#thsc fic

On his desk already contrived of paperwork that Henry didn't want to do, his right hand lady, Ellie decided to eagerly smack a stack of photos on top.

"Told you we'll find him" She snickers, and Henry's eyes lit up, picking up a photo. "Our little birdie looks so beautiful"

The photo is their birdie in civilian clothes and without his signature red headset. He sits alone in a small library with an equally dinky looking coffee shop. In a rural town in the middle of butt fuck nowhere and on top of it in another country.

Henry traced the man's soft jawline, softer then it was before, and almost shuddered at the thought they'll be able to see him again. Its been five agonizing years since they last saw him, had their hands on him and felt his warmth when he suddenly disappeared suddenly without a trace. Even the Toppats with all their advanced technology couldn't uncover that mystery wrapped up in army green. However both the chief and his right hand knew full well that the military and the pesky senile General helped make it happen.

Oh how Henry wanted to strip and pick that geezer clean of his flesh. The awful amount of torture methods that would've been used to pry that information out to see their bird again was astronomical. It was macabre and surely crossed the line of morality which he knew if he'd actually gone ahead their tiny bird wouldn't have ever forgiven him.

Something to the effect of their bird having a ridiculously unfair sentimentality for the old man.

It was stupid. Horrid. A betrayal. His heart breaks as what did that General do to gain such unwavering respect and love from the pilot?

But not for him. Not for Ellie. Neither got that sweet treatment and its as if the pilot is doing this on purpose just to upset them. Or he hoped it was done from oblivious naivety since their bird isn't exactly the smartest and couldn't help leading people on.

So while simmering to himself, Ellie piped up again, reassuring, "Thought he'll be able to leave us behind like that. So cruel of him. We need to gently remind him and that his brazen actions have grand consequences"

Rather then dwell Henry nods, kept his rapt attention on the photos as there's twenty to thirty five of them altogether. Some better taken then others, close ups and others are taken from many miles away. The first half of the bunch are his favorite as he noted the physical changes in the other man, greedily eats them up.

"Come here, Rose" He murmured weakly to her. The redheaded smiled, walking around the desk to him, and sat on is lap. "These are my favorite" A finger deliberately tapped on a couple set aside.

"Ah, yes. He's changed so much, didn't he? I guess being missing and not in the military is doing things for him… Good things" Ellie draws out.

He wakes to the faint beeping of machinery, panic smacked on his face and gasping like he just ran a marathon.

“Hey, easy, easy!” A blonde woman exclaims to him in a thick Russian accent, pink glasses drooping down her face while her hands motioned in an effort to calm him down. “You were gone for a bit. I was able to bring you back to life.”

Huh, he thinks. That was pretty nice of her. He didn’t know anyone but him could really bring anyone back to life, but then again Right had been pretty badly injured after what Henry had done to him when he was supposed to be infiltrating the Airship, so.

The woman goes on to explain how his spine and arm had to be replaced, and oh, that’s why his back feels so cold. Staring at his metal hand, though, he had to admit it looks pretty sick.

“You ran in with ‘Toppat Clan,’ eh?” She says, waving a little bit with her hands right above her head. He nods. “I’ve encountered them before.”

Where are they, anyway? How long has he been out? The last thing he remembered was falling and falling, the sting of betrayal in his eyes, and the all too familiar smack of pain as his body hit the ground. After that, everything went dark.

Where is he? He runs to the door of the ship he’s on and sees water wherever he looks. The doctor who found him says something about how he’s still healing, but honestly, he’s never felt better.

“They went south, if you are wondering.” She informs him when he turns to look back at her. “About ten hours ago.”

Okay. Ten hours. He could work with that. He’s stolen a diamond bigger than him in less than thirty minutes, he could find the Toppats in three hours, tops.

There’s a button over his chest, and he hits it lightly. A pair of plane-like wings expand across his back, already dripping with fire. It’s like his entire body is preparing for his revenge.

“Wow, you are learning so quickly!” The doctor says, looking genuinely impressed. He barely has the chance to smile at her before his wings propel him in the air, the wind blows against his face, and he’s off, a man on a mission.

                                                        xxx

He chooses to call the Toppats.

