Chapter Text
It ends how it began;
With blood and tears and heartache, with a world tearing and an Archivist dying, another body laid to rest beside him.
It ends how it should’ve begun, with heroism and sacrifice and too many lost, the good they brought about just enough to justify their missing presence.
It ends how it always does.
It ends with love.
A new world is born on the wake of ruin, something clean and forgiving, slate wiped clean.
But not yet;
First comes the end;
The rest will follow in time.
-
Three years later
The sky is fake and the world is a lie.
There is no such thing as permanence beyond this fact;
The sky bleeds red into waxy black in constant cycle, false day, liars night.
Michael aches and bleeds and melts along with it.
Humans are evolutionary creatures; of course they’ve adapted to the new world order.
Michael is not human, if there's any shred of mortality left, it's buried under years of violence and survival until its a starved, shrunken thing.
He is killer, he is hunt, he is Hind.
Together, they make this wasteland a home.
A bullet brushes his ear, finds itself a home inside the skull of a human-Wasp hybrid, buries itself in singing, stinking flesh, blood dripping over his wrists, his fingers as they wrap around it’s neck, the last of it’s hoard.
Tossing it aside, he lands a kick to it’s chest cavity, watches as it gives easy, squelching and leaking into the blackened soil.
“Eugh,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder to toss his companion an unimpressed look. “Thanks for not taking out my ear.”
“I told you to duck,” Sasha grumbles, lowering her rifle and tugging down the cloth covering her nose and mouth. “It’s not my fault you seemed dead set on slowly squeezing the life from the poor things neck.”
“You do know that ‘poor thing’ would’ve eaten you alive in seconds if given half a chance, yes?” The kick had been entirely unnecessary, now his boots will be grimy until they reach the next safe-zone.
“Yes, well, quick and humane is the option I’d like to choose in the future.”
Michael hums, moves to the pile of mangled flesh, dragging the shot carcass to it and plunges a hand inside one’s stomach, rooting around as he searches out any loot it might’ve consumed. A faint smile tugs at his mouth as an old purple iPod comes out with a pair of attached headphones, something out of Michael’s high school days, nostalgia bittersweet in this moment.
Sighing heavily and tugging on a pair of old gloves, Sasha kneels beside him and begins to do the same. Ten minuets later, they have a small pile of poor mans treasure beside them, Sasha wiping gore from a little yellow bottle and surveying the label. Her eyebrows shoot up, a smile gracing her tired features as she shakes it, pills rattling about inside. “Paracetamol,” she nods, tucking it carefully into the inner pocket of her jacket. “Gee-Gee will appreciate these.”
Subsequently, she finds a tube of half-used antiseptic ointment and some more antibiotic capsules, a pleased flush rising on her face. She needed this win, it’s been a long fucking time since they’ve found any kind of real, honest to god reliable medical supplies, especially not medication.
Scooping the rest of the items into his satchel, Michael tucks the iPod into his jeans and stands, offering her a hand up. The black has mostly faded from his fingertips now, all that’s left is purplish blood and a bit of Wasp intestine that Sasha gives one look to and stands without assistance. Wiping his fingers clean on the denim, Michael sighs and follows her to the rickety white van, letting her toss her rifle and coat in the back before climbing into the passenger seat.
The drive back to camp is quiet, Michael staring out the window while Sasha drives, her breathing slow and steady in the silent cab.
Michael doesn’t need to breathe anymore, but he matches his own in time with hers. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend he’s still human, especially when the lack of humanity in him discomforts the woman beside him.
She shoots him a glance when he begins to mimic her breaths but doesn’t say anything, a small, sad little line appearing between her brows before she focuses back on navigating the rough terrain before them.
Esse humanum, maius est infirmitatis quam quidquid aliud, Hind whispers, licking at the inside of his throat, tasting the air he drags in.
Esse humanum? Nos talia non sumus, Michael replies drily, resting his chin on his palm as he looks back out the window.
Ita desine simulare nos esse.
Michael ignores that last comment, swallows down the shadows on his tongue, calls back the ink in his veins. Don’t be difficult.
