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 7: A Way For Sleeping
Angels are supposed to know everything about humans, but their technology has always eluded the understandings of God's people. That it had eluded even God Himself was somehow the least surprising part of all this.
Shards of black plastic lay scattered about a stretch of scratched, cloudy acrylic at his feet. Pinched in between Gabriel's fingers is a single glass marble. It could be mistaken for a child's toy if not for the tiny bubbles in its center, forming lines in a square pattern. Had this been responsible for forming the pictures through light? Did all the holograms that swath this city in their relentless glow possess ones just like it?
What an incredible feat, to make such wonders not through divine power, but through endless curiosity and sheer ingenuity.
With a sigh, he sets the component into the outstretched palm of his other hand, beside a thin strip of black plastic. Gabriel reaches for the next piece, bringing it to the growing pile he holds.
Once he's sure he's gathered them all, the archangel rises to his feet on trembling legs. A heaviness presses down on him, as if the very gravity of this fleeting world held some particular form of dislike for him. But Gabriel steadfastly ignores it as he turns to make for his sanctuary across the road.
Above him, the sun shines clear and bright, and the breeze that caresses him fresh and cool. It's like the very universe is mocking him, that this beautiful day should somehow still exist. In spite of all that tried to destroy it; in spite of all that had happened to bring him to bear witness to its glowing tranquility.
Because Gabriel is, somehow, still alive.
'"But why did the madness come?"
"The gods wished to punish him," Chiron answered.
Achilles shook his head, impatiently. "But this was a greater punishment for her. It was not fair of them."
"There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles," Chiron said. "And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?"'
In the corner of their HUD, V1 notices that their fuel gauge has finally ticked below the halfway point. It won't be long before the call for blood will override their other programming loops.
With this in mind, the warmachine creases the corner of the page they've reached, highlights the relevant passage, and rises from their cluttered work desk. Ducking out of the room, V1 hops over the second floor landing with deft ease, and strides to the exit with brisk steps.
Most of the past three days have been spent idling in their townhouse. They've leapt through pages upon pages of human literature in an attempt to both conserve energy, and try not to think too much about the last time they saw Gabriel. The data relevant to that time period now sits in an unlabeled folder, and has been steadfastly ignored since.
But now, inevitably so, they are forced out towards the eastern parts of this empty city for fuel. Back to where they had last seen Gabriel.
It takes far less time than they're really prepared for. V1 automatically follows the current fastest route to their fuel source without thinking much of it, occupied with several more simulations playing out across their HUD. Many of them include minimal risk situations, like another attack, or even the dreaded possibility of Gabriel being absent altogether. They haven't even finished calculating the odds of that when they find themselves pulling out of their slide onto the half-wrecked street.
V1 spots Gabriel's armorless form a fair distance from where they usually find him, on the acrylic road instead of the cool shade beneath the parking garage. But instead of tending to the plants, he's carving out the plastic with that piece of rebar he found. He's begun to remove the acrylic in its entirety. Massive chunks lay scattered on the sidewalk, and they watch as he takes pause to throw more to the wayside. It hits the concrete building with a series of hollow clatters that echo emptily across the block.
They linger by the wrecked garden despite themselves. Bloody bandages lie forgotten not far from where they last left him, three days ago now, and his collection of pots all sit empty at its edges. The faint outline where they'd thrown him into the earth is still there, along with all the uprooted plants. They're drying quickly, stems stiff and leaves dulling in color. Everything that had not been crushed when their fight had come to an abrupt end is still vibrantly green.
(The remains of the projector cube are nowhere to be seen.)
Some part of them is relieved the permanent damage from their last clash was minimal, but it still serves as an uncomfortable reminder of the last time they stood here. Perhaps Gabriel thought the same.
V1 turns away, and at last begins to close the remaining distance between them. Their upscaled visuals can make out how the sun gleams off the sweat built up across his back as he works. And it alerts them to the lines of his shoulders tensing, to the momentary pause in his movements as they draw closer, sliding swiftly across the newly exposed dirt.
His head tilts in acknowledgement, before his muscles roll and he stabs the rebar into the nearest piece of intact plastic. There he leaves it, at least turning to face them.
"V1." He greets, with a stiff, upward tilt of his chin, and a far-too neutral tone for what occurred three days prior. "Do you need fuel?"
They nod, and follow him back down the road. Splendor sits with its sibling by the fourth garden, near the start of his latest endeavor. As he draws it, they can see that the blade has since been cleaned. No signs of blood nor dried dirt sully its eternally sharp edges.
Gabriel slices the skin of his palm with barely a flinch, but there's a quiver to his touch as it presses onto their chassis.
As they feed from his self-inflicted wound, an uneasy silence falls across them both. V1 is, quite illogically, aware of how loud the hum of their fans really are. Had refueling always taken this long? It shouldn't, especially for how steadily Gabriel's blood flows, like a never ending river. He's yet to run out, and yet to deny them their fill.
Even after they cut him to his core, he still allows them to take as much as they want.
The warmachine takes a cautious step back when they're full. They look up from where blood dries upon their chassis at their companion, half-expecting, half-hoping he'll say something. But Gabriel is already turning away without another word. His steps are measured and deliberate, like a soldier marching back to his designated post.
V1 buffers against their better judgement. They had, logically, determined this to be the overall outcome of the reunion that inevitably followed their fight. It's only been three days since they shared the bitter truth with him, after all.
But some desperate, louder part of them had hoped he would do... something else. Talk to them, be frustrated with them, anything other than this wounded silence that forges more and more distance between them with every passing second.
He had asked for time; how much time? When would he light up again whenever they approached with a discovery in hand or with the intent to spar? When would they get to feel his body writhe beneath their own again?
They don't know; they can't ask. And frankly, they're starting to think they're pushing the limit of his tolerance for them right now, given the way his spine is still ramrod straight. With little else to do now that they've had their fill of blood, V1 starts for the edges of the broken road, climbing onto the sidewalk and readying their Whiplash-
"V1?"
They whirl around in a hurry, wings twitching upwards. Gabriel's facing them, shoulders straight, and something flares like a bright, living thing in their central processor.
"Your... satchel is under the awning by the first trough. It's going to rain again tonight."
And with that, he turns away again, yanking the rebar out from the road and spreading long cracks across the polymer surface with the next strike.
Whatever that feeling just was, it dies like a spark being smothered. Right. They'd forgotten about it. They'll need that thing if they're going to continue exploring the ruins.
It's right where he said it would be, hanging off one of the broken metal bars of the half-collapsed canopy. They hadn't brought much with them on their last visit, but the contents are thankfully undamaged and dry.
V1 hooks it back over their shoulder, and spares one final look at Gabriel. The archangel's back faces them still as he chips away at the thick acrylic. His movements are stiff, almost mechanical. A far cry from the fluidity he exhibits during battle. Almost like a machine, even.
(...would it always be like this, now, until the end of their days?)
V1 pivots on their heels, and departs into the ruins with a bounding leap, the heavy, terrible emptiness that had taken the place of hope growing with every block they put behind them.