Reginald picks up, which is surprising considering the fact that he called from an unknown number. Most ex-leaders of a world famous criminal organization don’t typically answer phone calls from random people, so for once, it seems Henry lucked out.

Turns out, the Toppats’ Airship was quite a bit away from the Wall.

He’s still on the fence about calling them, despite the fact that the deed was already done. If this sort of thing had happened to him a few months back, he would have just busted out of here by himself. But, hey, if he’s got friends now, he might as well ask for help, right?

He doesn’t know. He's still pretty new to the whole “having friends” thing. Up until just a couple months ago, he’d always worked alone. He does care about the Toppat Clan, and they must care about him. Right? That’s what friends were, right? He doesn’t know. They’re the closest thing he’s got.

He gets a call back from Reginald, finally, after what feels like hours. They’re right outside. Thank god, if he sat here in complete boredom any longer instead of just calling it quits and trying something else, he was going to scream.

He smiles. It’ll be good to be back home, with the Toppats where he belongs. Friends help each other out, right? That’s what friends were for.

That’s what friends were for.

                                                       xxx

The airship crashes into the rocket with a flash of white, and he can do nothing but watch.

He closes his eyes when they collide. He’s not proud of the fact, but it’s instinct. His ears are overflowing with the sounds of screams and creaking metal.

He wonders if he passed out. He opens his eyes, staring at Reginald and Reginald staring at him. “Well… you got us.” He says, words wheezy with cough. “Was it… worth it?”

Was it?

Reginald droops over with a final breath, and then he is gone.

The airship is crumbling, the world is bursting into flames around him, and Henry knows that he is dying.

It’s nothing new, really. He’s died more than anyone he’s ever met. But this feels… different, somehow. Like an ending. Like a finalty. Like a conclusion. Not one that is good or bad, but just is.

Was it worth it?

He doesn’t know.

As he feels the metal that replaced his spine crackle with broken energy, as he sees the crackle of flames as the pieces of the airship fall apart and broken bodies that were people he knew, as he hears the confused and pained yells of any surviving Toppats that he once had led, it sure doesn’t feel like it.

But he got his revenge, didn’t he? That had been what he’d wanted. Reginald’s dead. That had been what he’d wanted.

He may be dying, but not here. Not on the Airship had once been his, not surrounded by all of this. He’s died on this stupid ship enough. He doesn’t want to do it again. This, all this chaos and carnage can’t be the last thing he sees.

He’s died plenty of times by now. Just once, just this once, he wants it to be on his own terms.

It’s surprisingly difficult to force himself up the mountain. Guess that’s what happens when your support systems are slowly failing. It’s a lot less painful than one would assume; sure, it hurts, but it’s more of a dull ache than something sharp. This time, he knows that death will feel more like a sleep than a sudden stop.

He’s been through a lot worse than this.

He makes it to the mountain, and finally, finally, he can rest.

So this is how he ends. Not with a bang, but with a breath.

Was it worth it? Was it worth it?

He dies the same way he lived: alone.

                                                       xxx

He’s not sure how long he’s been here, stuck in this sort of limbo.

If this is some sort of ending, why is he still here, trapped in some kind of dream-like state? Why hasn’t he moved on? Is this hell? Was he really bad enough to go to hell? He’s not at all religious, but you learn a lot about death after killing and being killed.

And he has killed. A lot. Was that it? Was that what he did wrong? Normally when he did something he wasn’t supposed to, time would just restart, but it hasn’t done that yet. He’s sure he’s dead. He must be dead. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Surely, he must have done something wrong if he wasn’t given a chance to try again. Every time he’s made the wrong choice, he’s been given another chance. Was this it? Was that how he ended, with so much and so little fanfare?

Perhaps it’s for the best. He cares for no one and no one cares for him. Perhaps it would be best if he were to die here.

…

No.

He doesn’t want that.

He does not want to die here. He’s lived his life out, sure, but there must be something else he can do. Everyone is dead. He is dead. He doesn’t want it to stay like this, not when there are other things to do. He won’t die here, not with this feeling of want for more, something better, something where everything will work out. He won’t let it end like this.

He won’t let it end like this.

