anothercontinuity | Red vs Blue pt 2

A shadow falls over him. A shadow that has been watching their progress for some time. Not just York and Tex, but the Freelancers as a whole. The whole sorry operation as it played out and burned away those last few loose ends.

One of which now lay here, so very close to breathing his last. He can smell it on him, the cold, clammy hands of death starting to dig into the man as he chokes on blood. Bright, vibrant. Thrumming softly even now.

With the other soldiers distracted, that shadow leaves the shelter of the pillars, dropping down beside York where he leans. A hand lifts, grasping the edge of his helmet and gently tugging it away. The figure seems indistinct, even this close. Like he might not even be there at all.

Air. He hadn't realized how claustrophobic he'd been in the helmet till it was gone, till he could take shuddering, wet gasps of the planet's salt tinged air. Till he could blink at the impossibly blue sky that felt too large; smudged by...something?

He's not alone.

It isn't as frightening as it could be, good eye glazed and blown dark, tracing that weird absence of someone that may yet be someone.

There's a soft 'shhhnk' of a blade being drawn, and he peels back a glove. Presses it to his palm, enough to draw a dribble of blood free from skin that is too reluctant to break easily. But it's enough to keep him.

A second later and that unseen force is grasping at the back of York's head, tipping it back ever so slightly, before that sliver of wet, warm red is pressed to the locksmith's mouth.

No words. No prelude. No explanation, but there's precious little time in this moment for that. York has to decide what he's going to do about this very strange situation, and do so quickly.

Part of him wants to laugh at the knife- that's kind of redundant with him bleeding out, isn't it? It is. He's shot up and dying and god, he's dying. Not ready and what about Delta scrambling so hard in the back of his mind to keep him calm. To keep him comfortable as his body begins to shut down.

His head tipping back doesn't register save for more of that blue- and then there's something in his mouth that's wet and bittersweet and he's not-

Delta bids him swallow to clear his airways, to buy them a few more precious seconds of time- and he does. His mouth fills and he drinks, uncertain what it is he's tasting, but drinking none the less.

There.

What a waste, he can't help but think. Good men and women, torn to pieces and slaughtered for what? Not even in some great, noble war meant to save humanity, but for something petty and small and impossible. This one, however. This one still had some spirit left.

He might do.

Just a taste. A few small slow gulps to heal the most dire of his wounds, but it wouldn't save him. Not entirely. It would keep him from bleeding out if nothing else, and they had to journey back to the city in order to find his current place of rest.

Lifting him, even in the armor, was easy enough. Making their way unnoticed might be more challenging, but he'd do what he could to keep them both unseen. What was the saying? Out of sight...

Wrapped up in her vengeance- Tex wouldn't notice. Wyoming was likewise tied up with having his face beaten in and York? Half aware, too busy simply enjoying the moment of breathing without as much effort being put into it to pay attention. The shifting of the scene registers only to Delta-

Who remains wisely silent. Whoever and whatever this thing is? It is nothing he has encountered before.

In short order, they make their way back to the familiar landscape of the city. A chained bunker door unlocks, the chain unraveling and sinking to the ground before the doors open to darkness below...

There is a table. Racks of supplies, and a bed. It's spartan at best, but it will be safe enough for the time being. York is deposited onto one of those beds to ride out the tremulous high of the blood, while his host sets about locking the doors behind them.

No sense inviting others to join them.

Initially it'd been a buzz in the back of his mind, clashing with the morphine. As his wounds held off on actually killing him and the painkillers went dull and distant and dead- everything felt...amazing.

Intense.

Like having every nerve in his body cranked up to 11, like that first moment he had Delta implanted with none of the frustrations of having been knocked down an eye. He shudders in the mattress, eyes flicking from point to point as he tries to pick out what's happening-

And who's saved him.

"How do you feel, Agent York?"

That shadow falls over him again, but this time it has form. Mass. Armor, too, the helmet of which is removed as York continues to stare, though with the light coming from behind him? It's doubtful he can make out anything beyond a shape.

"Like-" God and his own voice is rough to his ears, like halfway through a good lay or a joint like back in Uni, floating and throaty and goddamn he hopes he's not sporting a half chub behind the codpeice because that'd be fucking awkward. "I'm. Drugged?"

It had to be some kind of miracle medical fucking thing but- he'd drank it. Not. Injected it.

"Not drugged, no."

Not precisely, anyway. He should know the nature of what is being offered before accepting. That, he's always been very certain of. So far, he's had those that will refuse. Perhaps York will as well.

He has his hopes, of course. These men and women seem like they could be proper kin, more than anyone else.

He moves, settling himself on the edge of the bed where York now lies. He can smell no fear on him. That is a start.

"What you feel is what is keeping you alive. It will not do so forever."

"Oh. Then..." Keeping his thoughts in order is difficult between the high and the bloodloss and Delta trying to find some kind of rational explanation. Coming up empty isn't helpful but he's too tired to be afraid.

As ever- he's more curious than anything else.

"Why save me?" Because that's what he's done. Whatever's keeping him around- is only doing so because this guy with his rich, rumbling, compelling voice that warms him down to the bone decided to play hero.

"Because I know you. Or rather, I know of you. You were used, manipulated, your comrades were taken from you, and now you are left alone. To squalor and obscurity. You could become so much more."

One hand absently moves towards his throat, to check his pulse. Those fingers are cold, so very cold against his skin, even as it remains cooled from bloodloss.

"As I did."

"M'okay with obscurity." Squalor was...safe. Under the radar, gone without notice was the plan. He doesn't want to be known. He doesn't want to be seen or heard or have the UNSC come down on his head. They'd take Delta and lock him up-

Or just shoot him.