Their absence hurts when he stops long enough to notice it.
The days V1 would drop by to show him something, challenge him to a duel, or simply even watch him work, are a thing of the past now. The warmachine only ever appears when they need fuel. They take what they need, and then depart back into the ruins. Nothing more, nothing less.
He hadn't even realized just how much their presence had filled the empty spaces of his existence.
But he doesn't let himself think about that. Instead, Gabriel continues to break open the road, moving down the lane of plexiglass in a methodical, efficient pattern. Shattering a few meter's worth of surface to ground at a time, and then moving the chunks away to expose the earth below. The repeated exertion of his muscles, and the echoing racket of his path of destruction, drive away all thought, and keep his mind blissfully quiet.
But, inevitably so, sometime after the harsh rays of the sun and the cold glow of neon begin to blur, Gabriel is forced to slow.
A mass of dead humans obstruct the way further down the street, about four blocks from where he started. It's a scene of carnage he's come across many times. Most of them are grouped together, rotted bags of food and dried viscera scattered across the pile.
Humans who had simply been going about their lives, with no idea what had occurred beyond their mortal world, above and below.
(Why had the love of mortals mattered more to Him than that of His immortal children?)
He's been reluctant to disturb the carcasses he's found, organic or otherwise. Digging graves would amount to nothing but a waste of time; their souls had either reached the gates of Paradise, or were obliterated during the purge of the Inferno. But to move them from where they had fallen feels almost disrespectful.
As he surveys the pile of corpses, he spots a number of machine carcasses among them. Ones that don't appear to have weapons of any form, nor are in any way similar to those he'd spotted in Hell. These lie broken or riddled with bullet holes, not very different from their fleshy counterparts. They don't look like any of humanity's weapons.
Had they been peaceful? Considered companions to Mankind compared to those with armaments? Had they been just as defenseless when those built for war turned on their creators?
One set of corpses catches his listless attention in particular: a machine and a human, intertwined post-mortem. Gabriel thinks, at first, that perhaps the machine had tried to survive by feeding off the dying mortal, but the streak of dried blood along the road, leading from a small puddle to the pair, tells an entirely different story.
The human had crawled to this particular robot, and held it even as they both lay dying. Why? Had they wanted to try and save this particular machine? Or had they both been ordained to perish in that moment, and chose instead to hold on to one another in the face of inevitable death?
... had they been lovers?
(Would it have worked, this next attempt at a lifeform without free will? V1 is proof enough that machines could rebel against their very code if they chose to.)
In the end, Gabriel turns away from the scene of carnage, and walks back down the length of the block to the last intersection, directing his attention eastward. He starts at its left side, burying the sharp tool into the road. Cracks spread like spiderwebs, marring the smooth, dusty surface. Steady hands yank it out, and then burrow it into the thick polymer again not half-a-meter over. Gabriel falls into this familiar rhythm. carving out the next stretch of road.
But the image of machine and man, holding another even in death, won't leave him. They would never have been reunited in the next life, damnation or salvation. Many human souls, families and lovers alike, had been separated in death; an unfortunately common occurrence when humanity still thrived.
Machines, on the other hand, had no such option. Their consciousness, as far as Gabriel knew, belonged entirely to their inner workings. It would have ceased to exist entirely.
(Angel, Mankind, Machine. Light and blood, earth and blood, steel and blood. Almost like a mockery of one other, and yet they all still held the means of choice. Is it in the blood itself?)
He stabs the metal point of his improvised tool down into the road harder, spreading the cracks far down the road. Again, and again. But his thoughts start to become louder than the sounds.
Thoughts about The Father, The Council, the many angels he himself had cast out of paradise because of a lie. He had to have known what became of Heaven in His absence; He had poured as much of His heart into its creation as much as He had for His fleeting, mortal project at the very center of the universe. Was it further damning proof that not even His angels were perfect with all their power and virtue and love for Him? Or was He simply still too ashamed of His mistakes to return?
(Had He even cared about them? At all?)
V1 may have these answers, but now, Gabriel will never know.
And he knows deep down that, someday, he'll have to come to be content with that, with the horrid truth he's longed to know since He vanished. But another, louder part of him still wants to scream to the stars, dive back deep into the Earth where Hell once was, howl and rage until someone, something gives him an explanation. Why all of this happened, why He stood by decisions He knew were terrible ones, why Gabriel was the one to live to see the full-scope of those consequences-
The grating scrape of tearing metal pulls him abruptly out of his spiral, and he finds himself losing his balance without warning. Reflexes kick in and he jerks to the right instinctively. Lancing, physical pain shoots up his side as he just barely catches himself with his palms on the dusty plastic.
After a moment of reeling from the sudden change in gravity, he chances a glance downwards. Gabriel's improvised tool had snapped in half. He must have stabbed it into the acrylic too hard. The tip had gouged into his side, leaving a long, deep scratch that weeps with blood.
If he hadn't moved, it likely would have speared right through his heart.
He doesn't exactly recall what had become of his armor after their fight; just that it hadn't been on him when he left that apartment V1 had somehow brought him to. For just a second, the archangel pictures himself skewered upon the rebar. It likely would have killed him, and quickly. A blinding flash of pain, then nothing.
Blissful, silent, nothing.
And then the mental image of V1 finding him here, dead from some freak accident, hits him in full force.
Gabriel quickly pushes away any and all such thoughts, and pushes himself back up on his feet. His gaze departs from where his near-death experience had taken place, and travels back down the length of earth and hard packed soil he's freed from the confines of sturdy acrylic. Four blocks worth, now. He hadn't even realized how far down the street he'd gotten.
Before anything could be planted, it would need to be tilled. He might as well get started on that.
Busy hands quieted racing thoughts.
"Had that been your intent all along!? To destroy everything I ever loved, and then keep me alive as your own personal bloodbag!?"
Gabriel's words still rattle in their head like a loose internal component, as clear and rage-fueled as they had been when he first screamed them.
The former accusation had been entirely accidental, but the latter... yes. That had been the idea. There was no other option, not if they wanted to continue to survive after Hell had been drained of blood and starved of souls.
V1 has been working through their backlog of that day, either during their usual explorations, or while in sleep mode, after the daylight has faded. They've successfully uploaded the video memory to long-term, at least, but they've yet to play back the entire debacle. Mostly, they just highlight parts of it for review, for analysis.
But they keep coming back to that heated question, one that, in retrospect, might have just been entirely rhetorical. Asked out of blinding anger rather than a genuine inquiry.
That is, if it had not been damningly correct.
Of course that had been their intentions, at first. Nothing more, nothing less. But that had also been before they had come to know Gabriel better. Before an entirely transactional relationship had begun to develop into something more. Before the feeling of care had wormed its way into their processors, and thrown every bit of logic they had been ruled by all their life out the window in a violent defenestration.
It had led them to a gravely miscalculated act, to an error that had deeply hurt their... friend. And in spite of this, the feeling stubbornly persists, refusing to be suppressed or deleted.