                                                       xxx

Once the clock hits two am, Hubert found himself with a fierce headache. The pain at first started behind his eyes then gradually it got worse like someone was splitting his skull in half to root inside. It hadn't helped too well either the day he had was long and tedious, that he's also running on fumes to boot.

Right now he should be asleep but with the amount of work on his desk piling up it's far from the end. So tensely he flipped through a dozen folders scattered messily across the surface. All of them he'd already seen many times, got uncomfortably familiarized with and felt utterly lost in.

Hubert regretted staying up late for this but pushes past the exhaustion and plucked out from the pile, a particular file; a nearly year old case. Despite being considered as one of the 'younger' case, it did get pushed aside by more cases that continued piling in. Now as his hand grazes the folder, he's half tempted to ignore it, knowing full on well there's not a single thing he can do to help. Once he did try only to have it blow up in his face.

While everyone else moved on, he lets the remorse and guilt devour him alive from the inside out.

A fool was he to think such an ostentatious plan would ever work? That the Toppats wouldn't retaliate.

Hell! He gifted them a new chief, by total accident mind you, so hellbent on ensuring anyone affiliated in the military lives totally unbearable. It hadn't helped that the thief is influential, known worldwide to be cleverly conniving with this sort of unnatural luck on his side.

People understandably blame Hubert for the horrible mess they're in. Whether they say it directly to him or behind his back, his reputation never really bounced back. As so the position of General he vied for no doubt flushed down the drain. Nearly costing him his current role because of the massive fuck up.

Thankfully they choose otherwise, giving a scrap of mercy, pathetic as it was to receive and clearly it was conditional. It didn't stop them from treating him like a joke that fell flat afterward, Hubert pinched at the bridge of his nose rather hard, and exhales shakily once then twice before he reluctantly opens up the folder with a flick in the wrist.

Set in front of him are graphically detailed snapshots of a targeted attack, there was no need. The clan struck down a military plane passing the jungle, delivering shipments to people afflicted by the conflict. Although it wasn't the worst attack they've observed so far since this conflict started, Hubert can't stop the pained wince from appearing on his face.

When they found the burnt remnants of the plane two weeks later, tangled by the jungle tree's thick, miles long vines in mid motion, using them as a makeshift safety net. But it hadn't spared the aircraft entirely from the harsh decent, tearing off a wing, crumpling the other and clogged the engines up with an unknown sticky material.

So Hubert shuffled the photo of the plane behind another, a dozen in total involving the untimely deaths. Two bodies seared to a charred crisp. One gotten grossly fused into their seat it'd proved incapable of letting go. Their skin melted down to taut muscle and brittle bones. Carefully they had to remove the entire chair with the body still in it, and as they managed to strip off the uniform to saw the gold star medallions etched deeply in the blood red muscle.

Whereas the second victim, the soldier they assigned for extra protection, they assumed to be standing when the incident occurred, is found laying near the cockpit. Their body twisted in an unnatural angle, limbs broken and bones poking out split flesh. A crudely taken close up reveals the concave head as half the skull brutishly shoved in.

People were taken aback, couldn't stop from puking at the atrocity and Hubert's relieved to have an iron will to stomach it. He knew both of the deceased in varying depths and their names are written somewhere in the files, returning them back to the folder.

Then his mood sours at the images on the cockpit. At the minimal damage. The thin layer of a soapy foam substance coating the walls and control board. What's more is the missing third victim, the pilot nowhere to be seen yet people are quick in assuming he must've been flung out the front windows, his body seemingly lost to the jungle.

However for Hubert, nothing made sense to him and demanded desperately that they at least do a through search. They did give it a day, not even a full one, just for the sake of closing the case quicker. Since everyone bar him settled on the likely idea that the native wildlife probably discovered the third body way before they received news on the crash and arrived on the isolated island.

What a sick thought.

Last thing Hubert wants is to imagine the pilot's soft cherub face contorted in horror, watching helplessly as animals devour him. As sharp claws hungrily slashing him open, then pull out vulnerable organs, pulsating in huge paws. Teeth bigger then a humans, nibbling on and sucking out bone marrow while its prickly tongue greedily slurped up blood. Torn from limb to limb, body pieces scattered over the land, a needle in the hay pile.

