their one-sided conversation.
"Thank you." He says, pulling on the pauldron first. "For the spar, and for-."
By the time he's looked up from hooking the leather straps onto their hooks, V1 is but a blur, vanishing between the gaps in the ruins.
Their sudden departure leaves him with a subdued feeling, but Gabriel wonders if that, perhaps, had been too personal a question, and too personal an answer.
They'd forgotten how long the restless quiet of the night could drag on, laying in bed, thinking, categorizing and analyzing every drop of information Gabriel had given them. They run simulation after simulation until their fans whine in protest, burning several millimeters more fuel than necessary. An internal abacus shifts and sways wildly with each outcome, until finally, quietly, they settle on what they knew they should do.
"Search for a compatible cable" gets moved to the top of their directives.
Truthfully, finding cords is not a difficult task. Once they begin really looking, especially in the living complexes that dot the city, all manner of cables could be found. V1 spends a day flitting in and out of countless apartments, scavenging thick wires wrapped in thermoplastic or braided with polyester threads. They drop by Gabriel to top off their reserves before scouring the surrounding area.
V1 ends up with a near full bag of them, of varying sizes, tangled together in a mess of multi-colored wiring. That night, by the glaring light of a recovered lantern with a functional solar battery, they begin the arduous task of finding something compatible with both the small charging socket, and the manual data port hidden beneath their chassis.
Throughout the course of the evening, they find that some fit the cube's socket, but not their own. Others fit into their data port, but not the cube's. And some just don't fit either end. All these end up in a growing pile of cords to be tossed out into the street.
V1 finds their irritation growing with each unsuccessful match. Fits the cube, but not their port; they know this from just a glance. V1 tosses this one to the discarded pile, and reaches for the next, the motions becoming automatic as they mutedly reflect on the previous day.
They hadn't intended to gain another puzzle piece, one pertaining to Gabriel's fluctuating pattern of behavior. That he was ordained to die certainly explained how he had sought death during their third fight; perishing in battle is a noble end, they suppose. And the death of the Heavenly Council spoken of by the Terminals was news, as well.
(It still didn't explain the dire malfunction his survival instincts had suffered, right after he discovered he was not going to die.)
The disappearance of The Father had impacted him, clearly, in ways more than just grief. Their understanding of such an emotion was limited. When their own creators had perished, they had felt some semblance of sorrow, albeit only for a select few. The emotion had been fleeting, a single moment spent in subdued reflection. Because after had come the chaos of fighting, refueling, and bouncing from source to source with what few weapons they could scavenge as the human world crashed down around them.
Gabriel, as far as V1 knew, hadn't gotten that closure. The Father had simply vanished. Drawing the conclusion that he had died was a logical one.
They know it's not the answer he had hoped for. But it's the truth he deserves to know.
V1's movements slow down. Their internal clock lets them know it's nearing twenty-three hundred hours. They pause, with one end of the cable inserted into the cube, to stretch their limbs, joints creaking. It's entirely an unnecessary action, but they regardless feel a bit more relaxed having done it. Only three cables left to try, they note as they pull the other end of the cable to their data port. They'll renew their search tomorrow, and then maybe take a break to-
Click.
"INSTALL ADD-ON SOFTWARE?"
Huh?
V1 glances down in a hurry to find the other end embedded into their data socket, connection established in milliseconds.
They immediately run a virus scan on the software and it comes up clean. They select no, correctly guessing it's bloatware because the device files appear on their HUD anyways. Without a second thought, they wipe the ones already on there, leaving for a solid terabyte of storage space.
Their fans fall silent as they move three images they'd taken this past week onto its harddrive, holding their metaphorical breath as they eject it and then unplug the cable. V1 picks the cube up, and hits the switch.
Light pours outward, forming swiftly into a view of a city street, half broken already, and a figure kneeling in the sand that had been hidden below. Between his hands is a plant he calls marigolds, and sitting in the nearby pot are daylilies. They'd listened as he spoke of these plants, how they did well even under the unrelenting sun.
After ten seconds, the image changes to the next automatically, this one of Gabriel bent over the hood of the car just the other day, their cock buried in him. Even through the slight grain of projected light, they can make out all the scratches they'd left on his back, weeping blood and surely stinging with sweat. The third is of feathers, transparent and broken but their glow a hypnotic one.
They'll need to adjust the timer, or figure out how to sift through the images manually. And they'll need to check if it can project video clips. But now, this is finally something within the realm of possibility. The cable end goes right back into their port, and they begin fiddling with the built-in controls.
And they have one more thing they'd like to do, an idea they've ruminated on since obtaining the device.
V1 reaches for the book they've been reading, and flits through the pages, looking for the words they'd like to say.
Those once distant clouds he'd spotted on the horizon that morning finally begin to close in over the city. Even if it's only early afternoon, Gabriel deems it a good time to stop. The air smells charged, and if he strains his ears, he can hear thunder rumbling in the distance.
Three more holes have since been carved into the road once it was apparent that most of the flora would take to the soil, even under the relentless glow of the sun. A hardier variety of groundcover sprouts from the sand in broad swathes, clusters of marigolds and verbascum decorate the edges, and in the center, three dark splotches of soil with several seedlings scattered about them. Small compared to the first set he'd planted in the first shallow, but their leaves were coming in strong, healthy.
Gabriel leans onto the handle of his shovel, for just a moment, and admires his work in silence. Things could grow; additional greenery would aid greatly in the Earth's slow recovery. Such a feat would likely not come about for a long time, but it was slowly moving within the realm of possibility. That day was likely going to be a long time from now, however. There is still so much to do.
