#phaselockandload

He stood in that spot for a long time, just staring, wondering why he was here, what he’d been thinking when he’d decided this was a good idea. There were already a myriad of memories crowding at the edges of his mind, each one demanding to be played back in all it’s pristine glory. Without even realizing it, his feet carried him forward, automatically ducking into the opening of a cave hidden behind the rocks, carefully disguised so only those who knew what to look for could find it.

It was almost exactly as he’d left it and Zer0 isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed by that fact. There’s dirt blown in over the floor and furniture, evidence of stalkers having poked around inside, but no real damage. Hardly any change. The mattresses he’d dragged in here were still in their place, stripped bare but intact, and when he looks he can see her laying there, stretched out and dozing while he cleans his weapons after a long day, hair askew and lips slightly parted in drowsy relaxation. 

He jerks, stumbles in that direction, ends up sitting on the couch somehow with his helmet discarded on the ground. He can see her everywhere, tiny moments that play back for him, unseen in his human eye but so very clear in the cybernetic one he can’t close to block them out. The bed is the worst, quiet, sometimes fumbling but always sincere intimacy layered over and over while his memory whirred and tried to find something to focus on. He gasps, threads fingers into hair that’s grown past his shoulders, fallen from the ponytail he keeps it in now. Finally the barrage slows and his mind latches on to a moment.

He wished dearly that it hadn’t.

He’d slipped out of bed, reading the message over and over to be sure it was real. Not all of his former contacts had deserted him or tried to use him when he’d briefly reappeared with Maya, a few had surprised him with support and he’d been getting updates from them occasionally. This one though... Three of his friendly contacts murdered, each left with a message for him, this latest contact terrified they’d be next and trying to warn him of the danger. One. He’d discounted the name before, written it off but now... One and siren hunters, murdered contacts, a message containing all they’d known about this rival assassin. He’d flicked through it all night, Maya sleeping peacefully though she’d stirred a bit when he’d gotten up. Before the sun rose again he’d made a decision and he’d known he would hate himself for it, she would hate him for it, but this... to lose her forever in death would kill him. The thought froze him to the bone. He had to protect her... But a person’s memory is a strange thing and one thought does not lead in a linear pattern to another.

One was laughing, driving a sword so like Zer0′s own through Zer0′s chest, immobilizing him with his own damn memories. Injuries stack on top of each other, nicks and scrapes and deep slices carved out of his flesh, a smashed visor revealing his face, blood dripping into his eye, cuts caused by the sharp pieces rattling around inside his helmet. No one to keep him in one piece but himself.

Zer0 screamed, clutched at his chest, remembered pain exploding into his senses so strongly he staggers. He doesn’t know when he stood up but as One presses his sword through him and out his back, a detached part of him knows he won’t keep his feet for long. The other assassin is just as beat up as he is, their fight having been long and bloody, two cybernetic eyes staring back at Zer0 from where he’d punched a hole in the other’s helmet as payback for his own.  A hand locks around Zer0′s throat and his scream turns to a wheeze, head lifted so One can properly regard him.

“After I kill you I’ll be sure to bring your head back for her. At least give her something to bury before I sell her off.” The scream of rage is all Pandora, all the pure survival the planet forces one to learn, all for her. He knows he moved but doesn’t know which one of him it was until there’s a clattering crash that rocks him out of the memory just barely enough to register he’d knocked into the table, sent something loudly to the ground. A jar, a large one full of bits and pieces of metal, bullets stained rusty red, shrapnel with blackened edges. He reaches for it with shaking hands, pulls it against his chest. Its something physical, something real, something he can use to ground himself. How many pieces of metal, bits of former pain were here that they’d pulled out of each other? How many times did they save each other? How often had they sat here, on that couch, at that table, and taken care of each other?

Slowly the pain subsided and he could breathe again, the jar now spider-webbed with cracks from where it had hit the floor but intact all the same. He held it against his chest as he levered himself upright, throat sore from screaming, head bruised from his fingers digging at the seam between man and metal, but still here, still here. The jar is cradled tight, a shield against the flow of memories he can’t stop seeing, a physical barrier between him and things that were no longer here. It’s all he can do to replace his helmet and stagger home, fall into his bed exhausted with the jar still held against his chest and an anxious stalker on his legs and waist. He weeps through the night but greets the sun feeling somehow a little better, a tiny bit lighter.