Many Dark and Lonely Nights

Keep swimming. Keep swimming. Swim on.

Compared to those before, this day was considerably duller, though the nagging knowledge that if they slowed down now they’d be doomed never ceased to nip at the great beast’s heels. Even despite, they might add, their speed; It was nothing short of a miracle, then, when they finally happened upon a small — but comfortably so — island upon which to rest, after all the non-stop swimming-in-fear. And the silence, god. The silence was deafening, so loud they wondered how they might ever be comfortable with it again. And all they did, they did alone; staying above the water as long as they could, supporting their injured compatriot, unwilling to go beneath as long as they could help it for fear of exacerbating his wounds which they had yet not had much of a chance to address or look over in full aside from staunching the worst of the bleeding as best they could on the submarine, and some relatively rudimentary triage, as horrifically difficult as doing that in such a small space was. Stable, but not in the best shape.

The migraine that throbbed through their head had definitely improved, but still, as they clutched their broken horn in their rib-arms, they couldn't shake the feeling of relative weakness without it.

As they pulled their hulking body up from the water — made even heavier by the weight of their passengers — and onto the hot sand radiating the warmth of the day, they felt beneath them the weight of dry land as the tender arms of the buoyant force of the sea slowly fell away. Up the beach. The hill, into the trees, small valley. As the canopy and the green wrapped around them, and as they finally got a good look at the sun (larger eyes closing reflexively — god, was the sun always so damn bright?), the feeling of their own lifeblood coursed through them, rose through their veins like new life. But even still... though they felt better, on some primal level, than they had for ages, they still felt... bad. No better in a swath of their mind than they had for years. Downright awful, even, like escape wasn't an all-encompassing magic key. Had nothing changed? Would it ever? Oh God.

No matter. They had people that needed them right now. They thus set to work. No time to dawdle.

Unpacking was a blur, one that almost felt rehearsed. They worked with a mechanical fervor as they set-up as good of a camp as they could manage, the way they were, bringing out Painter for good measure. Relishing at the chance to actually talk with at least one of their companions — the camaraderie was nothing short of necessary as they worked; to hear something was a miracle. Their conversations were by-and-large not that deep, as if they both had an infinite amount of things they wanted to say to the other about their shared experience but instead kept it to friendly small talk. At some point, it seemed Painter took a particular interest in W.M.'s life before all this, before Urbanshade was even a spark in either of their minds; W.M. was content to fill him in, the act of recollection spurring them onward as they spoke. Honestly, the AI seemed just as desperate for conversation as they were, never letting too long a moment pass without some sort of thing to talk about; desperate for sound, for companionship. For care.

In between pulling together what they could manage into the best facsimile of a temporary home as they could muster, they turned their attention to Sebastian, peeling back bloodstained, stiff clothing to place it aside (that would need proper washing later; a good-sized island like this most certainly had some freshwater reserves, and in the end they hoped he'd understand why exactly his clothes suddenly weren't on him), replacing warped, salt-laden bandages with fresh ones from one of their stocked med-kits, wrapping him in new ones where they hadn't managed to before. Take, for example, a particularly glaring wound in the side of his torso that required them to wrap more gauze than they'd expected around him. This all came after unpacking his own stock, of course; it was fortunate he'd remained prepared for the escape with as much of the stock he usually retained for expendables as he could last-minute scrabble together still hooked up to the complex tangle of harnesses he wore. Making sure everything was in the best order it could be, what with their somewhat cumbersome body when it came to the things that required a more dexterous, tender hand. Checking wounds, almost obsessively. And just... staring, almost in disbelief.

"...He'll be alright, right?" came Painter's voice, earnest and careful.

W.M. blinked. "Yeah," they replied; mostly, bless Sebastian's current form for being more withstanding of punishment like that than a regular man when it came to odds-of-survival, though it didn't seem as though it hurt any less. "He'll pull through fine."

"Good," was the answer. "I'm... I'm glad."

The two sat for awhile, their conversation eventually burning thin, still dancing around that heavy topic; now that they were free, it seemed as if the last thing either of them wanted to do was reopen a wound the flesh of which, metaphorical or not, had only just began to stitch itself over, and only tentatively, tentatively inched towards even the cusp of healing. They weren't even — for sure, beyond doubt — entirely safe yet, as much of an improvement as this was.