But for now, he'll let the weather take its course and supply the Earth with fresh water.
He's nearly done moving the half-filled troughs out beneath the open sky when a familiar flash of blue captures his attention, flying up the street. He sets the metal container down between the second and third garden when the other comes to a skidding halt right before him.
"V1." He greets. They only come and find him for three things, as of recently: fuel, a spar, or to show him something. Given the oncoming storm, however, he's sure this will be for a short visit. "What do you need?"
Instead of making any sort of indicative movement, the machine only looks at him for a long moment. Then they set the leather bag he hardly sees them without now upon the ground. For a moment, they search it, before producing a long cord and a plastic cube.
Gabriel realizes he's seen it before, sitting on the counter in their quaint home.
"What is this?" He inquires, even knowing he won't get a verbal answer. The machine's hands work methodically, one end of the cord going into the object from a tiny hole in the bottom. There's a soft hiss as a small panel, just below the strips of light on their chassis, slides away, revealing an opening he's never noticed before. The other end goes in there.
They hold it out into the space between them, balanced perfectly on their palm, after just a moment of hesitation.
Immediately, light surges from the tiny opening at the top, forming above. It's a perfect mirror of the human's neon phenomena: a projection of light, one that swiftly forms into a picture of a word, and then another. Gabriel's breath stills as he begins to make sense of the order they're placed in.
It's a sentence, taken from text printed on paper.
"I have something to show you."
"Oh," Gabriel's breath leaves him in a sudden rush, a sense of excitement beginning to bubble up in his chest. These are the first words they've ever 'spoken' to him.
How long had they been working to make this possible?
"V1, how did you-" He starts, but then they hold up their other hand, palm facing out. On instinct, Gabriel falls silent. The slideshow continues.
"I meant to tell you sooner. Sorry."
The words stop appearing, suddenly. Static images are replaced with flowing video feed. Gabriel had seen it frequently throughout these ruins: looping, grainy clips of women and men enjoying shiny human products. But this is nothing like the glitching advertisements that ignite the sky and block the stars.
This is of a wasteland, one with a sky choked with the fumes of a distant fire. There are human carcasses in every direction the footage points to, torn to pieces or brutally pierced. The silhouette of burnt trees, barely even two decades worth of growth, are stark against the blue of the sky when the camera turns in the other direction, away from the smoke.
Back when the only life left on Earth had been countless, hungry machines.
"Is this... this is you, isn't it V1?" Gabriel says in quiet awe.
They nod, almost stiffly.
All the shaky movements in the video come to a jerky stop when words abruptly appear across their vision.
"INCOMING TRANSMISSION", it reads. "SOURCE: UNKNOWN".
It blinks away, for just a moment. And then more appear, red as blood.
"MANKIND IS DEAD.
BLOOD IS FUEL.
HELL IS FULL."
A series of coordinates, of different areas all across the world, appear in a long list. Gabriel knows exactly where they lead; he'd had to oversee their increase in security, right after the humans first sent machines into Hell to build their elevators.
The camera feed turns like a shark smelling blood in the water at last, and then the footage becomes a blur as they race for their newly discovered fuel source.
"That's how it happened?" He had never figured out how, exactly, the machines had all located the paths to Hell near simultaneously. A decade since the fall of Man began, and then mere months after the wound in the Styx finally, finally ran dry. "But what--who could have sent that?"
Their fingers flex, as if tightening around the plastic casing.
The clip changes to one of the power stations the humans dug, and later used as a starting point for their elevators. They are barreling their way through man-made corridors full of husks, and the occasional Malicious Face, obliterating everything in their path in gory explosions that crackle from a tiny speaker at the top. Viscera stains the metal walls and tubes of flowing magma, and their opponents are frequently caught in the still-operating mechanisms.
But then something not related to carnage and fuel catches their attention. The feed fixes on a fallen metal square, before trailing upwards to an opened vent in the ceiling. With a bound, they climb in, following the short path to stumble upon something most unexpected: a skull. Blue, faintly glowing, once belonging to a Ferryman, perhaps one from before Gabriel took over the role of Judge.
And like most of its kind, it acts as a key to a path, to a hidden shaft that looks different from the main ones he's seen.
How had such a thing gotten outside of Hell proper?
"V1, why are you showing me this?"
His inquiry goes ignored. The footage suddenly freezes when they begin to plummet down. It cuts away to a static image.
Gabriel can't quite find something to say as he reads what's labeled as 'Testament I'.
"MANKIND IS A FAILURE,
FREE WILL IS A FLAW,
LET THE EVIL OF THEIR OWN LIPS CONSUME THEM.
THEN I SHALL BEGIN AGAIN, WITH MY WORD AS LAW."
He reads the text once, twice. There's a nagging familiarity to the cadence he can't quite place. Gabriel glances back up to the machine, who stands unnervingly still.
"What--what is this supposed to mean?" He asks, but instead of giving any indication that they heard him, the footage suddenly changes to that of Limbo's idyllic chambers. Calm and quiet, the familiar music and birdsong pouring from every speaker; Hell's most merciful Layer.
They're standing before one of the many fountains where Cerberi tended to gather. After a minute of exploring the first room, they turn and flip a coin into the waters with a flourish. The footage turns away, and then jerks right back, as it suddenly slides away with a scraping sound to reveal another hidden shaft.
More text from these Testaments, the second of what appears to be several.
"FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE AFTER FAILURE
THE RESULTS REFUSE TO ALTER
AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN
MY FAITH BEGINS TO FALTER"
"V1, I don't understand." Gabriel presses. "Who wrote these?"
They don't move an inch, but he sees their optic flicker away from his visage, and down to the little box sitting in their palm. He catches a flash of Greed's temples before it simply jumps right to the third.
And Gabriel feels ice roll down his spine as he starts to read.
"UNCOUNTABLE CYCLES OF CREATION WASTED
UNCOUNTABLE FORMULAS FOR A MIND WITHOUT FREE WILL WASTED
DAMNED IS MAN FOR FAILING TO FOLLOW MY RULE, MY WORD, MY LAW
DAMNED TO AN ETERNITY OF TORTURE AND SUFFERING,
THE WAILING AND THE GNASHING OF TEETH
I HAVE CREATED HELL . . .
. . . And now I can no longer unmake it."
These words... he can practically hear the voice that had written them like that of an ethereal, ever-present ghost. Gabriel hadn't been able to recall it since the eternal Light of the Empyrean became crushing, infinite darkness, with little in the way of warning.
"What... is this, V1?" His voice has become a distant, brittle sound over the roar of his pulse quickening in pace. "These... these can't be--"
Why would The Father leave messages around Hell before His death? How had V1 found them and not His own children? It doesn't make any sense.
The next appears, and Gabriel feels something start to squeeze his lungs, strangling his breath, as the words begin to sink in. He reads it again. And again.
""FATHER, WHY ETERNAL TORMENT? IS IT NOT CRUEL?
IS TORTURE UNENDING TRULY A FATE FIT FOR A FOOL?"
AN ANGEL SO BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL ASKED ME THIS . . .
AND I COULD FIND NO ANSWER
FOR I COULD NEVER FACE THE GUILT OF WHAT I'D DONE . . .
MY REGRET, A GNAWING CANCER
IN MY HOUR OF WEAKNESS, TERROR POSSESSED ME THEN
AND I CAST LUCIFER, TOO, INTO THE INFERNAL DEN
ONCE I REALIZED WHAT I HAD JUST DONE . . .
I COULD ONLY WEEP
AS I SANK SLOWLY INTO THE DEPTHS OF DESPAIR . . .
DEEP, OH SO DEEP"
It's like the very world has suddenly tilted on its axis from beneath him, sharp and abrupt, threatening his very balance. Thunder rumbles once again, even closer than before, but it's so distant compared to the dawning horror Gabriel feels.
For if this were true, The Heavenly Council had not been the only ones telling lies.
"He--no, He told us that--the other angels, that they were going to overthrow Him..."
The next one scrolls by with little fanfare as his heart pounds in his ears. The agony He suffered from his regrets, warring with the horrible disappointment that not even His immortal children were bereft of the blight of free will. Gabriel can't even speak, can't get his voice around words of any form.
They burst free of him in a terrified rush as he reads the sixth one.
"You're lying." He breathes. Anger attempts to bubble to the surface, but it's smothered with the cold, creeping fear that clutches his lungs. "No--no, this isn't true... He wouldn't just... "
He couldn't have left; He died. For what reason would He turn away from all that He had ever created, all that He had ever loved? Why would He flee?
The images come to a jarring halt upon a huge, stone door, and V1 looks back up to him at last. The silence hangs heavy as a rising tone begins to ring in his ears.
Blurring colors suddenly flash across the neon, too fast for him to process. And then they stop, with just one more message upon a cracked screen. But this one is different. It is not sweepingly grand or spoken with righteous conviction; these are not the words of a dead creator.
This one is whispered like a mischievous secret.
"t h e r e i s a p a t h b e y o n d t h e e n d o f a l l k n o w n l a n d.
j u s t f i n d t h e d o o r a n d s e e f o r y o u r s e l f."
And then Gabriel sees himself, battling V1 as the blizzards of Treachery rage around them both. His loss, their mercy, and their abrupt parting when they take off running into the blizzard. He watches them charge into whirling snow and ice, away from the lake, barely a landmark in sight to guide their way, but onwards they go. The footage skips to the very end of Hell: at the wall of ice that stretched for miles, encircling the cavern. Here, somehow, the blizzard has come to a sudden stop.
And embedded into its freezing surface is a door Gabriel knows had not been there before. It opens as they approach, and they slide down the ramp and into the shadowy shaft.
Then they're dropping onto a large platform, surrounded by an abyss, one that swallows all light. It had to be right below Hell. The only light comes from the ones attached to the exit of the shaft leading back up, and the small, different colored pinpricks on a blocky set of yellow squares. The V1 in the video memory hurries right up to the console facing the door, one just like countless others at the start of the human elevators. Gabriel had seen them several times before, and long assumed they didn't work.
This one does. It lights up as V1's hand hovers over the screen. There are a number of other options on the side of the screen, but the text is what draws their immediate attention.
Tip of the day:
"He said that he would help us."
"He lied."
The words change, flashing through multiple messages as if in a hurry, but each one sears itself into Gabriel's memory forevermore.
"He asked us to collect machine data for him."
"In return he would free us from Hell after it was gone."
"We were supposed to go with him to the new world, after Earth and Heaven were destroyed."
"A paradise for machines, with all the blood they could ever want."
"But he took the data and left us to die."
"He promised."
"He lied. :("
And then a hand emerges from the darkness, out of nowhere and blindingly bright, moving to crush the entire platform beneath its palm.
Gabriel knows that hand; it had held him when he was newly born, with stardust and ice crystals clinging to his quivering feathers and accompanied by a kindly, loving voice.