A choked hiss escapes the old man. Clammy hands grasps at his chest, nails embedded in the shirt, heart pounding rhythmically like a hurricane underneath his ribcage. Every single time he tried to close his eyes, flashes of blood and guts awaits him. Screams filled his ears along with the crackling of fire and roars of cannibalistic hunger.

In an frenzied burst of energy and emotion, Hubert hauls himself off the chair, taking it nearly with him in the motion. Letting go is equally abrupt, dropping the chair onto the floor as he stumbles over to the counter. An old coffeemaker resides, empty, beckoning for a refill.

So he brews a new batch. Plain, bitter and black. Nothing special. It should be enough to make it through the day which remained a mystery as to how he stayed even remotely functional. Now with an empty cup in hand Hubert watches the clock tick by and it'll be morning soon.

In the back of an off-duty vehicle and right behind the passenger seat with two officers of much higher say rank up in front, Hubert stared at his watch on his left wrist, tapping the glass in anxious repetition. Finally after spending a good six hours from noon to five pm, they're just now returning to base from what's likely going to end up being the next polarizing thing.

It had involved an influential politician and his family. The man in question was alright although Hubert never met him, only heard of from through the grape vines. A shame it is as he was really young, in his mid thirties and barely stepped a toe into his career half a decade ago.

Kid could've gone to great places if it hadn't been for a small gaggle of Toppats accosted him in the dead of a Friday night. They held the young man at gunpoint and by excessive force made him empty his bank accounts or as much as this can be remotely fruitful for them. Then forced him into his car, drove to his house and held the entire family, his wife, mother, young children, hostage since late that Friday night until early on Sunday morning.

"God… Did you see what they did to those poor children?"

Suddenly and unwanted the wind beating against the windows stops as the car drives up to a light and the passenger in the front, his gravely voice cutting the tension like a knife.

"You're telling me" The driver mumbles in kind. "A whole family massacred"

This was a message that crossed the line yet made a point. No longer would the Toppats direct their wrath solely at the government anymore but towards civilians unwillingly thrown in the middle.

Dread washed over Hubert, causing him to unclench and clench his fists. Inevitably the news will get hold of this, asking questions that demanded answers to while airing out the unthinkable crime across the country's television screens.

Maybe they'll have tact to be respectful to the victims. Hubert can only hope. Nobody should have to die because of his mistakes.

Then the car picks up as it takes a right turn once the light turns green. Left ignored in the backseat, Hubert sits stiffly upright, his hands folded on his lap. Thoughts running a mile a minute while their voices fizzles to the background.

Seen this as a blessing in trauma inflicted disguise since his hearing had been on the steady decline for years. Better then to hear them openly discussing death on a Monday afternoon, normal as it can be.

The peace is disrupted by an obscenely loud cackling sound from the car's radio set only for the military.

"Toppat aircraft seen descending into the Earth's orbit"

Abruptly the conversation dies on the spot and Hubert immediately perks up, sliding the upper half of his body to better hear.

"Struck a military grade plane in passing, causing significant damage to the plane" The broadcaster's voice spoke in urgency, a mix of concern and confusion. A gasp from the passenger when the driver accidentally pressed his foot flat to the floor of the gas pedal, correcting it with the breaks, "The pod then proceeded to crash into an office building on a base stationed in the north east district"

The motion made his hands grip the seat of the passenger's leaning forward, not by his own choice, waiting for an explanation.

Once the pod broke through the exosphere, Charles slumped back in his seat just barely lucid. Exhaustion taking hold that his head begins to dip forward and for a split second allowed himself the luxury. For the months he spent being held captive, sleep itself, that even the lack of it had been used as leverage against him.

They stripped any resemblance of agency at the nub, meretriciously breaking him down bit by bit. At first, using typical methods of torture; something that Charles is trained to withstand.

Once stubborn as a mule. One of his best if not also worst trait, which worked out well for him until a little over a month and half into his imprisonment when they decided to change strategy;

Charles wakes up alone in a stale, lifeless metal room, no bigger then a standard closet with a headache. While a gag is unceremoniously cut from his own uniform and shoved crudely into his mouth. As rope bound his arms across his chest; the same went for his legs, both tight to rub. It isn't the worst pain experienced, hell, its so tame he laughed and cried himself delirious in his isolation.