Even now, as they turn some strange, New Peace-era art sculpture over in their hands, it hums in the background. It prompts an idle thought to cross their mind that, maybe, this might be something Gabriel liked to look at.
And then they remember.
V1 is brought back to the present moment with a slight jolt, standing in a high-rise penthouse that's only partly wrecked. Dead drones litter the carpet, along with the remains of one of the many glass doors leading out to the patio. Otherwise, most of the rooms are simply dusty, aside from the former occupants meeting their grisly end in the hallway bathroom.
In the end, it's the office that holds what they're searching for. Two books lie scattered upon the wide desk below the windows. V1 crosses the room in a hurry to obtain them, sweeping them off the surface and into their satchel. More human words; more insight into these turbulent, unpredictable emotions they saw fit to give them.
It had, somehow, granted them the foresight to find a way to survive an inevitable demise, and yet cursed them with its inescapable adherents.
"Take it; it's all you care about anyway!"
Of course he wouldn't think they cared about him. V1 had hardly ever given him a reason to. Rarely did they ever visit him without the desire for his blood; their fuel. This one remaining string that binds them even after the rest have been cut.
V1 does one last sweep, but nothing catches their attention, really. Their focus keeps straying to that day, rapid-fire processing what they have ignored for three weeks now.
"I was... meant to die after twenty-four hours."
So were they. V1 had gone into Hell knowing full well that they were not going to come back out. Even after finding an escape route, they almost didn't make it. Gabriel saved their life three times over; at the end of Treachery, when they tried to cross through Lust, and then when Hell finally threatened to collapse on top of them. Even after everything they did, he still chose to save them when it really mattered.
Their legs take them back towards the balcony, but they hardly even notice when the sunlight washes over them.
"Why couldn't you have just killed me, Machine?!"
Because they had wanted to live. Is it really that selfish to want to live?
Dying for some twisted need for penance wouldn't have fixed anything. It wouldn't have brought back the souls of the damned, it wouldn't have stopped Hell from being destroyed, and it certainly would not have made The Father any less determined to wipe all of existence clean.
It just would have made him dead.
(Is this sense of guilt he bears really that much stronger than the desire to survive?)
Something hits their hip, a warning flashes across their HUD regarding an unexpected loss of balance, and the world suddenly comes back into view like static clearing from their visuals.
V1 flails before catching themselves on thin metal and artfully cracked glass. As their pneumatics quickly recalibrate, they realize they had walked right into the patio furniture sitting on the corner of the high-rise balcony.
The warmachine pushes themselves upright with a sharp, irritated whirr. They hadn't meant to experience such a lapse in attention like that. A quick diagnostics check reveals no damage done, but their hip smarts. Heat flares in V1's chassis, smoldering and uncomfortable. It prompts them to shove those thoughts away.
There isn't any point in further rumination on this. Not when they've yet to come any closer to an explanation, let alone a solution. V1 could run simulations for weeks, burning needless amounts of Gabriel's endless bloodfuel, and they would still come up completely empty-handed. More knowledge is required, more information to cross-reference.
It's their only hope of fixing this.
But as they turn to depart from the rooftop, their eye catches sight of something in the corner, by several large pots stained with blackened soot. It's another dead human, a corpse drained of blood long before the streetcleaners made their way up here.
Lying just beside the corpse is a small dufflebag, near full to bursting. They deliberate for a beat longer than they usually would, before they pivot in its direction. Better to check it now than to let their sense of curiosity drive them back here later for it.
V1 drops their bag onto the smooth concrete as they crouch before it. Their hand brushes away the sand coating it's surface, revealing sunbleached blue beneath the sandy brown grains. The zipper is on the far side, and one quick tug is all it takes to split open with ease as they guide it over the top.
The machine reels back with a start as they register the contents. Several packets, just a few millimeters smaller than the first one they had found, sit atop a mess of gardening tools. They snatch one up in a hurry and hear that familiar rattle. Dianthus caryophyllus, Carnations, pink ones. Shoved off to the side, round bulbs sit in colorful nets, each one emblazoned with a different flower on a faded placard.
This is a find like nothing they've uncovered in the past few months. Somehow, the pyromaniacal machines that had burned the world to the ground had completely missed these. They might yet still grow; those first few seeds had grown, after all. Gabriel could-
And here they come again; those idle, reflexive thoughts that flit through their head in quick succession. It begins with "Gabriel could really use these" and "I should bring them to him". Immediately after, comes "Gabriel doesn't want anything more to do with me" followed by "Not even something like this would fix this mess".
But instead of stopping there, something else works its way to their forethoughts; something bitter and cold and-
"Why am I even bothering?"
Under their augmented strength, the seed packet bursts in their hand just as easily as a fleshy organ. Tiny black dots scatter across the sun-bleached patio in a spray of horticultural treasures. Their fist shakes as it tries to crumple the thin plastic into nothing.
Fire bursts from deep within their chassis, rising higher and higher as something in their central processor winds tighter and tighter. V1 knows anger; they have experienced its derivative definitions of annoyance and frustration and indignation. But this is different. It's all of those burning emotions wrapped up in one, set off by a single, innocuous spark. And it only burns brighter as something they've been steadfastly ignoring demands to at last be heard.
Fury.
(Is this how Gabriel felt, when they first ripped him from atop his gilded pedestal?)
V1 doesn't remember pulling out their revolver, only that it was in their hand when they took aim at the bag and began pulling the trigger, over and over. The sound is dissatisfyingly quiet through the perpetual silence of Mankind's ruins. They charge a Piercer shot, and it tears through fabric already riddled with bullet holes. The polyester at last catches fire, almost blindingly bright in the stark sunlight.
Even as the bag begins to burn to cinders, rage still runs rampant through their systems, freezing any and all programs responsible for logic mid-buffer. V1 whirls around and directs their ire this time to the panes of glass leading into the forgotten penthouse, breaking each one with a single shot. The sound of it shattering blessedly fills the air.
It's not enough to quench their anger, either.
Tack is blasted into the apartment. The nails begin shredding the furniture, tearing apart the opposite windows, and mutilating the drone corpses directly in the line of fire. The noise drowns out any and every errant thought. V1 squeezes the trigger with trembling fingers until the nozzle begins to overheat. Then, white-hot iron sets the carpet aflame in thin streaks before the nailgun ammo is completely depleted.
Not enough.
The railcannon beam hits the opposite high-rise, sending glittering shards spraying in all directions as bright red erupts from the impact point. Echoes of the explosion bounce across the artificial canyons and into their audials, looping in their head like Gabriel's enraged screams.
Not enough.
V1 hits the sidewalk with a deafening slam, sending bits of debris and garbage flying. Concrete shatters beneath the force of their slam, and the front of a shop collapses when they fire a cannonball at it immediately after. Sawblades fly through the air, obliterating stoplight polls and holographic signs, cutting through the steel like a hot knife through flesh.