It reaches now for V1, and his breath is stuck in his throat like a heavy stone as the footage becomes a blur of movement, and then stops.
Other images scroll by, all just more and more damning evidence of a truth so horrible, it was buried in the last place the people of Heaven would ever think to look. That their destruction had been utterly inevitable; that they were fallible by design.
That only one of them had walked away from the battle that had followed.
His legs urge him to move, to run, to do something. But cold, paralyzing despair threatens to overcome him; to crush him beneath the weight of this horrible reality of everything that had happened behind the curtain, beyond his sight.
Everything that had robbed him of his title, his duty to Heaven, his home, and his very purpose, was because of a lie.
And then something within him breaks.
"You... "
White hot flames of anger drive the creeping ice away. It floods his limbs with a blistering fury, blurring his eyes over with heat. His vision narrows down, pinpoints to the one standing before him, suddenly and starkly visible as the curtain of neon abruptly disappears.
"You killed... !"
His swords are suddenly in his hands; he doesn't even remember calling to them. Beyond the veil of red as his body throws itself forward, the machine drops the small cube, optic going wide. Its weight snaps the cable free from their chassis and sends it tumbling to the ground.
V1 can't dash away in time. The first wild slash makes contact with their chassis, leaving a deep score upon the metal from shoulder to side. The second is interrupted mid-swipe by a deafening, concussive blast. They are torn apart in a blur of honey-gold and searing yellow. A chorus of shattering stone drowns out another roll of thunder. For a moment, Gabriel cannot see them, swathed in dust as much as he is from his collision with the opposite building.
His surging fury allows him to push through the momentary disorientation, peeling himself from the newly-made crater in a hurry. From across the street, as the clouds of powdered cement begin to settle, he sees the machine's optic shutters narrowed at him. Their shotgun is already in hand, wings flared.
With a harrowing, broken cry, Gabriel charges across the street, Justice's blade extended outwards like she too hungered for their blood.
Their fist collides with shrapnel right as it leaves the barrel, and Gabriel narrowly dodges the flying pieces of burning metal. A moment later he's upon them, but his blade only falls through the empty air. V1 is dashing away down the street, and the missed attack only makes his blind rage flare all the brighter. He barely even registers the almost-forgotten sight of their nailgun pointed right at him, nor the pain of needle-sharp tack spraying and burrowing into where his flesh is exposed.
"GET BACK HERE, YOU-" Gabriel's shout is cut off by a charged shot, one bouncing off three coins and piercing into his gut. The sudden pain is washed away by the flames of his fury. "-INSUFFERABLE FUCK!"
His whole world narrows down the blur they've become as they skate down the road, flitting just out of his reach as his slashes grow more and more unsteady and uncoordinated. He's aware that he's shouting still, tearing his throat to shreds with each missed attack. Gabriel throws his swords with abandon, and they rip at his side in the next moment. Blood sprays into the space between them, a splash of ruby to match the current color of his armor, but it does not bring its glorious mania.
All Gabriel can think of is the form of his Father drenched in it, covered in countless, terrible wounds.
Fire consumes him in waves and aimless anger; like the hungry flames that had consumed all that was once lush and green upon this humble world. The long-forgotten, double-barreled end of their nailgun is pointed right at him. Gabriel rushes through the onslaught of tack, driven by his rage and despair. Miss, miss, hit, miss.
V1 darts in, narrowly avoiding his swords as they swipe viciously through the air. Claws scour his side, tearing fuel from his body. It only serves to make him angrier.
And then, quicker than he can react, they're ducking beneath his follow-up swipe. He feels the familiar opening of their rocket launcher press to his abdomen just before a ball of stone slams into it. Bitter iron floods Gabriel's mouth and it knocks his senses askew.
He cannot do anything to defend against the thundering explosion of sound and air that follows, tossing him through the sky like a ragdoll. Gabriel smashes, once more, into sturdy concrete. But this time, the solid wall gives way under his weight, and his unstable trajectory continues.
A cacophony of destruction follows his violent entry into this dimly lit room, breaking through all manner of fragile and sturdy objects in his path until he comes to a tumbling stop. The world is spinning, his ears ring, every inch of him hurts, but it is nothing to the churning storm that obscured every rational thought.
Gabriel fights to push himself upright, desks and chairs and flickering holos in pieces all around him. By the time he's gotten himself up onto his elbows, the machine has reappeared, standing on the broken plaster that rims the massive hole in the wall. V1 looms there with their railcannon aimed squarely at him, their glare boring into his very soul through their optic shutters.
The archangel finally manages to stagger to his feet. Every motion makes his muscles scream, but it's swiftly drowned with a fresh surge of blinding, vehement fury when he realizes they've had every chance to press their attack, and choose instead to let him rise to his feet once more.
"You insatiable, frustrating-" Gabriel snarls through gritted teeth, staggering upright with both his swords clenched in his fists in a grip so tight they're shaking. Words can barely form through the hot thing that sits coiled in his throat. "Had that been your intent all along!? To destroy everything I ever loved, and then keep me alive as your own personal bloodbag!?"
There is no answer, and now there never will be. He cares not, only that he must keep struggling, lest the anguish that looms over him like the storm above, ready to break, overtake him in its entirety.
But his words make them pause.
It's just for a moment, but they pause. Some distant part of him recognizes the widening of their optic shutters, the upward twitch of their wings. It was how they had always reacted when he had said something they couldn't parse. Before now, he would have followed up with a series of questions until they would nod, and their hands would gesture for him to elaborate.