Suddenly blinding light pours in when the door opens with a heavy slam, casting over his tiny curled up form.

Once the light fizzles, a women struts in with silent grace.

The chief's right hand lady. Her red shoulder length hair brushed to perfection. She wore a well tailored, fitted lilac suit and matching top hat, a rose securely pinned to the silk hat band.

Behind her magenta eyes is burning intensity and the way her dark purple lips screwed into a thin frown at the sight of him told Charles all he needed to know.

That she's loyal for the clan and its leader to a dangerous fault, so if looks alone can kill, he'll be buried ten feet under cement and left alive to suffocate. As any and all military personnel were automatically on her bad side like they've slighted or hurt her in the past which probably is an unfortunate truth and damn can she hold a grudge over it.

As for him in particular, she genuinely got this mistrust. Which again isn't all that surprising neither since he did attack her multiple times during his captivity. He bit, spat, headbutted her while staying weirdly silent despite their persistence.

Acted like a rabid, caged dog since that's what they viewed him as anyways.

Now she's speaking in an even voice, whether its directly to or about him, hadn't mattered as he couldn't respond by the gag shoved in deep. Where breathing is hard enough, so he didn't try to speak.

Seemingly it hadn't matter anyways. A heeled foot kicked him in the stomach. Hard. It sucked the very air out from his lungs, causing him to hack, tears threatened to bubble yet none slip, fighting to keep them at bay.

Apparently it wasn't the reaction she sought.

Each attempt she made afterwards got worse then the last and on occasion did switched to punches that he swore heard the bones in his ribs crack. Eventually she pulls back, perhaps even realizing this became uselessly trivial, he isn't going to break in such a manner.

Charles was a government dog through and through. He don't know when to quit. Doesn't break easily, so like a cockroach he jumps into action with typically the most stupidest, most dangerous plans and somehow end up alright in the end.

After some dep contemplation it seems, the deputy silently drops down to her knees where she pulls from behind her, two items revealing themselves to be long thick rope and a dagger. But what gotten him watching her every move was the weapon in particular.

It's dangerously crooked and five inches long from handle to tip. Said handle was of smooth leather, swathed in purple silk.

As her manicured nails traced his ankles while she went changing his position. She stretched his legs straight, tying the end of the new rope with the old in a double knot. On the other end, she coils the rope around both her hands, then stood up, tossing it onto the metal hook on the ceiling.

Glossed eyes flickered to the ceiling then at the right hand, her face turned blur. Charles been hung there once before by the wrists, his arms and back weep at the memory. She pulls at the rope with unnatural ease as the pilot dragged across the floor then lifted up about a foot in the air. Suspended upside down, disoriented and bruised that he hadn't noticed her hand rubs his side or the remaining tattered fabric of his shirt rip apart by the blade.

The cold seeps in his bones, similar to a resting ache but nothing comparable once the blade dug in. She starts at the hip, her pace slowly methodical and deep in it's travel.

While her free hand simply follows along, nails scratching the tender areas, sometimes poking underneath, snapping the skin free.

Acidic vomit cooks in his stomach, descending through his throat. Blood curdling screams all but pushed the disgusting action aside. Since she isn't delicate rather ruthless in her path to make him writhe, beckoning for mercy would be a lost cause.

Finally she ends the jagged carving at his left shoulder, her heels clicking, likely admiring her handiwork and at the wounds which will never properly heal.

Although he couldn't himself, certainly felt his muscle pulsate and flayed as blood dripped to a growing puddle on the floor. Charles chokes on the puke swishing in his mouth, specks of it and drool are mixed in with the puddle. Such a reprieve albeit a short and stressful one hadn't lasted long when she returned, working on the other side of his back.

Embarrassingly Charles wails openly, flailing. In result, she poked her finger fully in between the skin and muscles. She shoved the blade in a further couple inches. Fortunately for Charles, he's gifted a minuscule fortune for the pain he undergone when inevitably the light in his eyes blew out.

Abruptly snapping awake, Charles is jolted in his seat with a garbled whine as his head flips forward then harshly gets swung back on the firm pad of the seat. It worsened the headache from prior and the affliction in his spine spasm.