As for the other, however, well. It was hours, at the very least, until he even woke at all (not that either of them expected different, still), and even longer before he spoke, the awkward droning silence between the three of them deafening in the dim twilight and punctuated only by the occasional cough, breath, or brief noise of discomfort.

“You’re both morons,” came Sebastian’s angry-yet-subdued growl, finally, though in practice it was more of a stubborn, miserable groan through gritted teeth than anything else he might have intended it to be.

War Machine’s eyes — all four of them — narrowed. Its hollow, raspy voice was accusatory, almost like it was struggling out of their irreal form. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” it growled. “We’re not the ones who almost died.”

“Pah,” he spat. “This wouldn't have been an issue if you two just stuck to the plan and got the hell out.”

“The plan?” Painter replied, screen flickering. His tone was laced with genuine concern, a frazzled worry. As W.M. glanced down at him, they found themselves caught in mild concern; …without a charge, they worried how long he had left running on this one. “The plan was for all of us to get out! And all of us — means all of us! Why in the world would we just leave?”

“Listen, pal,” growled the fish-man, though his tone lacked real conviction. Regardless, sure: they'd entertain his bluff. “You — and you especially,” he emphasized with an unsteady finger turned to W.M. in an accusatory fashion, “Know full well the way things work when things get down to the wire.” He paused, a wet hacking cough shuddering through him, before he continued as soon as he very well could, unwilling to give up his apparent dominance in the conversation. “There’s — there is no room for every heavy-handed moral consideration. You do what you have to! You two jeopardized everything, coming after me.”

“…Hardly a ‘moral consideration’,” Painter rebutted, eyeroll evident in their equally reigned-in and manic tone, presumably still riding the high of their impossible escape on top of everything else (really, one might shudder to imagine the carnage in any other space-time — and one might be best served not to). “I’d call it ‘not bailing on a promise’ myself.”

W.M. was fit to punctuate the computer’s sentiment with an emphatic nod and a chitter. "I care about you, you dolt," they said, tails dragging back and forth against the ground. "Sorry, but I don't do 'leaving people behind' if I can help it."

“Yeah, well, you’re dumb for that, too.” Sebastian hissed back, this time more pointed, dripping with a potent and self-hating venom. “If you had any ounce of self-respect at all you’d have gotten yourselves out above — anyone else.” The pause in his words, however short, told W.M. beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d wanted to say something else there, that he'd meant something else, that his words weren't entirely honest — though perhaps, as always, he held back out of a dislike for cloying sentimentality even in wallowing in self-pity.

“Then If I don’t have any self-respect, I at least have a heart,” W.M. spat.

“Oh, don't even start with me." he growled, squinting. "Yeah, and that’s done wonders for you, hasn’t it?”

“And self-respect has?” Scoff.

“Oh my god, would you two just stop it! Knock it off!” Painter protested, audio peaking. “This is the last thing anybody needs right now!”

“Sad day when the computer’s the sane one,” said Sebastian, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tried to push himself up, even as he winced (and winced hard).

W.M. only huffed, scooping up the computer in their arms and turning around with an irritated shrug, before it went trundling down the slope towards the beach with Painter in tow. Awkwardly, mind you. As they left, they were peripherally aware — with eyes like theirs it was hard not to be, really — of the way Sebastian’s face fell to a solemnly miserable expression, lips pursed not in a scowl but a thin, disappointed line. But there was no real time, nor desire, to stop and consider it — really, W.M. wasn’t interested in the slightest in entertaining his inflammatory, defensive mood any longer. It might have been kinder to get shot in the head.

“What’s his problem?” Painter asked, as the two of them settled on the sand, looking out on the sunset as the massive beast’s clawed extra limbs rested like a ribcage over the computer’s chassis. “Besides the obvious.”

“His name’s Sebastian, that’s his problem.” W.M. breathed, their tone less angry than it was pitying. Their statement was met with a chortle from the other, though it was laced with insincerity and a cloying sadness itself undeniable.

“…He doesn’t hate us though, right?” The other asked after a moment. “He doesn’t hate me?”

“He…” W.M. considered their thoughts for a moment, mulling over their choice of words. “…No, he doesn’t. He panicked, I guess. Worried about us. And I guess — my best guess — is he’s doing some kind of, eh…” they paused to take in a deep, shuddering breath — “Ass backwards damage control. Showing he cares, in some sort of ass backwards way.”