And the heavy silence holds firm, until he remembers that those same hands had torn divine flesh to scraps, to nothing.
This idle thought is driven away by his renewed fury, and it carries him forward in a wild rush. The sound that leaves him is more animal than man, like some pitiful creature cornered by a predator.
V1 leaps out of the way at the last moment, and he soars out of the building, catching himself with a powerful pump of his wings. But before he can swivel midair to dart back into the building, they're flying right for him, a rocket beneath their feet.
The sound that follows deafens him for a moment, ringing in his ears and leaving him wholly unprepared for how they slam into him with a vicious kick. And then Gabriel is falling, barreling towards the ground at terminal velocity. His sword slashes at their leg, his hand scrabbles and tries to tear at absorbent plating. But he can barely even get a mark on them before they reach the ground.
He barely even registers the echo of their impact over the agony lancing through his head and down his spine. It leaves him in a daze, all thought momentarily scattered by pain. The world spins and spins, all those horrible words and images bouncing around in his skull, and being shouted by a voice that only ever spoke to him with kindness.
Gabriel's awareness comes back with a sharp, pulsing ache in every muscle. Justice and Splendor have been knocked from his hands. Three arms have pinned his body into the earth, dust settling around them from the impact. He's staring up into the barrel of their revolver, at the slitted glow of their optic piercing out from behind narrowed shutters. And for a moment, he swears he's back at the apartment in Lust's decaying city, inviting a swift end at their hands.
But he's not. He's here upon the Earth, months after he should have died, stuck in a world long abandoned by its maker.
The archangel thrashes in their hold with a ferocious cry. Again and again, he writhes against them with a fervent violence, but their grip holds fast. They keep him there, unflappable and utterly unphased by his wordless roars, even when something inside him breaks under the vicious movements with a dull snap. Bitter blood shoots up his throat and cuts him off with hacking convulsions. Part of him hopes he drowns in it.
"DAMNED MACHINE!" He spits once his voice returns to him, struggling against their iron grip even as his strength rapidly wanes. "INSATIABLE-"
Another ragged cough throttles anything else that would have followed, but Gabriel doesn't stop trying to slip out of their hold. He swallows around the coppery flavor, fighting all the harder to break free. Gabriel would tear himself to pieces if that's what it took.
"Come on," He goads through another wheezing hack, and the sound of his own voice belongs to some broken thing. It's so distant under the heartbeat that rises into a terrified cadence as those words push their way to the forefront of his thoughts once more. "Take it; it's all you care about anyway!"
They don't move. They just glare down at him through a half-shuttered optic, his wrists surely bruising from how tight their fingers squeeze them. The light of their flared wings catches the first few raindrops as the sky opens at last.
"You... " His feeble pushes do nothing against their strength. "Why did you have to-"
There are many things that he wants to scream at them; insults, curses, more wordless cries of fury. But something else makes its way out: a question that has haunted him from the moment they chose to spare him; when they climbed off of his broken body and ran off into a blizzard to kill the puppeteer behind the curtains.
"WHY ME?!" He screams; to the machine, to the Heavens, to the empty space where once was an eternally loving presence, he does not care who hears it. His voice is a ragged mess of despair and anger, strangled by everything terrible he's ever done. "I was supposed to die! I should have died! Why couldn't you have just killed me, Machine?!"
He doesn't quite expect to see their shutters vanish suddenly back into their optic; how they seem to jolt as if utterly taken aback by his answer. The only sound is that of the steadying cadence of rain, at last blessing the soil of the barren Earth.
Their revolver begins to lower, slowly, no longer glaring at him. In a harsh murmur filled with rapidly draining vitriol, he continues.
"You should have finished me off," He chokes. "Torn me to pieces, taken every drop of blood from me. Not this... horrible mercy..."
His words begin to sound utterly empty of conviction. Gabriel struggles to hold onto that hot, hard knot in his chest, but his own admission is making that incredibly difficult.
"After everything I did, how cruel I was, all the people I've killed... after everything I did to hurt you... " His throat wants desperately to close around his words, but they keep coming, like an infected wound draining of poison; of anger and despair and the childish, desperate urge to scream 'why'. "And for what? What was the point of--did He... was He really going to... "
Thunder rumbles above them, a gentle sound compared to the static flooding his head. Centuries of dogma unravel like an unspooling thread in a way he cannot ever hope to parse or untangle.
Amidst all this, V1's optic light cuts through the thickening sheets of rain; a steady glow through the yawning abyss of the unknown. Now, Gabriel stares past it. He only sees the mass of gray clouds obscuring the heavens.
They've never felt farther away than they do now.
"Why... ?" He sounds so meek and small, and what little remains of his old ego hates himself for it, churning deep in his chest and washing away the raging fires. "We loved Him. Everything we ever did was for Him. And it--it wasn't enough?"
What has he been doing here, all this time? Hoping to maybe do something good in this damned world? Do something worthwhile of all time and strength he still somehow possessed? Had he been hoping to maybe make a dead creator proud from beyond the grave, looking after His once beloved mortal planet in his stead? What would even be the point now?
"I... " The reality hits Gabriel harder than the metal tack still buried in his flesh. "I was... never enough."
His unyielding faith in His Plan, his tireless commitment to carrying out His Word, his unconditional love for Him... it had never been good enough from the start.
Paradise, Purgatory, and the Inferno would have been unmade in their entirety. All traces of humanity would have been completely wiped out in a single, grand sweep engulfing all of creation. And in its place, a home for perfect machines; ones that would have followed their mindless programming down to the letter.
