there's a countdown for all.

[purgatio]

[Scorched network post, Max's broadcast mind--specifically:]

"Look--I have an expiration date. We all do."

We.

"What do you mean, we all do?" you ask.

"All of us experiments have built-in expiration dates. When someone's time is close, it shows up on the back of their neck."

So you're going to die. No matter how hard you fight, they're going to murder you. They've sabotaged you from the inside, killed you before you could even start living, and now… You wonder how soon. Recombinants don't typically last long.

Even then, you hardly feel any concern for yourself. Rather, you make a mental note to check the necks of your Flock once you get back to them.

God, you hate this place.

Comments

[purgatio]

[ She backs from him and it's enough to break through and hurt something in him. His eyes widen for a moment, and then all emotion ceases from his face.

Well, it looked like she is capable of being frightened of him. He swallows any reaction, and continues like nothing happened. ]

And you never thought to tell me?!

[lolwhatfuture]

[She bites her lip, looking as if she might regret the movement at his expression, until his indignation carries over to her.]

You knew.

[Didn’t he? It was like a forbidden subject until now. Something they didn't talk about because it was an ugly loophole in her promise to him, but he had to know somewhere in the back of his mind.]

You knew I'd die someday! How is this different?

[purgatio]

[ It is the worst thing to say.

It is half her fault and half his, for he never spoke up, never explained, only showed the results of that trauma, no--never, and-- And there is a fissure in his mind and memories, the point when he explained his actions to his brothers through display, when he blew off his own head and they screamed, and when he regenerated, he was yelled at, yelled at, and--

"If you die... If you die, you can't come back to life!"

"...That's a special ability only you possess."

Only he.

And she had wondered why he dug in the earth and dirt-- Why he dug graves, and never the only one that would count. Why he mourned every moment, why he obsessed over every detail-- He had watched his brothers get wounded, after, with wide and fearful eyes-- They could die of infection, couldn't they?! What if they did?! What if they-- Every cough could be a virus, every touch of pallor could be an illness too heavy to risk, and people-- Mortals --they died sometimes, just randomly, through their sleep or heart giving out, and there was nothing... Aha, nothing that could be done, because people--

People just died.

He bursts into laughter, high and hysterical without bounds, and it turns into a keening scream before he realizes, as his eyes bore into her without recognition, only a simple and massive pleading encased within them-- His hands slap up at his face suddenly, a set of fingers digging into a cheek, the others under an eye, and the sound cuts off abruptly; deteriorates into broken sobbing.

No, she is right, isn't she. It's not different at all. ]

[lolwhatfuture]

[His reaction snaps her fear away in its suddenness. Yelling or cursing her, those reactions she had been prepared for, because for some reason people became angry with her for being mortal. For some reason she was to blame for having any vulnerability, but maybe that was her fault for pretending to be invincible.

In Albedo's hands she sees the intent for harm and is so startled, so horrified, that she dashes forward down the steps, the need for distance forgotten. Her hands close around his wrists, tugging his fingers away from his face.]

Don't, Albedo, it's not-

[Not what? Not that bad? Max shudders, because it is, it is bad and terrifying and not fair. She never should have promised. It wasn't fair of her when they both knew she couldn't live forever, and they couldn't stay in these worlds together, but it wasn't fair of him to have asked, either.

They'd both been so wrong.]

People don't die in these places, remember? Not really. They come back.

[She's grasping at straws now, and it's almost obvious.]

Even if it happens, I'll just come back. You'll…just have to wait a few days.

[And she would have another span, if it came to pass in her youth. More years to deteriorate over and over until at last, once home, it would be final, and if she did die and Anatole tied the DNA back together, would she have to watch the others die first-

Her fingers tremble in their grip, then steady as the thought is shut out.]

[purgatio]

[ Her fingers wrap around his, and she pulls his hands away-- There's no resistance, but his nails had already dig in, they tear skin as she pulls them away, trails of red blooming bright--

To be given to nothing as a glows coalesces there, and the flesh heals utterly. A reminder. Quiet and perfect. Of the differences between them.

It's not what he needs right now.

The harsh sobbing dies, but the tears keep flowing. He has no more control over that.

There's a thousand words to say. Denials and explications, and even the simple fact that what comes back in these places may not be them, but he's tired, so tired, and he can't stop crying. He can't stop-- Everyone would die, and-- There was no point--

His voice shakes. ]

...You know that's not true.

[ Not in the way that would count. ]

[lolwhatfuture]

[Her hands fall away, fingertips glinting with the blood he'd drawn with his nails, and for a time she can say nothing. That's him, isn't it? Seeing the larger picture despite himself, seeing the pain instead of the good. He isn't easy to fool or appease like the others. He knows too much.]

What do you want me to do?

[Throat tight, voice hard, she stares down at him and wishes, just once, that she could rip into herself and remove it all. Every ugly, abnormal truth beating and pulsing inside her that screams abnormal, if just for once she could get Albedo to stop for a day and smile and not be angry with something she can't control.

Her fingers spread, the few drops of blood brushed away from his hands having smeared across her own.]

It's the only truth we've got right now. Until I can figure something out, it's...[She swallows, strengthens her voice, her posture. There's hope there, that one thing that sustains life.] I'll figure something out.