Chaos fills every one of their senses as they rampage across the streets; a symphony of devastation and demolition, utilizing every weapon they have. Windows burst into fragments of glass beneath wild sharpshooter shots that ricochet between the buildings, tack burrows into the bloodless corpses that litter the streets, and shotgun shrapnel shreds awnings, obliterates benches, topples entire power lines that stretch between the blocks.
Still not enough.
A pleasant chime cuts through the cacophony: their railcannon. V1 fires it from their hip in whatever direction they're facing in.
The resulting explosion, closer than they anticipate, is almost enough to knock them off their feet. V1's head swivels around in a hurry to see a car flying in a mushroom cloud of smoke and burning fire. The shell of the vehicle spins wildly in the air before gravity wins its fight.
It slams into another, triggering another eruption of flame as the next hover car, parked not a single meter away from the first, is sent sky high. Another follows when it crashes down, and then another, in a stunning display of demolition. V1 watches, standing in the middle of the wrecked street, as the cascading chain reaction of destruction continues on until it runs out of cars to blow up.
A perverse sense of satisfaction briefly dispels their fury, but it's only momentary. The echoes finally, inevitably fade, and they are left standing in the descending, damning silence, once more.
Not enough. Not enough. They want--they need-
The splash of viscera upon their plating. The sight of their claws slicing open flesh. The splatter of gore painting the world in the wake of its spray. The headiness of its warmth feeding their systems, fueling them...
As if in cue, a bright red window flashes across their HUD. It's one they haven't seen in three-and-a-half months now, and its very presence sends a shock racing through them.
"LOW FUEL WARNING"
The gauge is at a mere quarter full. V1 hadn't realized how quickly they had burned through their supply. They haven't been this low in ages.
Blood...
The call rises from deep within their programming, worming its way to their forethought. It drives away the endless anger, rapidly shutting down every other thought. Like a compass finding true north, they turn in the precise direction of where they can get it, where they can do what they were built to do in the first place.
Blood.
V1 bounds forward in a powerful leap as they hone in on the only remaining source of fuel in the world. The warmachine throws the Whiplash to carry them three blocks over in five seconds, they bounce between six buildings in eleven seconds, slide down four streets until they recognize their surroundings. Instinct carries them onto their usual path as the word chants in their head like a siren song.
Blood! Blood! Blood!
Skin, muscle, sinew, bone, nothing to their strength. They have shredded humans in seconds, husks in even less time. Steel does not even stop them from getting what they want, what they need.
He would not even struggle; Gabriel would simply lay there and take it. Beg for more, even, until he was little more than fleshy scraps beneath their frenzied claws. He would bleed out onto the road, staining the dirt he so painstakingly uncovered. Their audials would fill with his pained cries, and undertones of relief would taint his death rattles, and-
And-
And it horrifies them.
V1 stumbles upon their next landing, on a street they only know from this single landing spot before their next grapple skyward. Another warning flashes, cutting through their imagination: balance gyros sliding out of alignment. All of V1's arms flail, the world takes a sharp tilt to the right, and they fall onto the dirty road in a clatter of metal and plastic.
No damage is done from the minor impact; it doesn't drain any more fuel. They have to get up, they have to go get fuel. But V1 can only push themselves up onto their knees and reel from the stormy emotions suddenly wracking their processors.
The mental image of Gabriel, lying dead on the ground from countless wounds, refuses to be dismissed. Logic belatedly kicks in, running a scenario in nanoseconds and giving them a grim, inevitable outcome. V1 would be dead too in a matter of days. They would be alone, the last living thing on this forgotten world until the last drop of the archangel's blood was consumed by their ever-hungry systems.
The simulation program suddenly freezes, crashes, leaves them staring down at their hands braced upon the scratched acrylic with nothing to show.
The very hands that they had used to make him sing, make him bleed, make him cry. And they were going to do it again, out of a misplaced surge of fury that, in hindsight, had been entirely directed at themselves. And the quelling of that anger just leaves them distinctly upset.
When had Gabriel become as much a part of their life as the very hunger that made them who they are? When had they started hanging on to his every word like a precious finding in these ruins? When did they start to care about him enough that his very absence is having a detrimental effect on their own wellbeing?
When had it grown strong enough to override even their deep-seated bloodlust?
And sure, they could just keep kneeling here, scrolling through their many memories of him to find that particular answer. Everything from their clashes in Hell to the beginnings of their shaky truce; the idle days of budding companionship to these long weeks of uncertainty. But it wouldn't change how they feel now, with an emptiness that has been growing, gnawing at them with each passing second they spent in limbo, one that they finally have a name for.
V1... misses him.
They miss sparring with him; they miss watching him work. They miss his charming attempts at deciphering their gestures and his breathy, trembling gasps when they teased at his clit. They miss seeing his golden tattoos flash in the afternoon sun. They miss the undertones of fondness in his voice when they would show him something; they miss his laugh when he evaded one of their attacks and would swoop in close for a counter.
V1 had wanted to ease Gabriel's grief, not make it worse. But their error has come at the cost of all these things.
Regret is a palpable new feeling amidst the rest of these turbulent emotions, all spawning from this insistent desire to care. V1 has never regretted anything they've ever done before. Not the familiar faces they killed to escape a burning lab, nor the souls they destroyed twice over for fuel. And certainly not their battle with the divine being Gabriel calls Father. They had to bring him down to ensure their own survival; he left them little choice.
Now, having seen how deep the reality of their shared existence has hurt him, how it's festered without their knowing since even before they both emerged from their destined grave, they wish they hadn't shown him anything.
They want their friend back; they want to fix this.
They just don't know how.
Another warning about their fuel levels scrolls across their HUD. It's only been five minutes since this blasted emotion of care had stopped them in their tracks. With a heavy whirr of their fans, the warmachine staggers to their feet. They still need fuel, and they need it soon.
V1 spares one last glance towards their makeshift arena of destruction before they depart. Smoke spirals over the towering structures; they recall setting three buildings on fire and flattening several street-level shops. There is a high possibility they've demolished everything of value in a two-block radius, from potential material discoveries to new information Mankind left in the wake of their demise.
They've most certainly destroyed the treasure trove of seeds they found. V1 had dropped their satchel up there, too, come to think of it. Just another regret, maybe the first of many that await them in this newfound life. It's an awful feeling, how it lingers in their chassis even after being processed. Perhaps they can soothe it by checking to see if anything was left.
Fuel first, then they'll come back. Maybe then they can at least try to start making amends.
For Gabriel's sake, as well as their own.
The sun and the moon continue their endless march across the sky, blue crosses his vision in random intervals, his hands sting and itch with healing cuts, and Gabriel keeps working.
He fetches more salvia, marigolds, and daylilies, adds swatches of lavender and rosemary to the tiny field. It all takes to the soil, and begins to thrive beneath his care. Greenery now sprawls down the street, lush and vibrant and alive.
Gabriel follows each and every step of transplanting with barely a thought. It had been what he was made for, originally. A simple duty to follow, before the first garden, before the bloody war, before-
But he doesn't let himself think about that; there's no point in it. Not when he just has this to look forward to now. He just keeps his body moving, keeps his hands busy, keeps his thoughts occupied with what to do next.