For His own creations had, somehow, unknowingly perfected His own formula.
It starts like broken, hoarse giggling, rising with the sound of droplets hitting the shattered concrete surround both their injured forms. His own emotions feel like jagged edges, digging into the cracks that had begun to spread gradually through his ego; the ones that had started all the way back during their first fight. His head falls to the side, and Gabriel suddenly realizes where he is.
Little green shoots lie crushed upon fresh, darkening soil. Broken flora sprawls all around him, stems snapped in half or completely uprooted from the sheer force of impact. He suddenly can detect more beneath his back, flattened under his mass. Everything he had carefully planted not hours prior have been utterly destroyed.
All that work, for nothing; nothing but a scorched world with no further purpose. None of it had ever mattered nor amounted to anything, in the end. All the pointless pain and suffering he inflicted, his wild attempts to secure his own freedom from unseeable shackles in the face of an impending death sentence, every drop of blood he's bled for the one that had opened his eyes to a bitter, uncaring reality...
There never had been a point to any of it, only a fruitless quest for the blind love of mortals.
He's not even aware he's crying until the first choked keen escapes him. He grits his teeth, holds his breath, but the deluge of malcontent and grief crash down harder and harder upon him. His hands ball into fists, and he fights even now against this. Above him, somewhere beyond this, there is movement.
Hands release him, but he doesn't budge. He wants to lie here in the earth and hope that the rain mercifully drowns him. Gabriel's breathing hitches when a blue arm lays itself on his shoulder, agonizingly gentle; a far cry from the viciousness in which they had, once again, nearly rent him apart. With a steady grip on his pauldron, he's hauled out of the wet dirt to sit upright. His vision wavers, and then comes a rest on V1, straddling his lap and gazing at him still. Their eye is half-lidded once again, but their wings and shoulders begin to droop.
They are the only thing that has stayed with him throughout all this. Through the destruction of Hell, through the emancipation of Heaven, through his exile upon the Earth, V1 has been there through all of it.
Their company, their curiosity, their touches both violent and tender; he's thrown it all away in his misplaced fury.
The sudden surge of shame is what breaks him; the brittle dam of his composure, at last, destroyed. Gabriel's head bows, ugly sobs beginning to pour from him in earnest. They bubble from the very depths of his soul, and erupt from him in despairing wails. He starts to curl up on himself, shaking uncontrollably, vulnerable and weak and desperate to hide it-
Metal arms suddenly throw themselves around him, yanking his shrinking form against their solid chassis with a hollow echo. It's still heated from their battle, and partly torn from his blades. Gabriel freezes with rising panic as their helm hurriedly burrows into the crook of his neck. His trembling hands scrabble for their shoulders, intending to push them away.
"Don't--stop... I don't--" Why are they doing this? He doesn't deserve any of this.
But in answer, they squeeze him all the tighter. Gabriel makes one last vain attempt to wrench them apart, but his strength is gone, his body is broken, and his will to fight has long since fled. Emptiness cascades upon him, dark and suffocating, engulfing his chest with woundless agony.
Gabriel gives up, and at last, the terrible storm consumes him.
He clutches at the machine's arms, helm dropping onto their shoulder, and cries. His ragged wails rise over the sound of the pouring rain; come too late to save anything in this condemned, forgotten world. Too late to do anything truly meaningful.
And V1 simply holds him.
They hadn't taken into account that this information might hurt Gabriel.
Anger had been the likeliest emotional outcome, and as a result of that, their simulations had given them a decent probability of misplaced retaliation. He could have run away, or have even denied everything vehemently, and dismissed them.
V1 had gone forward with these possibilities in mind anyway, confident they could handle anything he might throw at them.
But the warmachine could never have anticipated this: Gabriel's cries are audible even over the pounding precipitation as he openly grieves for the one who had abandoned him to the uncaring universe. He's shaking like a leaf in the wind, and holding onto them as though they were the only thing that made sense in this newfound, bitter reality.
And now they don't know what to do.
They hadn't meant to hurt him; they don't know how to fix this. All the vast knowledge they've accumulated from their time with humanity is next to worthless. Their memories and experiences could have never prepared them for any sort of situation like this one.
An embrace had seemed like the logical thing to do at first, they've seen countless other humans do it in times of distress both fictional and real. But his sobbing does not stop. He just clings to them with a grip that might dent their plating.
They hardly care about that now. V1 runs simulation after simulation, but nothing gives them a clear image of how to help him, how to stop this ruinous pain consuming him. After an agonizing two minutes of meager results and outcomes, they stop the program, and return to the present moment with a tightening grip.
This is the only thing they can do: hold him. Their newfound emotion is impossibly powerful, like a gravitational pull they can't resist. Care and worry and traces of fear, all wound tightly in their center, and driving a single-minded priority.
V1 will keep him safe in their arms until he does something other than kneel in the mud, weeping tears and blood.
And, inevitably, there comes a point where his sobbing at last trails off into hitching, uneven gasps, like he's struggling to get a hold of himself. He slumps more heavily into their embrace, whimpers escaping through gritted teeth.
Their next decision is not a hard one; they need to get out of the rain. Gabriel's wings are soaked, water running off his feathers in steady streams. More pressingly so are the worst of his wounds, which haven't even begun to close. There are nails embedded still in his flesh, the blood running thin with water.
The warmachine carefully leans away, seeking to coax the despondent archangel to his feet. His hands clutch still at their shoulders, fingers trembling so violently it's a miracle he's even holding on still. V1 tugs at his arms after shifting their feet beneath themselves, planting them firmly in the slippery mud.