You are the one making this harder for both of us. It takes so much of our energy to push down our nature. She is human and does not understand.
She is family, and you’re right. We don’t need to scare her. We can play nice for awhile. You’ve taken enough control today, anyways, stop pushing for things and being greedy.
Muttering curses in Latin, Other slinks back, settles sulkily against a hipbone, curls there and mopes while Michael tries not to laugh.
Clearing his throat, he glances over to Sasha, studies her profile in the dim, rusty light. The bags under her eyes are heavier, it’s been too long since she’s gotten any good rest, too long since they’ve hit a Pocket and been given allowance to sleep. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, thick, tight curls frizzy and unkempt without the correct products or care, Michael knows she hates it out here, her life existing of organization and cleanliness before the world decided to explode.
“Yes?” Sasha says tightly, eyes flicking over, that worried crease still present.
“Nothing. Just…you look tired. I can take a turn driving if you’d like to rest.”
Displeasure mars her features as she flexes her hands over the wheel. “I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Sasha.”
“Michael.”
“You’re dead on your feet.”
“I’m alive on wheels. I can drive.”
“Why don’t you trust me yet?” It comes out soft, hurt, Michael cringes at the vulnerability in his tone, Hind growling at the weakness. Sasha blinks, swallows.
“I trust you.”
You don’t, though. “So let me drive. Let me take care of you.”
“It’s fine.”
What even is he anymore? Is he even human?
“Fine,” Michael finally says, looks away as his throat tightens. Sasha sighs, looks like she’s about to say something, goes quiet again as the miles are eaten up beneath rubber.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers, mouth twisting. “I just…I just need to get back to camp before nightfall. I want to get Gertrude these meds.”
“Okay.”
“I trust you, Michael.”
So why won’t you talk to me like you used to? Why won’t you risk sleeping when you're around me?
Because we are a monster, and she does not trust monsters, Other sighs, they’ve been over this, a thousand times Michael hears this, but it never fails to hurt like hell.
“Okay,” he says instead of the million other things he could say. At least she still trusts him enough to have her back in the wastelands; it’s better than nothing.
“Michael…”
“You’re right,” he cuts her off. “You’re the better driver, you’ll get us back to camp faster than I could.”
There’s a bead of blood on her chapped lower lip when she releases it from her teeth, brows pushing together tighter like they’re trying to connect. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Nodding, Michael looks away, leaves her to her thoughts, and watches as crimson bleeds to black, a starless sky being born above them as they rattle back to camp.
-
“What the hell were you thinking?” Gertrude fumes, limping back and forth in front of the bonfire, cane clutched in one wrinkled hand. Her eyes are severe as she turns her sharp hazel gaze to where Michael and Sasha cower, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bench-slash-log that Michael drug into camp that morning, her free hand coming to rest on a jutted hip as he stares disdainfully down at the two of them. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to just sneak off like that?”
“We found some supplies,” Michael starts, leaning forwards, offering placating hands but drawing them back in when Gertrude’s expression sours further at the dried blood in the cracks of his palms. “They’re…they’re really good supplies. We took out a hoard, only used a few bullets.”
“And wasted precious gas and time, too, hm?”
“Was it really wasted when we found these?” Pulling the ointment and pill bottles from the jacket at her feet, she offers them to Gertrude, whos eyes land on the Paracetamol with a saddening hunger as she takes them, reading the labels. “Eliza needs those antibiotics, and you need the painkillers. These things, they’ll help us until we get to the safe zone.”
Gertrude hums, turns away as she opens the bottle and dumps two white tablets into her palm, swallowing them dry. When she turns back, she still looks annoyed, but not as angry as before.
“I’m sorry,” Michael finally says, voice softening. “Really, it was my idea to sneak out and go on a supply grab. It was reckless and stupid of me, and it won’t happen again.”
Sasha gives him this look, doesn’t speak up, but he can practically see the wheels turning in her brain.
“Fine,” Gertrude sighs. “Fine, it’s alright, You did good work today. I just don’t like it when you risk your lives unnecessarily.”