“Yeah, that… makes sense. Still…”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“But don’t you think it’s worth worrying about?”

W.M. sighed. “I — of course I do. But what are we going to do here? Right now? I’d worry about making it to sunrise before I’d worry about anything else. We stay here for awhile, we get our shit together, and then...” Their tone was almost cowed, their words belying a different intention. "We keep moving. We stay ahead, and we have plenty of time."

“You’re still —” the AI started, though he quickly stopped himself, in an almost guilty fashion. A topic from earlier that he worried about bringing up again.

“Still what?”

“…Planning on going home.”

“Where else would I go?”

“You don’t know they’ll accept you,” Painter stressed, his voice upset. “They could just as easily turn you in, and you’ll be right back where you started. You know that.”

W.M. looked away, contemplative, but shook their head. “…We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. At least I will. I can deal. And if it truly is safest,” they said, leaning in close to their screen in an affectionate manner — like a nuzzle against the side of his chassis — trying their best to sound confident even as their voice hitched. "If it's for the best, then... I'll just have to let you two go. Nobody will be at fault for that."

“…Hm.”

The two sat there for a few moments, clothed in a blanket of still silence, save for the sound of the wind against the water — tense (it was hard not to be, after all) but not world-endingly so. After everything, perhaps there was nothing that could ever feel so apocalyptic again.

“We’re not just going to leave him up there by himself, are we?”

“No,” W.M. said, the shadow of a sheepish look playing across their inhuman face. “I’m just not a big enough glutton for punishment at present to drag myself back up there while he’s awake. At least right now.” They were sure, very sure, that at least some part of his exceptionally abrasive demeanor may be some sort of misplaced (to them, at least) embarrassment; maybe he didn't remember everything he said, flirting with death, but he must remember some of it.

“Probably not for long,” the computer remarked. “He was out for ever. I'm surprised he even woke up at all today. Seriously, the huge wounds in his head? Or everywhere else? Honestly, even I’d want a couple days out for those.”

“Indeed.”


═══


Sure enough, it was not an uncomfortable or stressful amount of time before the sun had set beneath the horizon and the pair — one carrying the other, obviously — hobbled back up the hill and into the hideout they'd dug out in the very mouth of the valley, through the cover of leaves. Anything at all was a sanctuary, was immensely beautiful, in this light and on this evening. As W.M. passed, they noticed a distinct lack of their compatriot in his usual spot, mostly propped up against a tree. Instead, it seemed as if he had dragged himself, rather haphazardly, partway out of cover. At least enough to get a good look at them down on the beach. Gaze softening, W.M. craned their neck down as best they could, grabbing a scruff of clothing (...well, his shirt, at least — the rest had, perhaps despite their apprehension, had to come off for the sake of triage) in their beak as if he were an unruly kitten — and dragged him back into the safety of the leaves.

He still had his scrambler (which, after closer inspection on the submarine after W.M.'s great stunt, they'd discovered their mysterious tormentor had been bluffing about the ineffectiveness of — indeed, it had merely been switched off in their crash to the floor), and in effect they’d all done their due diligence in checking one another for trackers, but still — on the off chance an Urbanshade patrol swung by, even as unlikely as it was if they weren’t directly tipped off by a civilian report or suspicious activity, it was best not to be out and about in plain sight from anywhere in a manner so defenseless as sleep. W.M. didn't doubt they were out there sweeping. Looking.

…And above all else, it fell on… them — W.M. — to protect the other two as, well, the most physically resistant, as it were. If Searchlight DNA was useful for anything, it would have to be the incredibly thick hide, and perhaps that was really the biggest upside to this body, missing their horn as they were. Still, not something they’d have traded in their life and autonomy for, but that was neither here nor there.

Maneuvering themself into a comfortable position and curling itself around their charges like a nest guardian — bidding one goodnight, though the irony of which one it was was not lost on it, even as the computer sent itself into hibernation — and sitting in watch for awhile before letting themself even begin to consider rest, W.M. slept that night, for a time. Comfortably so, even, more comfortably than they had in forever — which was a welcome change from the last however-many-years, even if not deeply. And somewhere inside that brutish form, neither fish, nor fowl, neither human nor animal, their heart found itself entertaining the fantasy of naïve, but perhaps necessary, hope for their future. For all their futures.

...I hope I’m not wrong.

NEXT >>