So he tried to focus on the thin layer of frost coating the window across him. It took him a while to stay cognizant, for his breathing to even out. Mouth hung loosely open as his tongue languidly slaps at the roof, trying to get rid of the odd, dry taste.

Charles wipes the dried drool from his chin, the sticky gunk from his eyes, as he groggily observed the door's window.

The change in scenery where the moon had merely moments ago resided is replaced by the orange ball in the sky. Clouds floating next to them, fluffy and white with the few exceptions of ones, darker, brewing in the background.

Ignoring that tidbit, he actually managed to see buildings, cars, and even people, all still miniature in size. Some moving, others not he couldn't focus on a single thing, really. It was so good to be free. In Earth's orbit.

Next moment he's smears the flowing tears across his cheeks and making his attempt to tidy up done for nothing. Wind hits the pod aggressively whereas the massive technical object continues pushing past, shaking him inside.

In the window the dark clouds fill it up that Charles couldn't see past them, so he turned around to view the screens. Something he'd chosen not to focus on. Both were blinking, as well as the dot, his destination, doing the same.

Messages pop up with codes he didn't quite get to understand once more quickly filled the screens.

Charles was, still is a pilot. This shouldn't be hard. However he's struggling to get a handle on anything.

Then a final message consumed the entire screen, reading between warnings of Error and Caution. Explaining bluntly an object is shown to be too close to the pod.

Once the dark clouds blew off there appears another object in the air with him, precisely a military grade plane. That he once flew.

So close it wasn't funny. As in the process it nearly scrapes the red pod in half.

Fortunately for the plane, it stayed on track, stabilizing easily but for him was a different case, getting spun out of whack.

Whizzing like a spinner toy as the pressure and speed alone unable to bear it, Charles blacked out then awoke again seconds later. A helpless witness when the buildings and vehicles got nearer as people fearfully run out the way.

Combat boots hit the dirt ground with a thud and the heat waves of a summer day sends him to a slight stumble. 

“Careful there, big guy” Soon in his tired haze stricken with a mild case of a heatstroke, he hears a chipper voice lull him out. “You don't want to trip over your two left feet and get a face full of the dirt below, would you?” 

Macbeth switches his drowsy attention from straight ahead over to the source. Naturally loud, booming and smooth. Sure knows how to captivate someone in one shameless easy going swoop. Intensely scolding heat rises in his broad chest up to his face with his ears getting the brunt of it, turning a bright scarlet red. He coughs in his hand then uses it after to brush aside the beads of collected sweat from his bare head. 

“It'll be very embarrassing for you, won't it?” 

It would indeed be quite the harsh fall. As the ground below was a good foot distance from where he stood on the train and it's made out from rough dirt and jagged rocks. All it would take is one single awkward misstep on those steep metal stairs to ensure Macbeth let the earth swallow him up. 

Alone he handled it well as he went to dust off the grime, ignoring the blistering pain that surfaced around his likely scratched face and trudge along as if it's nothing. However that wasn't the case here and now. If it happened in front of another soul, anyone else, he likely would be a little flustered, yes on the matter as he aggressively swore them to secrecy. 

This he couldn't hide from. Not so easily. The other man at his side was built differently, he is eagle eyed and observant. Ready to pick on the details and tear them apart. 

“Need to hold my hand to steady yourself for a sec?” He's reluctant. A hand, bandaged, is held out to him waiting for his response. Eyes flicker between the hand to the ground then back, trailing up the arm. Once the bandages stop at the elbow he notices the bare skin is a distinct charcoal color with the faint veins a light gold color. It wasn't any of his business to begin with but Macbeth had been worried about that fact with his oldest friend. The thin material protected him from serious damage, and he should know however there came the underlying fear it won't be enough. He wasn't the only one in the clan who shared a similar intuition when it came to that fact despite the man generally being a goofy guy nobody can sincerely hate. 

Why would they?

“I'm all set here” Respectfully he kept his drooping gaze set firmly to the ground, afraid it may trail further to somewhere he couldn't explain. “Thank you though”  

“Ain't going to kill you” 

Where the hand pulls away, Macbeth drags a stilted breath. Awkward tension could be cut down by a dull knife. The hand returns again with a vengeance, grabs onto his wrist to the point it begins to hurt. Yet he didn't make an attempt in tugging free. 

