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

[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.