anothercontinuity | Red vs Blue pt 2

"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."

'you said you would save him-' a moment is an eternity to a ai and for a horrible moment, york is dead. Cold neurons and meat and nothing of the mind he's called Home. Nothing of his friend.

Then a spark, agonizing beyond his capacity to regulate has York's body- no- york arcing upward like he's been electrocuted. Convulsing stronger, faster than delta can keep up with to lock down and minimize damage. 'what have you done to him-'

That hand presses down to keep him steady, keep him flat against the sheets as he writhes through the worst of it. "I've ended his old life...and given him a new one."

One with untold possibility. Death? Less so. He would have bled out there, ignoble and forgotten, and what a waste that would have been. In truth, he'd hoped for a companion, someone who could understand him and this age they both existed in. York could provide that.

He simply had to fight for it. For a soldier? That should be as natural an impulse as any.

The noises twisting out of York are wretched, almost inhuman. Deep, full throated cries that Taper into wounded sobs, fingers clawing at the sheets. It hurts- everything too sharp, like ground glass under his skin, like needles under his nails, like fire in his veins. Words start to form, broken and begging.

"Please, please-" make it end, bring the sweeter warmth back. Make it good again, not this-

"Fight."

Locus's fingers curl against him, and a softer man might have taken pity on him. Shown him some mercy. But there can be no softness now, not when he is so close. Instead, he leans over him, breaking all sight of the light beyond.

"Fight death back and tell it it has no power over you. It never will again. Fight, Agent York."

He remembers what it felt like, the agony, but it will pass. He will open his eyes to a new world, see it as though for the first time. Locus remains there, just above him, holding him in place before bloodied fingers reach to touch the side of his face. Skin to skin. A reminder.

"I am with you."

How do you fight something in your own skin? Delta scrambles along the neural lace to assist where he can but there's so much. Too much. Bright and brilliant and burning even him- everything feels as though it would break, like the very wires where he lives might melt.

York whines, a sharp, visceral keening that's three parts pain and two parts pure obscenity- arching one last time before leaning bodily into the hand on his cheek. A point of contact. Not alone, never alone again-

Edited 2017-07-19 20:14 (UTC)

The wound on his wrist is slowly closing, and he shifts, cupping a hand to it lest the smell of the blood warp York's senses entirely. It can become a focal point too quickly, and it is not the one he needs right now.

"Open your eyes."

As sudden as the pain came- it's over. He feels...heavy and cold and hungry and exhausted, something in him aching for...

The rumble of that voice settles him, eyes flicking open the moment he asks. Now he can pick out the details- green eyes, dark hair, strong jaw. He should...have something to say. Something smart.

But ask he can do is stare with sharper eyes than he's ever had before and murmur- "always been a sucker for green eyes."

"Hn."

Locus gives him a considering look before drawing back, allowing him room to rise at his own speed and take in his surroundings. Nothing spectacular to look at down here, but the difference should be obvious to someone who'd been half-blind and seeing the world through mortal eyes.

"Not your primary impetus for making that choice, I'm certain."

"Not dying kinda took priority, but the green eyes help." He smirks and it feels right for the first time in years, no crooked tug because the scar? Is gone. He's whole again in a way he hasn't been in awhile and-

Delta's a cool, grounding influence in the back of his mind, but he's not alone they're anymore. There's...Not a presance. An awareness of...The guy he had no name for that still has the whole of his attention as he sits up. Okay.

Vampire. Sires? Was that the term? "So...what do I call you? You know me, apparently. Which only now strikes me as creepy."

"Locus."

There are no titles that need to go along with that, no allusion to servitude or anything of that sort. He might have made York what he is now, but he is still his own creature. This life is his to make of what he wishes.

He rises, the pressure leaving the bed.

"I'd been observing the Freelancers for some time. Or what remains of you. The Director has hidden himself away, and the remnants now close in upon themselves." He'd just happened to be in the right place at the right time to see York fall, and be there to retrieve him.

"Oh, good. Cuz if I had to call you master or daddy for the rest of forever shit was gonna get awkward." And probably not in the way locus expects. It feels... everything feels so intense. Bright and loud and fascinating, he loses half a moment to the acute awareness of the neural lace in his own brain, of the soft hum of the circuitry. That's...trippy.

"Why, though? And why me?"

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