“Look at me” It orders him, firm, no room for an argument. Although it wasn't like Macbeth would've won anyways. He listens, steadies his slumped posture and looks up. “Good boy. I hope you do know I'm looking out for you as a friend” The unintentional pet name spoken in a whisper doesn't go unnoticed by him. Warmth uncomfortably settled in his gut. 

What he sees staring back at him does him no favors. Golden eyes with hints of vibrant orange and reds swirling together are locked onto his dull gray. As if staring at the blazing sun up in the sky up close and personal that left Macbeth in awe, he couldn't look away from. Until it burns a gaping hole into his soul. 

“I know, Choc. I know” 

A part of him nuzzled deep in his own psyche suddenly feels very inadequate compared to his friend. Where he wasn't anything special to look twice at, really, described to be dull, too rashly hot headed acting before thought and he wasn't necessarily good with either his words or feelings. Classic socially inept, cold shut in. 

Then came along Choc, a social butterfly able to light up the mood who back in the day was considered conventionally attractive, had people draping off his every word. Still was in Macbeth's eyes, only in a different way, even when long years amongst fraught sickness clearly wore down his friend. As he can look past the plentiful amount of gruesome scars on the man, across his sun kissed face, past his gold row of sharp teeth, and his unnatural skinny body, it just adds on to ruggish charm. Macbeth then scanned him from head to toe, at one time there were firm muscles laid ever so nicely on the man that had melted away to skin and bones over the years. 

“Then you should know better, right?” Choc responds in an even tone and Macbeth feels worse. He isn't intending to worry him. This isn't what he meant to do. 

“Don't need you guilting me, I know” 

“I'm not. You of all people should know that. As your closest friend. I can worry” 

Today was a stressful day as it is, being the train conductor holding both all the Toppats’ most prized possessions and the majority of their members. It was his assigned priority to travel back and forth from one port to another for the clan. So he's built to stay set on a tight schedule that he held high expectations and standards which he's behind on. However he is thankful they got to one small port despite the delay in a reasonable time frame. So he doesn't need this right now. 

Really, didn't need it as Choc's hands cupped his tentatively in utmost care and led the way. 

“Don't get time in the world for this, y’know that right?” Half-heartedly Macbeth pleads, from his free hand, fingers pinch the bridge of his flat nose, his gruff voice gains an octave then he dryly swallows. 

A chuckle bursts out of Choc, shrugging, with a twinkle in his eyes, walking a few feet from the train through a path of bushes, “Dontcha worry. I do think we can squeeze in a couple minutes and relax, yes?” Choc lazily went to suggest though they knew it wasn't a choice, more an order. 

“The others won't like it. The chief surely won't” 

“They'll survive,” Choc scoffs, a hint of hidden agitation seeps in. “Maybe not the chief in his haughtiness with that gloriously pretentious stick shoved so far up his ass”  

“Choc” 

Soon the man in question stops in his tracks in front two trees, looking behind his shoulder at Macbeth, an unreadable expression on his face until he softens and discreetly rolls his eyes. “It's true, isn't it? Someone's gonna get real tired of it soon and do something about that”

Nobody should ever be brazen to detest the chief, his diligent reign brought the clan to new heights they haven't seen in a while, at least Macbeth thought so. 

“He's under a lot of pressure” Macbeth adds in defense to the chief's name. 

“Shouldn't be having the title and power then if he can't handle it. The cracks under the so called pressure is starting to reveal itself”  

While Macbeth squirms, swaying on one foot to the other, Choc walks to a tree, presses a hand on the bark, lowering carefully to the ground. Macbeth manages to take a spare glance around, he notices they were alone, together at the train's head, and not a thing or person is there to interfere. 

Woods surrounded them, as naturally thickly settled and so the colorfully painted autumn leaves above provide a decent amount of shade for whoever rests below. 

“At least in my opinion. Though let's not talk now on it. We're here to relax” 

Still holding hands it was until Choc let go Macbeth missed the soothingly comforting contact. What he would do to touch them again, worse is he wanted a better feel, and so the familiar overbearing sensation returns in his gut. 