Time becomes a blur. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. There are always periods where the endless stretch of eternity slips away from him. But they are mere minutes when compared to finite years of mortals. Flowing by like a calm river, with only snapshots of memory to mark its passage.
(It had never felt this lonely before.)
Gabriel blinks, and V1 is standing before him expectantly. He swears he's just put his swords down and turned to get his watering can when they're back for their next refuel. He heads back to the garage, and his hands shake so badly he can't get a tiny fragment of plastic attached to its greater whole. Gabriel gives up, and storms back outside.
His face turns to the sunny skies, shuts his eyes and breathes for a moment when sour memories begin to scratch eagerly at the edges of his awareness. He opens them and finds rain pouring down his helm, soaked to the bone with his tiller in hand instead of his shovel.
The storm passes on by the time the rest of the soil gets worked and enough groundcover seeds are scattered across its length. Gabriel warps away to go pick up the plants he has sitting at the ready, just by one of the temple courtyards in the First Sphere. He comes back and finds he's standing in about a week's worth of growth. In his hands he holds sedums when he had meant to pick up thyme.
Well, there's room for more. He sets the container down with the others, and departs yet again for Earth's only moon.
What had once been a sanctuary has become a discomforting reminder of the slated destruction of the Heavens. It is still cool and silent and peaceful; it still holds a wealth of flora. But Gabriel does not spend any more time than is strictly necessary. He keeps his eyes on the ground, pockmarked now with holes from unearthing countless plants over the course of these past... how many months has it been now since he was forced to settle into yet another new norm? Four? Five? Or has it been that many years already?
Well, that didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. So long as he bleeds, he will keep going.
A flash of his hands reaching into the compost jar, and finding it near-empty, races behind his eyes as he navigates his way to the opposite end of the temple grounds, stumbling over one of the flower pots he had apparently forgotten to pick up. He'll have to come back and get more before he can begin planting. There should be another full jar in the south shed, but at some point, he'll have to start gathering material to make a new batch.
The thyme sits on the marble wall skirting the courtyard. There's a tremble to his hands as he reaches to pick it up. He pulls in a shaky breath to steady his fraying nerves as the ghost of a hymn, praising The Father's mercy, worms its way into his inner ears. He remembers it clear as day, when souls would gather at the temple steps and sing as the sun shone above them once again.
"Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee." He mouths, dares not sing loud as his heart rattles against his ribcage painfully. Gabriel does not want to hear his hollow voice. "Holy, holy, holy. Merciful and mighty."
And then he warps away in a hurry, before the emptiness of His absence can swallow him whole.
The archangel opens his eyes to sunlight, to the eerie stillness of Earth's atmosphere, standing just at the edge of his gardens. Safe. Alone. He lets out the shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Gabriel turns to set the pot down, the world takes a drastic tilt to the left, and he knows no more.
The archangel is not in his usual spot when they arrive at the heart of the ruined business district.
It's not cause for alarm, not right away, at least. V1 knows he leaves the city often. Sometimes they arrive and he's simply not anywhere near his gardens. He surely must be... wherever it is that he's getting all this greenery, in some strange place the Streetcleaners somehow must have missed when they began torching the Earth.
Even so, they hop onto the concrete gap and peer into the shadowy garage, just for a quick glance. Lo and behold, he's not here, either. Just the usual swathe of green poking out from below the broken road.
V1 pushes down the surge of impatience that follows, and settles there on crossed legs. They can last at least a day on their current reserves if they go idle, longer if they switch to sleep mode. Thus far, they've never waited more than twenty minutes for Gabriel to reappear.
Inevitably, their attention strays to the garden. It's certainly come along from when Gabriel first began planting things in the hard packed dirt. Grass grows in a thick carpet that spreads from one end to another. The spread of verdant is dotted with many different plants, and the fern in the center is marginally larger than when they last poked their head in here.
It looks well-cared for, lively and healthy. Gabriel has clearly been attentive to the needs of the flora still, in spite of recent revelations. There's two more of those large containers sitting at the edges, recently filled to the brim with crystal clear water when they tilt their head. Those weren't there prior to their fight, they know that much.
... neither had that particular object, sitting scattered at the base of the rightmost trough.
V1 hops down through the concrete gap, walking around the perimeter to stand right above the array of Gabriel's personal belongings. Upon closer examination, the items consist of an ornate trowel, three books in a neat stack, a small, sealed jar, the second half-empty packet of seeds they found and brought him not four weeks ago...
And the remains of the projection cube, half-hidden by the subtle shadows of the garage.
But they distinctly remember it being in more pieces than this.
V1 crouches to examine it more closely, snapshotting the sight before comparing it to their last memory of it. There's no mistaking it: pieces have been reattached. The alignment of the pieces are sloppy, but placed together accurately, and with an unknown adhesive.
Has Gabriel been trying to repair it?
The warmachine had been able to tell, from a single glance, that it was impossible to fix. The circuit board within had snapped clean in half, and they possessed no such tools to attempt any sort of precision mending. Gabriel clearly did not know this.
But he is... trying, where they haven't been.
V1 turns their gaze away to rest on the small stack of books just beside it. The topmost cover is covered in a fine layer of dust. Their hand reaches out of its own accord, and brushes it away, revealing the title beneath.
Thoughts on the Rain Season. The poetry collection is significantly more beaten than they remember it being; well-read, and a little dog-eared. Certainly read through more than once.
Right. They share an interest in reading. Perhaps their taste in books are entirely different, but it is still something they have in common. Truthfully, V1 is surprised that he hasn't been reading them recently. Human literature serves as a good distraction when they can't get away from unpleasant thoughts. Maybe they could start by retrieving one of their books from their townhouse, leave it for him to find-
And then V1 realizes that a possible solution has been staring them in the face all this time.
Just to be sure, they pull up the memories of their first encounter with him, months ago now in the long-gone layer of Lust. Blinding rage that had been a desperate cover for despair, driving him to seek the death that had eluded him. How he had crumbled beneath the first gentle touch, how all his pain had fled from him when they offered him comfort, pleasure. A distraction.
They had been going about this the wrong way the entire time.
What if it didn't matter right now, the whys and hows of what Gabriel is going through? What if they spent years researching emotions, with all their seemingly endless nuances, and never come close to a concise answer?
But what if they forgo all that, and simply tried to help him with what he needs right now?
A deafening crack jolts them out of their thoughts. V1 whirls around, hand darting for the wing that they store their pistol in on instinct. Then they catch themselves and freeze in place. Gabriel's appeared at last, right by the start of that long stretch of earth he's carved out. His back faces them, shoulders tense. There's another small pot clutched in his hands.
V1 remains still and silent, watching him warily as he seems to slump with a heaving sigh. They're not sure if they're ready for anything resembling conversation, but would he even care if they had found out about his side project? Perhaps not, the way he's been so distant lately. But what if they swallowed their pride, and offered an olive branch in the form of literature the next time they came by for fuel?
