Chaos. Utter chaos.
It wasn’t anything less than W.M. had expected, obviously, but that didn’t make it any less stressful. Months — years, even — spent preparing for this moment, this inevitability, and it still didn’t even feel particularly real; the shouting, the blood, the acrid tang of it; the angry gunfire now no longer sparse and fleeting but echoing off every corner of the Blacksite. There was no more time to spend bargaining, not with other titans, to spend carving out some simpler path, comparatively 'least resistance'. This was their chance; the climax of hundreds of hours of research, of trial and error, of dissecting this damned place itself for the chance, slim and naïve as it was, for some desperate, daring, action-movie escape. No more time left for anything else.
As they moved through the halls of the complex, winding about like a spectre of death, bullets bouncing off their thick and impermeable hide, the perfect machine for destruction — they began to lose count of how many they slaughtered, how much blood they spilled, bodies crushed underfoot or ripped apart by cleaving, panicked claws. Their crusade did not stop even for the nagging voice at the back of their head, what remained of their humanity protesting the bloodbath, attempting to draw reason from its host like blood from a stone. It was no matter, as there was no place for reason in a place like this, and theirs was one singular mission; to gather their compatriots, and then, to get the fuck out of here. Desperately so, no matter how stacked the odds were against them; in the midst of this, the limbo period after which all would return as best it could to the agonizing status quo, was the only shot they had at leaving this layer of hell. For ever, if fate would ever be so uncharacteristically kind. Or merciful.
First stop, the heavy containment cells. This had already been arranged, meticulously discussed beforehand — before all else their job was to secure the Painter, at the very least before someone else could catch on (or more accurately, reach it) and destroy it. And here they were, cell conveniently left unlocked from the last and final expendable sent through, a miserable and aloof thing whose freedom with bitterness W.M. hoped they enjoyed as much as they resented it.
Some of these cells certainly weren’t built with a creature like them in mind, less in terms of height and more in terms of actual size, as they found it rather miserable to try and squeeze their long body inside, let alone pull their tail in. As they slunk up to the chain-link barrier, they couldn’t help but find amusement in how pathetically useless — even if it worked — the keycard lock to the… cage, yes, cage, was, under the assault of the sharp, plated crest that jutted forward from the great beast’s head like a javelin, as they furiously tore at the fencing keeping them from their target. Perhaps their makers, in their sanguine and jingoistic fervor, hadn’t accounted for the death machine they’d created to unleash on already impoverished, war-torn countries turning on their own infrastructure. When the hole was big enough for them to squeeze through, or at least part of themselves through, they did so, pulling their head back up to tower over the much smaller computer, whose crude face seemed meek in their shadow.
“Oh, shit,” came the dumbfounded voice.
“Hm?” War Machine hummed, tone rough and scratchy (and altogether seemingly impossible to come out of such a beast as them) but evidently amused.
“You are… well, much bigger than I expected.”
“…You’ve seen me,” W.M. chuckled.
“Only on cameras,” the computer retorted, almost humorously defensive. “I mean, I might have been an artist, but I’d wager my powers of estimation are slipping by now.”
“Well, you’re much smaller than I expected, if it helps. And I’ve never actually seen you, and not just your face, before, so we’re even.”
They brought their face in closer, examining the setup of the incredibly cramped office.
“It’s so… sad, in here.” they remarked.
“No duh,” Painter replied. “My job hasn’t exactly been glamourous.”
“I get that, it’s just… I don’t know. Particularly depressing, maybe. …never mind. Is there some sort of plug I’ve got to get at, or…?”
“I mean, eh,” came the answer, as W.M. poked around at tangled wires behind the desk. “I can run on a charge.”
“…”
“But! A charge is a charge either way. And seriously, yes, at least one of those is necessary. You know, most of those keep me hooked up to the system.” A contemplative pause. “I know one’s a proper charging cable. And I think one or two of them might be supplementary power, or something. I guess in the instance that something stops working. After all, can’t risk those financial losses for a second. Ha.” He finished, last word tapering off into a melancholy, miserable sigh.
“Okay, well, I have absolutely zero idea which one is which, so I’m gonna need you to work with me here. Just, um, let me know when I hit something important.”
“Doable,” he replied.
It took a bit of strange maneuvering for W.M. to start getting cords untangled, let alone away from the wall or out of the computer’s chassis. All the while, trying not to think about it too hard; how mildly awkward this all felt, what with the living computer and all. When they could finally manage — heart pounding with adrenaline all the while — to get most of them out, their unfamiliar companion quickly piped up.
“So, I realize I haven’t said anything so far, because you’re doing great, but I’m just letting you know, uh, you might want to hurry up.”
“Already trying my best,” W.M. replied. “Why the sudden urgency?”
“Because, I just lost physical access to the turrets, and I do not want to die.” came the answer. “Not without seeing the outside one last time.”
“Fair enough,” W.M. replied, pulling out another pair of cables. “From my limited knowledge of computers, these look important enough.” They turned the cords over in rough palms, holding one up.
“Charging cable, maybe?”
“Power supply, that one,” he corrected. “But close enough.”
“So technical.”
Wrapping the cords together as best they could they withdrew, moving to tuck them away into the small crate that had been cleverly repurposed into a carrying case hitched around their massive torso, before leaning back in to pull out the last few cables and then to lift the computer up off the desk.
“Hold on! Wait wait wait!” He objected as they did. W.M. paused, head tilted. “For the love of all that is holy, please don’t forget my tablet.” Their voice was strained, desperate. “Please.”
“Okay.” W.M. answered calmly. “I won’t. I swear.”
With that, Painter, too, was tucked away securely in the crate and as promised was followed nigh immediately by his prized possession.
A pause.
“Phew, okay. We’re—we’re really doing this. Like, actually.”
“It’s the only shot we’ve got. ”
“Yeah.” he answered, digital face looking ever concerned. “…Be safe, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
The crate closed, and W.M. latched it shut for what they hoped against hope wouldn’t be the last time. Okay, they thought. One last step.
Heart pounding in their ears — fucked up reptilian ones, now, at that — they went on, once more winding their massive body through the claustrophobic, cloistering corridors of the Blacksite complex like a serpentiform wraith, mind set only on the freedom that laid just out of reach. And all that stood between them and that damned submarine to the surface, after all this planning, was finding Sebastian, just a little more killing, and —
As they entered the lab — one of them, at least — the sick familiarity of this damned place washed over them like a red tide. Memory of the misery endured, of pain wrought. Of empathetic knowledge that they, of course, weren’t the only one, that they would never be the only one — that they, in some sick act of aggrandizing self-sacrifice, and maybe a little misplaced trust, had offered themselves up like a lamb to the slaughter. If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else.
Why couldn’t you have just let it be someone else?