Sasha nods, bows her head, waits for Gertrude to dismiss them. “Go,” she waves them off. “Get Terrence to help you unload the supplies, then you can get some dinner. Michael, take first watch.” Sasha opens her mouth to protest, but the older woman raises her hand, doesn’t even indulge her. “Don’t even think about it, Ms. James. You look dead on your feet. Get some food in you and then get some rest.”
-
Nighttime seems to be the only time that the world goes mostly silent.
Inky darkness stretches long and wide over the flatlands that make up the majority of the world now, a few cities left crumbled but standing here and there, Pockets containing parts of the earth that somehow, miraculously remained untouched, land still verdant and air still clean within them. Those are few and far between, though; Michael has never been allowed to enter such safe-zones for very long.
Sighing and closing his eyes, Michael lets the darkness swallow him up, make him just another unmoving speck of debris in this wasteland, nameless, anonymous, nothing.
“Michael,” Sasha calls from up the path, her footsteps crunching in the dry, rock filled dirt as she approaches, a gentle warning as to not startle him in his solitude. There’s no use to it, though; Hind heard her heartbeat coming closer moments before she said anything.
Glancing over his shoulder, he gives her a nod, scoots over on the bit of old plywood to give her room to sit too.
She folds down next to him, two steaming bowls of canned soup in her hands, a small jug of water tucked under one arm. Setting the bowl in his lap, she mirrors his pose, tucking grimy boots under her thighs as their knees brush. “Thank you,” he murmurs, taking a bite his body does not need, if only to put her more at ease before sliding the dish back over to her.
Sasha nods, passes him the jug of water, pulling a tiny hotel-packaged bar of soap from her back pocket. “For your hands.”
“Thanks,” he replies, scooting to the edge of the board and uncapping the bottle, spilling a bit into his palm and letting her steal a sip as he hands it back. The soap feels good as he scrubs blood from between his fingers, picking under his nails, watching as faded brown-black melts into tanned flesh beneath.
Sasha hums, takes a bite of her soup, watches him with an expression of quiet curiosity. “Why’d you lie to Gertrude?” She says finally, head tilting as a tightly coiled curl falls over her nose, her strong, elegant hand coming up to brush it back into the hair tie.
Michael shrugs, splashes water over suds and watches as it drips into the dirt. “I don’t know.”
“I was the one who saw the swarm. I was the one who proposed we steal the van and check it out. Yet you took the fall, why?”
“I don’t know,” Michael sighs, sits back, looks up at the depthless expanse of sky. “I just… she trusts you. You’ve earned that trust, she relies on you. I didn’t want you to lose that.”
“She trusts you, too.”
“Not to make good decisions.”
“Michael…”
“Sasha.” It’s firm, no self-pity in his tone. “Ever since…all of this, I’ve been a walking time bomb. I don’t know when Hind will choose to take control, when I’ll lash out and summon a swarm or destroy half of camp trying to keep the Dark under wraps. It’s right of her not to trust that. It’s smart.” Sasha is quiet, mouth twisting as she glances away. “Hey,” Michael taps her knee, pushes her bowl back into her hands. “For the record, today was a good idea. You did really good.”
“Thanks for having my back.”
“Always.”
Sasha continues to eat, finishes her bowl and polishes off Michael’s, hunger a near constant blight upon their little group of survivors. He watches quietly, half in awe at how trusting she's being. This is the most they've spoken at one time in a few months, her good mood surprising but not unwelcome.
“It’s good we found some extra food today,” he comments, sighing as they both lean back on their palms to watch the land before them, Wasps mainly diurnal, the wastelands peaceful in the absence of the fake-sun. “I know Berta Jeane was worrying for the kids health.”
Sasha hums, nods. “We all needed it, especially the little ones. It should last us to the next Pocket, at least. Gee-Gee decided that’s where we’re gonna stay for awhile.”
We. So many we’s that do not involve Michael, can’t involve him, not if he wants to take a few risks, push his fragile heart and test how long it’ll last within regular world, human boundaries.