With their persistent encouragement, Gabriel gradually starts getting up.
Once he's fully upright, he stares down at the ground beneath their feet in complete silence. They're barely half his size, but he looks so... small like this. His wings droop into the earth, the edges trailing in the wet soil and sporting several newly broken feathers. Various wounds are caked in mud and torn leaves. He's a mess.
For a moment, his helm lifts to look at them, intent completely unparsable. They ignore this, and briefly contemplating taking him back to the townhouse. It's a notion quickly dismissed: that's halfway across the city. He's definitely not up for the journey, between his injuries and shaken state of being.
V1 turns to look down the street towards the garage, before deciding against that as well. They need medical supplies, and the only place they're likely to find it without straying far from the unresponsive archangel is in one of the nearby living complexes. V1 had searched them not a day ago for adapter cords.
They rapidly run their memories of them in the background, searching for a suitable place where Gabriel could begin to recover. But before they can even begin narrowing their criteria parameters, Gabriel's arms fall away from their grip.
He turns around, and starts to walk away, one heavy footstep after another.
V1 buffers as they watch his slumped form slowly start to retreat behind the curtain of rain. With every step he takes further away from them, the heavier their central processor seems to weigh in their chassis. They don't know what to do here, either; they can't even begin to guess what the future holds beyond this very moment. Their program begins to loop; they can't take any course of action, but this impossible emotion of care drives them to follow.
Fortunately, they've saved from having to make a decision themselves when the archangel sways dangerously.
Two frantic dashes later, their hands are clasping onto his arm, ducking beneath him to take the brunt of his body as it starts to give out. They don't miss the way his bicep tenses beneath their grip. V1 pushes their fans into an audible whirr; whether it's a wordless plea or a demand to stop, they don't know. Just that they can only hope it reaches through the silence that has descended upon Gabriel.
Miraculously, three shaky steps later, his weight slumps onto their frame. He's heavy, but it's nothing their own strength can't handle for a short period. An image appears upon their HUD, with carefully calculated coordinates to find them the fastest way inside. They get him turned around, bypassing the ruined garden, and begin the short trek to prospective shelter.
At the end of the block is a nondescript structure that spans mostly northward. They round the street corner, and identify the correct balcony immediately, a single floor up from where they stand. V1 pulls more of Gabriel's arm over their shoulder, secure the rest of him with their Feedbacker, and throws their winch to the space just above the patio doors. It latches on, and pulls them both upward. The glass doors remain unlocked, exactly how they left it.
The abandoned apartment is just as still and dusty as they remember it being, aside from a few opened drawers and knocked over chairs from their first sweep of this place. Their feet carry them to the long couch sitting against the wall that divides the living room from the kitchen, and they ease him onto the stained cushions.
The gray light from outside allows them a much better view of his wounds, more so than the dulled glow of his wings. V1 climbs up, knees planting on either side of him, and looks over the damage they inflicted. The stretch of skin where the railcannon hit him has cauterized, and the blood flow from where shrapnel tore at his limbs has begun to staunch. Every wound is analyzed in less than acceptable times; Their first aid program is one they've only ever had to utilize twice, both during simulation missions. There had never been a practical need for it before.
V1 runs the search parameters again, and this, thankfully, immediately locks onto the location where they remember seeing a first aid kit. It had been sat upon the counter of a kitchen identical to this one, save for the bloodied, old splatters upon the wall. The apartment in question is one floor up from this one, three units to the right. Not far at all.
They fly from his lap, slam into a jump that takes them two balconies over, and then shoot at the glass doors from the railing of third. The panels shatter beneath the first shot. They step over the rotted bodies that litter the carpet enroute, and find the item exactly where they remember it being. All in all, their search takes less than twenty seconds, bringing them back to the catatonic archangel's side in record time.
He doesn't react as they start to remove his torn armor methodically and carefully, nor when their fingers cautiously pluck one of the remaining nails. V1 tries not to be bothered by this, pulling every sharp implement still embedded in his skin and piling them neatly on the nearby side table. Fuel oozes down his slouching form into the cushions, but by the time they've removed the last one, the flow is beginning to stop.
They press pads of gauze to the worst ones, bandaging them with rhythmic, steady movements. It takes time; they have to sometimes adjust Gabriel to reach them. And still, he does not respond to any of this.
He does not move even when they finish. He simply sits there, like a puppet with its strings cut.
Now that the urgency of care is releasing its vice grip on their processors, V1 finds themselves at a loss. There are still wounds that they can't reach, for they have no physical manifestation to be bandaged and left alone to close. This is beyond their already limited ability to heal.
V1 doesn't know what to make of this. He's alive, still breathing, his body thrums with fuel. But it's like he's not there anymore; like something in him has closed off.
What are they now? Did their designation still fall under a companion, to stave off the inevitable loneliness of an empty world? Or had they proven him right from the get-go? That they were just another hungry machine that tore so viciously at the echelons of creative order it all collapsed into dust and left behind dire confusion. They cannot ask any of this, and the uncertainty eats at them like nothing else.
But more than anything, they are certain that they cannot not leave him alone like this. They suddenly fear for what he may do in their absence.
So, V1 stays. The embrace from earlier had the unintended side effect of refueling them to full capacity; they can stay in low-power mode for days if need be. It once kept them alive as humanity dwindled to almost nothing.
And it will keep them alive until Gabriel comes back to them.