[purgatio]

[ It's adorable, it's rending, how much she takes his pain onto herself. How much she sets herself up to be the one to take care of, simply by instinct, even though his knowledge pool was likely greater than hers. And even so, Albedo would let her do it, has let her do it, for weeks now, for a month or more, and he has languished in the pure and simple knowledge of another's attention and care.

Has ceased to be himself in parts. Has allowed another to affect him utterly.

And here she would be no different. Here she would declare the completion of mysteries as her responsibility to lay at his feet. It's utterly stupid, and entirely her, and he would love her for it. He would forgive her her promises made in desperation that he knew would come to naught. He would forgive her for promising to stay, even as both knew she would die.

He would forgive her for everything but dying.

He steps forward, into the warmth of her body, and clutches his hands into the fabric of her shirt. His head nuzzles forward, seeking comfort. He would regress in this, seek comfort where he knew none to exist, but he would need it all the same.

His voice is whispered, harsh with tears. ]

...I don't want you to die.

[lolwhatfuture]

[Her hands flex, arms twitch; has he ever come against her on his own before, without having to be dragged forward first? His clinging marks the crossing of some boundary, some line, sweet and unsettling at once. It was Albedo, after all, who had warned against accepting his affections in the beginning, but that weak part of her relishes the comfort he finds in drawing to her. They were a dangerous fit, the needy boy and the girl who thrives on being needed.

So she's still at first, but soon softens, and there's movement as she sheds her jacket and swings it around to lay across his shoulders. The leather has been worn to softness, the scent of crisp air and rainclouds worked into the fabric, the warmth of her caught in the lining. An arm goes around him, a hand brushing through his hair. His pain is the thing that strengthens her further. His tears rip at her, pull at that mother hen instinct, get her screaming at herself inside, he tracked you down and you're still a sucker to those big, freaking doe eyes. Pathetic, much?

And yet, she tilts his chin up, gives him her best wicked smile, wink and all. It's fake, but so practiced it looks completely genuine, full of confidence.]

C'mon, they don't call me Maximum for nothing.

[A thumb glides across his cheekbone, smoothing away the tears. How many times has she done this now? Every time it's too unreal, like she can't wipe the demented glint of the psychopath in his eyes away, even when it's not there; at the same time there's that crazed loss, the spurned brother. Having Albedo in her arms is like trying to hold onto three--no, a hundred children, all of them clamoring in need for something, holding on and pushing away at one time. It's a wonder she's been able to hang on for so long.]

If I can survive jumping you with a knife, I think I can nip some lame genetics trick in the bud.

[purgatio]

[ He wants to believe her.

Albedo has never had an older sibling, not in the way that counts. Rubedo is his elder, by moments, by minutes, and his twin has never shown himself to be anything but. Rubedo was the perfect child, and Albedo...

He is the mistake. A fact no one ever saw fit to correct. Or comfort in turn. But he has never had a sibling who seeks to solve his problems, who would comfort for the sheer fact of erasing tears. Brothers had hugged and consoled the best they were able, but they were never-- No, neither of them were the sort for false platitudes.

Albedo, either, really. He couldn't stand them, those lies told to comfort, had spoken against them a number of times, and still he would repeat-- It has never been an older sibling Albedo had possessed. Not one like this. Not one who would lie to him and mean it, not one who would take on the threat of death with sheer confidence and the determination to erase tears. He will never have that kind of older sibling.

But he has her.

Her jacket settles around him, and the scent of the girl before him is strong. Smell has always been a comfort, a trigger for memory, and he breathes in before he thinks, inhaling her essence with the intent of wishful thinking. He is too analytical to be an optimist, far too conniving to give into hope.

But she pets him, tilts his head up and wipes his tears, and he wonders if he's found something like a home.

Because he wants her. Like he has nothing else.

He twists his head to nuzzle into the hand there, brushing lips against her skin in an act of devotion. ]

...Don't leave. Please...

[ Please don't leave. ]

[lolwhatfuture]

[Sorry, kiddo.

The words remain unspoken. Max will not give him honesty as long as false hope can substitute, because that's the way things hold together. That's how people go on, fooling themselves and their loved ones, insisting everything will be okay up until the last moment when it all comes apart. Even if she were to die, she would promise around the blood: it's okay, I'll be right back, don't worry.

His lips are soft and heartbreaking. Her chest clenches, memory enriched by little arms around her neck, soft kisses on her cheek, the giggles of those mischievous little monsters she'd chased around and taken care of so many years. She'd given everything to them, always would, and in some way does the same for Albedo. And what he would receive in the end is no different than what her flock would be given, and that is failure, fallibility, and death. Her eyes sting.

Don't. Don't cry, damn it. He'd know it's all fake. He would know her fear and uncertainty. Max would not let it in.

Her palm slides from his kiss to the back of his head, holding him still, so that she can lean forward and press her lips to his forehead. In the gesture is a sort of pact that, in the moment, she can not herself put into words; a promise to work her hardest, to be invincible. It's devotion for devotion, the sort of pledge an older sister would give, knowing they are mortal but pretending otherwise to comfort their close one.

She pulls away, façade maintained through a practiced grin.]

I'm not leaving.

[His hand is taken, tugged on.]

We are. Let's head home.