His heart may function within the new world that has become home, but they haven’t tested just how much it can take inside a Pocket, access always denied for longer than a night.
“Yeah? That’s a good idea. God knows Gertrude and Berta Jeane need more rest and care than they’re getting out here.”
“Yeah. I think a few weeks outside of this hellscape will do us all a bit of good. You can finally fucking sleep, you nocturnal freak,” she grins at the little insult, it isn’t mean spirited, Michael appreciates the little bit of normalcy that comes with being teased, even if it’s about his Dark tendencies, “and maybe find a razor in all those fancy supplies they have there.”
The Pocket he, Gertrude and Sasha visit most often with groups of survivors they rescue is in an old army base, it’s got decades worth of preserved rations, medical supplies, gasoline. And razors. God, it’s been fucking months since he’s had a good shave that didn’t come from a dull pair of beard trimming scissors or an old knife.
“What, you don’t like it?” He grins, dragging one scarred hand over his scruffy jaw, cut as close as he safely can with the scissors, the rough sandy blond hair dragging against his skin.
“Two years with that shit and I still haven’t gotten accustomed to it,” Sasha shakes her head, a smile tugging at her full mouth. “Jesus, you used to have such a soft face, looked all fucking pink and innocent.”
Michael can’t help the snorting laugh that escapes him, her cool fingers finding the scar along one side of his nose, the one on his right cheek, the mangled thing on his temple, hidden mostly by his hair. “Yeah, well, that’s back when I had fancy goddamn electric razors and mounds of Gerry’s skincare to keep my hygiene up.”
They sit for a moment then, soaking in the silence, the chill of the night as the hour slips by. Time is a simple thing these days; it’s practically nonexistent besides the swell and fade of crimson to black, marking the beginning and end to each one. The mention of Gerry is always something sensitive, tender, they tip-toe around his name like it’s some kind of game.
‘who can avoid talking about him longer? Who can pretend like he isn’t gone before one of us breaks?’
They’ve both lost their heads over his absence, Michael escaping to the blissful emptiness that comes with killing, Sasha drinking herself to tears and anger in one of the Pockets, taking out a good chunk of the liquor supply and getting herself banned from the bar after being drug out by a sobbing Michael.
They don’t talk about that night either, the insults and jabs thrown back and forth, accusations and crying and spitting rage festering between them until they passed out in their bunks at the base and never brought it up afterwards.
“Do you think about him often?” Sasha finally says, voice going thin and gentle, tearing raw strips into Michael’s throat.
Deep breath, in, out, he doesn’t need the oxygen, but it’s grounding, soothing. Don’t cry, not yet. “Yes.” Another breath, deeper. “Always.” The words come out just as broken and jagged as they feel in his chest, gripping tight to his heartstrings and wreaking havoc upon his insides. The chain around his neck feels heavy, a constant reminder of the heaven he’d tasted before he fell like Lucifer into his own personal hell, the ring resting over his thickly scarred breastbone.
“Me too,” Sasha rasps, swiping a hand under her glasses, firelight from the camp behind them flickering on the metal rims. They grow still again, the last four years a Damocles sword over them as the moments tick by, night endless and black, uninterrupted by star or moon or even a breeze.
Michael wishes suddenly for solitude, exhausted without ability to rest, needs to mourn and grieve as he has been constantly for three years now. “You should get to bed,” he says gently, swallows as she inhales deeply, shoots him a weak smile.
“See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
It’s true; there’s nowhere else for him to be anymore.
Sasha nods, gathering up the stacked bowls, the partially empty jug of water, standing and nudging his thigh with her boot. “Night, Shelley.”
“Goodnight, Sasha.”
She turns away then, boots crunching along the path as she makes her way back to camp. Left alone, Michael releases the trapped air from his lungs on a soft, pained sound, throat tight as he presses a hand to his mouth and lets black tinted tears spill hot and wet down his cheeks, the other finding the ring tucked securely beneath his jacket, gripping it tight until the metal and crisp diamond cut through skin and spill crimson down his palm in a tiny river.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.