They get off of his lap, and seat themselves at his side. The couch cushion dips slightly under their weight. He does not react, nor push them further away. He only stares at the blood-speckled carpet beneath his feet.
After a minute of complete stillness, they let themselves go idle, shifting into power-saving mode, but keep their audio and video feed active. His breathing, faint and slow, is barely audible over the rain. Beyond his unmoving mass, they watch the sky gradually begin to darken, giving way to the neons dancing endlessly through the curtain of rain just outside.
And they wait.
The return of the sun is what pulls Gabriel from his grief-induced stupor. It's brilliant light cuts through the clouds, bathing the world in a light that will not fade for millions upon billions of years. It almost seems impossible that this was still happening. A miracle forgotten by divinity.
The next thing he becomes aware of V1 shifting beside him, sliding off the couch and rising to their feet. They walk to the glass panes, and crane their neck to look over the metal bars framing the puddle-damp patio. Out onto the morning-dappled streets below.
Right. They had fought near the budding gardens, the one place Gabriel had to lead them away from whenever they asked for a spar. One had been gravely damaged in the chaos; there was likely more wreckage.
Somehow, it's this thought that spurs Gabriel to move.
He feels like he's watching his own body get up from its slumped position, his almost-healed wounds aching with a sudden, sharp flare. But he barely flinches. They just serve as a stark reminder of what happened yesterday, what he did. What he learned.
These are nothing compared to the awful reality that awaits him.
He feels V1's gaze snap to him as he approaches the far end of the wide window, fumbling with the lock and tugging it open. The scent of fresh petrichor hits his nose, the cool air soothing over his skin in a barely-there breeze.
All through the night the rain had poured, drenching the Earth in its deluge. That much he remembers about the night prior. Now, the early morning glow stains the washed out concrete and steel with pinks and orange, reflecting in the scattering clouds above.
The sight soothes his battered soul, just a bit.
Once outside, Gabriel stretches out his stiffened wings and floats over the railing, gliding down to the street level. Everywhere he looks, he sees evidence of their battle. Shattered building walls, scattered chunks of concrete, newly made craters in the plexiglass. Cars are overturned and smoking faintly, even now.
Not twenty meters away is the start of the shallow gardens, created not two months ago now. The indent his body had made when V1 had thrown him into the exposed earth is merely a faint imprint thanks to the rain. Splendor and Justice still sit where he lost his grip on them, their brilliant colors dappled with dried mud.
It's not completely ruined, but the damage is significant. Several of the plants have been crushed, right along with the newly sprouted chrysanthemums. Two pots that had been at the jagged edges of plastic were toppled over, soil and root spilling from the tops. But with work, it could be repaired.
The other gardens look virtually undisturbed, to his numb relief.
Then the clatter of metal against plastic comes, inevitably so, light and careful. Gabriel stiffens with a surge of panic, but forces himself to breath in slowly. He turns at last to face the machine.
V1 fixes him with a look that, for the life of him, he thinks he's forgotten how to read. For a long moment, and all he can remember is the clear anger in their posture, their savagery as they fought him when he lost control.
Their touch as his world came crashing down once more.
"V1, I--" He isn't sure what to say, after everything, but he forces the words to come anyway. "I'm sorry for--for what happened yesterday."
They don't move, they don't react. They just gaze emptily at him. The space between them feels like it's growing with every word he chokes out.
"I have no excuse for my actions." Shame hangs heavy in his chest like a lead weight, and burns like a searing hot coal. "Nor what I said to you."
None of this was their fault; he had treated them like it was.
"But I am sorry." He repeats, voice wavering. "I just want you to know that."
The silence stretches on, and on. A terror he never knew he could feel begins to grip his heart, despair looms over him once more-
And then, at last, V1 nods. Gabriel releases a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. It's not forgiveness, but acceptance of his apology is more than he could've ever hoped for.
Feeling only marginally better, Gabriel straightens. It's taken half a night of effort, and this small assurance, but slowly, surely, the stormy emotions that had utterly ruined their fragile friendship get pushed into the back of his mind.
"V1, would you... allow me some time to think?" He asks, tone carefully neutral. "You may come to me whenever you require fuel, but I-"
They nod again. Gabriel lets all the other words he wants to say fade into nothing, and nods back. With that, he turns and heads back towards where he last left his tools sitting, scattered from the chaos but thankfully unbroken.
He picks up his shovel first, and then moves for the rebar piece he'd been employing to break open the roads. In the corner of his eye, V1 moves at last, stepping forward to the edge of the half-devastated garden. This is where they stop, staring down.
His gaze follows their own, and what he sees makes him feel sick.
The little projection cube they had used to show him the truth behind Hell's grim demise lies in many pieces upon the acrylic road.
This new source of guilt suddenly weighs heavier than his many crimes against Mankind and his fellow angels. A thousand pleas for forgiveness rush to escape his throat, and all get stuck there at once.
But before any can slip free of the chokehold his voice has on them, V1 glances away from the shattered shards of what may have been their only attempt at honest communication. And without looking back at him, the machine departs, heading back into the ruins in a hastily blur. He blinks, and then they're gone.
The anguish nearly escapes its prison again, and it's only through his own determination to see this task through that keeps him from buckling under the weight of it. He locks it up tight, grounds himself with the prospect of the work ahead of him; work to busy his hands and silence his thoughts.
Just him, the earth, and the flora. It's silent company stayed with him through his days as the Judge of Hell, and it will stay with him now.
Gabriel wraps his fingers around the handle of the shovel, grips it tight, and continues where he left off.