All these ideas, ready to be plugged into their simulation program for a decisive course of action, are immediately disregarded when Gabriel turns, sways, and then crumples to the ground with a heavy thump.
The warmachine doesn't remember moving, just that in the next moment their hands are scrambling at his shoulders. He doesn't react at all when they roll him onto his back. Panic makes them buffer, and subsequently delays their first-aid program from loading out in a timely manner.
It first leads them to locate his vitals. His heart kicks against their palm when they find it, granting them a short-lived sensation of relief. It's racing in his chest, far above the resting pace of their first recordings of it. But there are no visible wounds, no immediate signs of internal bleeding aside from the elevated heart rate. He is not hurt. His temperature is well within nominal readings. He is not ill.
And that is the limit of their healing abilities. Everything else that a warmachine might have come across on a battlefield is simply listed as "refer inflicted to a medical expert.", which is impossible in their present situation.
They don't know what's wrong. They can't do anything for him.
V1's hands jostle him, harder with every moment longer he does not respond, and terror begins to coil around their processors in a vice grip. Why had he collapsed like that? Why won't he wake up? Why can't they do anything to help him?
"Mmhh... "
Their optic snaps to his helm when they pick up on his faint, barely-there moan. They wondering if they had imagined it when Gabriel shifts beneath their grip, helmet lolling to the side.
"My head... " He groans, the words sound like they're rattling out of his throat. They can't stop themselves from physically drooping with relief as a hand comes up to clutch at his covered forehead. "What--how did I-"
His visage comes to a rest on them, kneeling next to him still with their hands on his shoulders. A sudden bout of silence descends upon them both, palpable with tension. Then he moves, clearly struggling to push himself upright. They buffer as Gabriel brushes their hands away and somehow gets to his feet.
"Fuel." He says, as if that's the priority and not the fact that he had just unexpectedly passed out. "Right. Sorry to keep you waiting, V1."
V1 remains on the ground beside where he'd fallen, watching him stumble over to his sheathed swords. The whiplash of his sudden decline in physical health, followed by his nonchalant attitude about it, sends their processors for a loop. Gabriel has always shown a general lack of concern for his own well-being, but this is just-
Justice's blade slices the flesh of his palm open, and V1 is reminded, starkly, of why they'd come here in the first place.
Damn this need, making them scramble to get his shaking hand on their plating, making them disregard every other worried thought as their fuel gauge finally begins ticking upwards. V1 drinks from him greedily, their hunger for blood pulsating in their plastic veins as the life-giving substance flows into their body.
Logic, blessedly, returns quickly. When the call begins to fade into the background one more, V1 swiftly pulls up their folder of him, filled with images and video files and a few text documents of first-hand accounts. The relevant information loads out in moments, allowing them to scroll through it at a thought's pace.
Elevated heart rate from what has to be stress, a shaking limb that indicated a lack of strength, the many instances where it became clear that his own well-being had somehow fallen lower in the list of survival priorities. All of that leading up to blacking out while standing.
They had seen this before.
V1 recalls the sight of sclera rimmed with red, sockets bruised with shadow. Eyes glistening with unshed tears as deadlines grew closer and an unseen pressure weighed upon labcoat-clad shoulders. The ever-present miraculous black liquid they could neither taste nor smell, found in novelty mugs or brand-labeled compostable cups in every corner of the lab.
Human fuel that kept them awake. Kept them from sleeping. Until it didn't, when they found one of their makers asleep at her desk with many of those disposable ones in piles around her. Someone had to wake her and escort her home.
And they, themselves, have experienced it before, albeit differently. Sure, they could go days without needing to switch to sleep-mode. V1 had counted on their optimizations to help them survive when Earth became barren of fresh fuel, and the utter chaos of Hell that followed.
But even they had their limits: visuals would lag, information would be stored improperly or outright corrupted, fuel burned faster to keep their overworked processors from crashing. It got worse until they only narrowly avoided a crash during a skirmish. After that, every dark, quiet corner they could find became a place to wait for prey, or a rare moment of rest and respite.
... has he stopped working since their fight? At all? They pull up images not from ten minutes ago, just snapshots of Gabriel's small claim to this vast city. Highlights flash across the stretch of churned soil, the dirtied tools, the countless pots that are either completely empty or full of flora. A great deal of plants had been settled in the newly exposed dirt, far more in just three weeks than these past three months.
No, no he had not.
Something else strikes them then; the small sanctuary they had hastily departed from not a few minutes prior. Gabriel's books are kept there, along with his new repair project, and all the other things they had ever seen on him. They had always been there, as far back as they can remember discovering his horticulture affinity.
He had left all that out in the open, exposed to the minor elements and their own curiosity. He had nowhere else to put it as far as they could tell. No claim of his own for privacy and rest when the sun went down. Did the period of sleep deprivation go back farther, to when they both first emerged from Hell?
Gabriel's hand still trembles when they at last release it; it had been trembling since before they had grabbed it. If the archangel has anything else to say about them finding him unconscious in the middle of the street, he does not voice it aloud. Instead, he heads back over to the plant he had dropped, lying on its side right where he'd collapsed.
V1 watches as he wordlessly picks up the pot, humming with disapproval as a chipped piece falls away from the rim. His quivering fingers tend to the bent leaves with a degree of care he lacks entirely for himself. Yet another instance of complete inattention to his own welfare; one among many others they had taken note of, but never thought much about before.
... is he punishing himself?
They don't have an answer to this; they likely never will. But this ailment afflicts him now, and is likely a heavy contributor to his worsening state. But now, they have an idea of what to do about it.
V1 departs a moment later, clearing the street with a single bound before banking sharply to the left. But that is where their journey stops, well out of his sight. They hone in on one of the many patios, decorating the lengthy north wall of the apartment complex. A quick toss of their Whiplash brings them right back up over the iron fencing and onto the dry concrete of the small terrace.
His armor still lies discarded right where they remember it being. He never came back for this, either. But that's not what's on their mind right now. Instead, their feet carry them to one of the closets, and the spare set of relatively clean bedsheets within.
A flash of blue heralds their return, after he gets the thyme transplanted, but before he finally settles the sedums he'd mistakenly picked up into the soil.
Gabriel waits until he hears the clatter of steel landing upon unbroken plastic, and then, with a low grunt, stabs the shovel he's utilizing firmly into the ground. He pivots on his heels, and his feet start to carry him over to where his swords rest.
Only for V1 to suddenly pop into his vision, and stand over his blades with a hand held out in the universal motion for 'halt'. Gabriel comes to a stop more out of distant surprise than anything else.
They aren't here for fuel? That hadn't happened in some time now. It's been at least a day since their last visit.
"Yes, V1?" He ventures, after a moment of cautious pause.
The warmachine looks at him for another beat of silence, gaze unwaveringly still. And then they turn with an easy gesture, beckoning him to follow. That's all the explanation he's given before they're striding back down the street.
Gabriel wars with himself, wondering whether to comply. V1 did not indicate that they wanted a spar; usually they withdraw a weapon straightaway. But for what other reason would they desire his immediate attention? Especially given the period of cold distance following their last clash.
