#6355

Weapons au Russainz for you......

The desert wind stung Carlos’s eyes as he stepped off the ledge of the broken outpost. The sun was dipping low, casting everything in that dull, apocalyptic orange, like the whole world had been toasted over something unforgiving.

The message had come in as static. Then the words sharpened like a blade.

Mercedes Hunter under DRS overconsumption. Immediate cease required.

And Carlos knew. Even before he followed the drag marks through the sand. Before he found the trail of blood—human blood, dark and real and wrong—he knew.

Someone has gone rogue.

Carlos’s steps slowed as he crossed into the crater.

There he was.

Silver blood streaked George’s mouth and eyes, glistening on the edge of his visor like mercury tears. His fencing sword hung limp at his side, its tip trailing lazy circles in the sand. His other hand twitched like it didn’t know what to do—fight or hold or run or surrender.

He looked up.

And for a moment, the halo of DRS around his eyes flared like a crown. Piercing. Burned through the air and right through Carlos’s chest.

Carlos took one breath—just one—and stepped forward.

“George,” he called. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

George didn’t speak. His head tilted slightly, like a predator registering sound. The fencing blade lifted a little, enough to send a sharp bolt of dread through Carlos’s ribs.

“Please put down the sword,” Carlos said, trying to keep his voice level. “You don’t want to do this.”

Still no answer. But George was listening. His body twitched, caught in that god-haze that came when the DRS took too much.

Carlos stepped closer. The heat wrapped around them like a noose. Sand gritted in his teeth.

“You know it’s me,” Carlos said. “Right? You know who I am.”

No response. But something faltered in the glow of George’s eyes. A flicker. A shadow of a person still buried in there.

Carlos swallowed hard.

“You remember the time I passed out after a night run and you carried me back like a fucking hero? You didn’t even say anything. Just threw me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes.”

A choked noise—almost a laugh. Almost.

“You made me soup, George. It was shit. But you tried.”

Still nothing from him. But Carlos kept talking. He had to.

“You told me once I looked like a bull that got stabbed but kept standing anyway. I thought it was an insult, but you meant it like you were impressed. You told me—if we made it through this season, you’d come with me. Quiet life. Somewhere nobody remembered our names.”

George's sword dropped a little.

“I wanted that,” Carlos whispered. “I still do.”

Silence.

Then George moved.

Not an attack. Just a step. Shaky. Like his legs might give out. His mouth opened like he was about to speak—but only more silver blood came out, dripping down his chin.

Carlos’s breath caught.

“Hey,” he said quickly, stepping forward, hands up. “Look at me. You’re still in there. I see you.”

George’s head jerked to the side. He looked at the fencing sword in his hand like he didn’t know how it got there.

“Let it go,” Carlos said. “Please.”

For a moment—just a moment—George did. His fingers loosened. The sword slipped a few inches.

Then something changed.

The halo around his eyes sparked white-hot again. A sharp convulsion rippled through him, and George stumbled back a step like something inside him had snapped tight. The DRS surged.

Carlos felt it in his bones before he saw it.

“No,” he said under his breath.

George’s head shot up, eyes blown wide with light, a sound ripping from his throat—more beast than human.

“George!”

Amazing art by @arinabay to which I gift this fic (ly)

“Lando,” another voice joins, much lower in timber, as the door not too far behind Lando’s shoulders suddenly opens with a muted creak. “Could you please not yell in front of my clients?” George only needs a single glance to know that he is utterly, irremediably, completely fucked, and his dreams will probably be filled with images of a sharp jaw and the fullest pouty bottom lip and the softest hair falling over the softest brown eyes for weeks, if not for the rest of his time, really.

Or: George, Carlos and the Christmas atmosphere