Looks like Reggie just skipped a few steps. The thought's almost funny up till those icy fingers trail against his throat and that- after cooking in his suit for the whole trek over? Feels blissful. "Catch. What's the- what's the catch?"

"You've tasted death. If you would rather it take you, I will respect your wish. No one should become this against their will."

His head cocks slightly.

"You will know hunger that never ends. Sunlight on your bare skin will turn you to ash. But in exchange? You will live. You will be strong. You will endure things no mortal man can."

"...will I be alone?" There's a brief twinge in the back of his mind that Delta suppresses. D is and isn't company and he knows that. They are...they complete one another in a way. But he isn't sufficient social interaction.

York needs people. And he is tired to death of being alone. Of this self inflicted solitary lifestyle. It gnaws at him more and more every passing day, every year chipping away at his ability to keep moving forward. The details don't matter.

Being alone? Does.

That earns pause. That gets Locus looking at him with curiosity. Everything else set aside, the thing that concerns York the most is whether or not he's alone?

He can understand, of course. He's spent a great deal of time alone. He knows what it's like as the years creep by with nothing but your own company, and how very surreal it all feels. The prospect of company...

Well. Maybe it appeals to them both.

"Not if you don't want to be." That hand cups against his throat. "You can come with me, if you wish."

"Then I'm in." Death or life, okay. Life as long as he wants- but alone? No. He-

No. the past five years were proof enough that he can't handle it well. Doesn't even know this man's name, only that he's cold and calm and certain and that voice is compelling in ways he's too tired, too aching for any kind of contact to look at too closely.

"If- if I'm with you?" Cold and here and- he's here. That's all York needs. "then I'm in."

"Be certain," he replies softly. He can say that now, but once it is done it is done, and the ways out of that life are deeply unpleasant and quite permanent.

But York has the bearing of a man with nothing left to lose.

A moment later and Locus lifts his wrist. Again, the knife flicks out of its sheath, and he presses the blade to his skin. He presses deep, deep, enough that the blood will flow until he seals it himself.

It dribbles across York's arm as he lifts his arm, offering it to York where he lies.

"Drink."

Old stories come to bear in the back of his mind and those Delta latches onto with a desperate need for some kind of outline of what's happening. Sunlight, endurance, blood-

Vampire?!

It does not make sense. These things are not real and yet- and yet what was drunk saved York until now. The man before them is cold and has a weight to him Delta cannot explain. York...

York doesn't need to be told twice. Whatever this is, whatever it means? He won't be alone. He won't die over nothing. That's worth any price. He lifts a shaky hand to the man's wrist and puts his lips to the cut, drinking more bittersweet blood that sings to his very bones.

When he draws from that font, Locus feels it. The blood tugs through him like a string, pooling into York and binding through him. Alone? No. He is joined now, forever, no matter how far apart they may travel. Locus is his maker, his sire, his partner in this new life.

Over his tongue it falls. Swift, dark and heady, filling all the hollow spaces inside him and rendering them hardened and strong. He will have to die but a very, very short death. Then?

Anything is possible. And someone like him, clever and bold, could make a great deal of his life. Perhaps pull them both in a worthwhile direction.

That gnawing ache is the first thing to go, washed from his gut in short order by this thick, rich lifeline. The bitterness becomes less and less until all he can taste is warmth and a mineral delight, sweet like honey on the back of the tongue, warming him right through. A new ache starts to coalesce- the hunger he mentioned.

He'd read enough stories to know how that worked and gone hungry enough to be familiar with that craving- but the more he drank the more he needed, the easier it became to cling to his saviour's wrist and hold that font to his lips.

Like a man in a desert given his fill he drinks, and like a starving glutton- he takes more than enough that he ought to be ill. And yet he still thirsts.

Oh, he will be ill. But that comes in time. And the blood has caught, he sees it in the renewed strength of his grip, the pained look on his face as he drinks. It's turning from euphoria to frenzy, and that is the point at which Locus reaches for him. Peels his hand away and pushes him firm but gentle into the sheets.

"Enough."

Those pale gray-green eyes watch him closely, as that hand stays balanced on his chest to keep him down and in place. This will hurt him, but Locus will stay. He will watch over him throughout.

For what he's done to him, he owes him that much.

Losing that connection felt like pulling delta- suddenly half blind and deaf and too slow for his own good, cold leeching in under feverish heat. He whimpers, hands clasped around the wrist of the hand pinning him, but doesn't reach for the blood again. The soothing warmth has gone searing, arcing through him in a bone deep crackling- carving through old wounds and new alike to lick them into mending.

Under it all delta panics. locks down involuntary muscle spasms, keeps york from twisting or arching up inside the armor and damaging it or himself. A cool wash of green against the boiling heat that thrums and pulses and scrapes him clean image and out, both eyes snapping open as the frosted glass of his cornea clears like so much fog over a window wiped away.

There's a moment of brilliant joy- he can see, he can breathe he's healed- delta lighting up behind his eyes in a frantic wash of glowing green as all of that cuts down to nothing- heart hammering too fast, clenching, shuddering-

Giving out entirely as york shudders and goes limp against the bedsheets, eyes still lit up from within even as his body shuts down.

'LIAR', the speakers on York's suit crackle once as all goes dark.

Now where is that light coming from? That voice? It must be the AI, still present within him, and that AI must know that his heart just stopped beating. How infuriating it must be, to be trapped helpless within a dying man's mind. Locus shakes his head, his hand remaining where it is, braced for...

Well. For what comes next.

"I did not lie. This is what is required."

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