But inevitably, like a gravitational pull he long lost the strength to resist, Gabriel trails after them.
They don't go far before turning west, just at the end of the block. Gabriel's already-hazy memory of the night following V1's confession feeds him a snapshot, one of this very corner, drenched in the rain. He almost stops walking, suddenly anxious to return to the quietude of his work. His ability to recall that day stops here.
Yet his traitorous body still carries him onward, brings him to the next stretch of unbroken acrylic road. V1 is standing below one of the many balconies that line the northern face of the building. They look over at him, and then point to one of its balconies emphatically. That little speared winch of theirs flies from its arm, latches onto the patio fencing, and pulls them up in a hurry.
Perhaps they require his assistance with something. He isn't sure. But he will take any opportunity to fall back into even marginally better favor with them.
They're already well inside the abandoned dwelling when he finally floats up to the sunny doorway into this recently disturbed apartment. Pieces of his armor are here, scattered at the foot of a bloodstained couch near the patio doors. He had forgotten he'd left them there; he hadn't foreseen any point where he'd ever need to don them again.
Not when he'd been so sure their days of a friendly spar were over for good.
V1 lingers by an opened entryway further inside this abandoned home. They beckon him once more to follow before ducking inside. Gabriel's legs move of their own accord, struggling to remember anything beyond the veil of despair that had pulled him inward, into a storm of his own making.
(Maybe it's best he doesn't remember.)
It's just a bedroom, but Gabriel is almost shocked by how clean it is. The carpet still sports a layer of dust, but the ambient light, pouring in from the second set of patio doors partially cloaked by thick curtains, highlights a startlingly pristine set of linens and pillows upon the massive bed. This is where V1 comes to a halt, looking back at him expectantly from their vantage point at its foot.
The mental image of the old mattress in the corner of their townhouse, and the thin bed frame that supports it, flashes to his forethoughts. This one looks to be considerably sturdier, not to mention much larger and of far higher quality. Gabriel cautiously steps into the room, coming to a stop with about a meter between them.
V1 points at him, and then over to the bed, confirming Gabriel's suspicions. In spite of their superior and seemingly endless strength, it would certainly be faster to teleport the entire thing to their home than to drag it piece by piece across the city.
"I see." Gabriel nods, straightening his sore shoulders. Yes, this he could do for them. Something simple; a small favor. "One moment, then."
He kneels, but before he can get a firm grip upon the underside of the frame, V1's hands are suddenly on his bicep. Gabriel unintentionally flinches, and the fleeting touch is gone just as quickly as it came.
Neither of them move. Gabriel mentally counts to five, ignoring the burn of shame festering in his gut, before turning to look at them. The machine stands eerily still, almost like a statue. Then their wings twitch so subtly he at first thinks he might have imagined it. Slowly, V1 shakes their head.
"You... don't want me to move this?"
They blink, helm tilting to the left, optic shutters rising just a bit. They look baffled. Gabriel slowly rises to his feet, gaze unwavering as he tries to parse their expression.
"Then what do you require from me?" he asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
V1 swivels on their heel, darting for the head of the mattress. Their hand snatches the edge of the blankets and pulls the corner back, revealing eggshell white sheets beneath. Their red arm points at Gabriel once again, and then to the newly exposed linens.
Heat creeps across Gabriel's hidden visage, mixed with a sudden flare of awkwardness that settles uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.
"V1, I-" He struggles to find the words. "I do not--I haven't really been in the mood for-"
He's cut off when they jolt with what he, both parts relieved and faintly disappointed, registers is shock. They offer him another shake of their head, harsher than the last. They suddenly look frustrated, more so than he's ever seen them before by their communication barrier.
Once more, a finger lands upon him, then the blankets. But this time, they clasp two of their palms together, tilt their head, and settle it upon the back of their hand.
... what?
"You... want me to sleep here?" He says, slowly, confusion overtaking all other turbulent emotions.
A vigorous nod. A long whirr leaves their chassis as they gesture towards the bed once more. Only to suddenly freeze when Gabriel shakes his head in disagreement.
"Angels do not need sleep."
It's a half-truth. Angels didn't require sleep, but they liked to, if nothing else for the comforts of dreaming in Paradise. But sleep has eluded Gabriel for years, now, between God's disappearance and assuming the role of Judge. There just hadn't been time for dreams.
And he isn't entirely keen on it now; he's not sure he can even if he tried. But why this sudden interest in getting him to lie down? Had this whole thing been brought on by his dizzy spell the other day? He is perfectly fine now...
V1 only blinks at this statement of fact, staring at him with what he thinks, at first, is astonishment. Then their wings twitch with a downward, flicking cadence, before shuddering loudly in their pack. It's followed by their upper optic shutter falling partway over their eye, arms crossing over their chassis.
They're clearly not satisfied with his answer. Gabriel finds he is far too numb to care.
"V1, I appreciate the concern," He turns away from their disapproving look and starts for the bedroom door. "But I really must get back to work."
In a flash, they're standing before the exit, wings splayed out as if to completely block all chances of escape. A short, loud whirr bursts from their chassis, like an irritated huff of breath. Gabriel stops, something like annoyance sparking through the fog of gray.
"Machine," He intends to say more, but then gives up trying to reason with them. He of all people should know how stubborn they are when they set their mind to something. "Nevermind, I don't have time for this."
Gabriel spins on his heel again, and instead makes for the patio doors just beyond the bed. Maybe he won't plant the zinnias just yet; he wants to see where the lilt of the afternoon sun falls upon the road when the day grows hottest. They would fare best with just a bit more shade than-
His idle planning is interrupted by a small comet, slamming into his side with no warning.
A surprised grunt escapes him as his legs are completely swept out from beneath him, and he collides with man-made foam and spun cotton; he's been knocked right off his feet and onto the mattress. By the time he regains his bearings, four different arms are flying across his body, stripping him of what armor he has on left with frightening precision, and tossing them carelessly around the room.
His own hands struggle to bat theirs away, but they're useless against V1's practiced dexterity. Annoyance quickly becomes muted anger as his belt finally slides away, leaving him in just his skirt and helmet.
"V1, this is entirely unwarranted-" Gabriel tries, but then there's a swish of soft linens from somewhere further down the bed, swooping over him from the right. And then they settle, leaving him covered up to his neck. V1 kneels just to his left, smug satisfaction apparent in their posture and in the way their wings flare triumphantly.
Gabriel is having none of it, pushing away the blankets and attempting to sit up with a growl. He is promptly intercepted by all their hands shoving him flat upon the bed.
"Machine-" he hisses as the sheets are pulled right up to his chin. "You are being ridiculous!"
He surges upright against their strength, and they're almost not ready for it. Gabriel's arms free themselves from V1's grip and push at their chassis.
It should be easy; they're so light, they weigh nothing. But he senses them locking their body in place before he can fully throw them off. And then he's met with that endless strength of theirs, exerting its force against him. He tries to get his feet out from under them, but their legs straddle him and are just as immovable as the rest of them. They are effectively deadlocked; even his rising anger does not give him the edge he needs to escape.
"V1," Gabriel gives up on any pretense of civility. "Release me, this instant! I am not some child that needs coddling!"
His words are met with another sharp whirr, higher in pitch, as if refuting that. It only serves to make him angrier.
"Why are you always so insistent on getting in my way, Machine?!" He snaps. "I. Do not. Need sleep!"
Another blast of hot air rolls over his bare skin, in answer to his reiteration. Gabriel grits his teeth, throws all of his strength, all his frustrations behind his next bid for freedom.
Only for his body to suddenly buckle beneath their power. The mattress bounces beneath him as he's all but flattened to it. But V1 does not let go. They keep two of their hands right on his shoulders, and the other two fly down to restrain his arms.
Instinctively, he tries to buck them off, but his energy has been completely sapped. He can only squirm against the sheets, but in moments, he cannot even do that. Gabriel falls still beneath them, suddenly short of breath and dizzy, again. The only sound is their whirring mechanisms slowly dying down, and his own panting. His heart pounds in his head like a throbbing, aching muscle.
And all the while, V1 simply glares down at him, triumphant over him yet again. His irritation with them is gone just as quickly as it came.
Pathetic. He could once match them blow for blow, and now he cannot even lift them off of him. Gabriel is merely a shell of his former self, a far cry from the opponent he had once taken something pride in being.
Perhaps his fall from grace had not ended when he was first stripped of his title, but rather, when he could no longer fight.
"Why do you even care?" He murmurs aloud; he had not meant to. There would be no answer to it.
But instead of a steely silence, V1's shutters slowly close. Their helm droops, bends until it faces his bare chest. Almost like they can't bear to look at him, suddenly.
Why had that question gotten such a reaction out of them? Weeks of bitter distance, only for them to suddenly leap across the gap that had grown between them, and try to put him down for a nap as though he were a petulant fledgling. Silence follows the break of eye contact, heavy with something Gabriel can't find a name for. He feels as though he should say something further, but the words suddenly won't come.
Not when their hand releases his shoulder, and slowly comes up to frame his helm in a tender caress.
Memories bubble up. The ice of Treachery beneath his back when they spared him with a touch; the excessive lavishness of Lust as they quieted all his fears beneath the song of euphoria, long enough to plant his feet beneath him again; their steady embrace in the rain, keeping him from completely drowning in despair.
Their gaze finally rises again to meet his own, but they're no longer angry. They just look... concerned. He's never seen them make such an expression before-
But he had, when he opened his eyes after his fainting spell and saw V1 hovering above him, hands clutching at his shoulders desperately. He hadn't--had he been out for much longer than he initially thought? Surely that had just been from his frequent warping that day...
And he watches as V1's lower shutter rises just the slightest bit, causing their expression to shift to another in an instant. But Gabriel knows right away what this one is. He's seen it all through his tenure as Judge, on the countless faces of endless sinners, marching through Hell's courtrooms. He had long grown immune to it, even as some small, private part of him ached to see it every time.
A silent plea, but not for mercy, out of worry; and somehow, this one is what finally makes his resolve crumble away.
"Fine." He concedes. V1's wings twitch upward, even as their shoulders droop and head dips again with another puff of air. "I will rest. But only for a moment."
The machine climbs off of him slowly, sliding onto the carpeted floor. Once they're clear, Gabriel rolls onto his side, facing the thin stream of early afternoon light pouring from the gap between the curtains. He vaguely senses the machine's gaze lingering upon him, before he hears them turn around and pad out of the bedroom. Some part of him unwinds upon hearing the other patio door slide open, and then close.
The thought of waiting until they were long gone to get up and return to his self-given duties only briefly crosses his mind. Because then Gabriel feels his body begin to sink into the mattress. It's smaller than the ones meant to fit a dreaming angel, but it's comfortable; a luxury he hasn't been allowed in so long. He feels... tired, exhausted all the way down to his bones. All his eyes fall closed without meaning to.
... perhaps a nap wouldn't hurt.
"The heart is willing, but the body must rest, lest you squander one of the Lord's creations."
It's starting to dawn on them that Gabriel is a massive hypocrite.
They spend the first hour on the complex rooftop, stewing in their remaining frustration with him as they wait and see if he'll try to sneak back to his plants. It never erupts into fully fledged anger, but still bubbles with irritation and confusion and worry just beneath the surface. All rolled up into a messy blend of care and exasperation that weighs like some physical thing lodged in their central processor.
V1 sometimes wishes that they could just turn off their emotions. But perhaps their growing understanding of them is simply a consequence of living far past their own warranty period. They are not looking forward to having to reconcile with more unsavory combinations of such in the future.
Gabriel does not emerge, and they head back the way they came just a few long hours ago, guided by the thin trails of smoke still lingering in the clearer skies. By the time the sun is disappearing behind the high-rises, V1 finds themselves in the business district once more. The archangel is absent from the garden areas. They don't hear anything coming from the garage, either.
The Whiplash pulls them right up to the correct balcony, and V1 makes for the first set of glass doors, the ones leading out from the living room. V1 reaches for the handle, and tugs it to the left, opening it as quietly as they can.
But the sound that pours through the thin crack makes them pause, relax, and then pull the door open just a bit quicker than they originally intended.
Deep, steady rumbles can be heard through the walls, rhythmic in nature. It rises, falls, and then fades into silence for barely a second or two. The noise easily masks any other sounds their footfalls make upon the thin carpet. V1 peers through the half-ajar bedroom door, and lets out a relieved whirr.
Gabriel's hulking form remains right where they left him. While he's sprawled just a little awkwardly across the mattress mainly meant for the average human, the archangel still sleeps soundly. His chest, half uncovered by the thin sheets, rises and falls at a slow and languid pace.
He's actually asleep. Good.
They had forgotten how stubborn he could be. Arrogant still in some ways, especially about mortal things he clearly thought beyond him. Sure, some things made a degree of sense when taken into context, like his superior strength and blood supply when compared to a human's. But to go so long without even sleeping was unheard of. They don't believe for a second he's gone without a moment's rest his entire existence. Not when he so eagerly sank into the mattress when he thought they weren't looking.
No matter. He's sleeping now, that's what's important. The warmachine turns away, leaving him to his rest. They'll come check on him again in the morning before resuming their explorations.
But before they head home, V1 heads back down to the cavernous garage, darkening quickly as the remaining traces of day begin to give way to the adherents of night. Flashes of nearby neons dance upon the street one from block over, becoming more and more colorful as the sunlight fades. The glow gives them just enough light to make it to the far edge of the garden without tripping over anything.
From their satchel, V1 withdraws a small, mesh bag, bits of flaky plant tissue descending from its contents. And they set it down carefully by Gabriel's books. The distant neons glint off the slightly charred, plastic placard, giving them a glimpse of snowy flowers. Tulipa gesneriana, white tulips.
It's a start. It's something.