“For a few minutes, okay” Once he finds his voice Macbeth speaks, “And I have to leave. Get back to work” 

“Sure. Sure, workaholic you. Beats me for wanting what's best” Leaned up against the tree Choc lightly jokes, scoots off to the side giving his friend room to sit. So with a grunt, he plops on the dirt next to the man, his hat laid off to the sideline. 

“Hmm” 

Macbeth hums, head back laying on the itchy wood behind him, eyes clamped shut, thin lips pursed with his large, calloused hands folded on his chest, and legs stretched out. 

Relaxation never came to him. An unheard-of  after thought. Yet this time around somehow it was different. There's a cool breeze nipping his cheeks, so having someone's presence for example, Choc's sets him at ease. Maybe it was the stress doing this, or all the pent up tension building inside kicking the wind out of his lungs. 

He didn't know how long it was sitting there until he snapped awake covered in a cold sweat. A tingling itch burns underneath his skin near his heart. Reassured immediately when beside him Choc remained, sat cross legged, hands at his side, and staring up at the sky, and he didn't miss how peaceful his friend looked right now. 

Rather he was mesmerized by the sight. The way the sun hits in all the right angles Choc shines a radiant glow. Once again the eyes are what took the cake, so captivating he is immersed and can't look away. At one point he opens his mouth but shuts it. 

Then he catches the hand grazing across his own; he may or may not have deliberately put them aside. Long, boney fingers wrapped in tinted gauze barely touch his thick, stubby digits. Even with the bandages on, they were so elegant compared to his that's missing a few. 

Temptation struck him. 

Slowly inching towards the man's hands he hopes isn't too noticeable. Macbeth wasn't the type to ask for much anyways. A simple man with the most basic needs and the way Choc feels under his touch is addictive. What was a need turned to a strong craving unable to be explained in words. Hand holding won't do, he imagined his curious touch traveling up the man's arm to his chest, and down his waist. 

How big his hands would be wrapped around the man, so slender, waist nicely cinched in by the corset vest. Push the sweet jester to the dirt ground, not caring if they got messy in the process as they return to the station. 

“Whatcha starin’ at?” 

Macbeth is startled out by his daydreams and snaps his attention to the man who returned an odd look at him.  

“Caught you staring” Tilting his head in to a certain degree that's not known possible to a man Choc merely laughs, “Handsome, I get it” 

A hefty shove amongst his friend's laughter later, Macbeth coldly replies, “Wasn't directed at you so don't get your head aired up, pal” 

Can't help to watch the shit eating grin falter while the wrapped up hand inches away. 

“Sure. You say that like you believe it's true as fact” Choc's smile returned just as quick, all knowing yet kept silent. 

“Watch it before I wipe the smugness off you”

“Oooh I'm so scared” 

Shambling back on his feet, Macbeth knew his time was up, hearing faint voices coming in the distance. In the corner of his eyes was Choc, usually teasingly persistent, resigned himself. Macbeth suddenly felt bad as he had to leave, turning around with the words on his tongue, however it died as Choc lazily waves him off. 

“Took enough of your time. I'll see you later” 

1)

This isn't supposed to happen. It was never part of the game. Nobody is meant to die in this timeline. Not anyone that he particularly cared for but not her. 

Not Ellie. His best friend and companion in crime. 

She was meant to be here with him. After all they went through together she shouldn't be ripped from his grasp. 

Until now she was. Forever gone and he isn't able to change it. He didn't know what to do, even witnessing her totally preventable, and irreversible demise took its toll on him. It was his fault. He could've done something to stop it from happening though it was yanked out of his hands. 

Said hands are shaking as he kneels down to her still warm corpse. The death rattle having been seared into his brain. They fist up then relax, clutching tightly like a vice on Ellie's bloodstained shirt. 

It wasn't until much later, realized the severity of what had been done, that he's screaming his lungs out, crying, and in such a frenzied state nobody can get him out of it for hours on end. 

Afterwards, when someone else in the clan, he couldn't tell who it was, had managed to tear him away from her, he was somewhat able to cool down. He's put in a safe place, alone per his weepy wish to cope. 

She was dead because of him. 

She choked on her own blood, withering in awful pain because of his mistakes. 

Her gorgeous eyes once full of love and pride stared at him with a glassy unfocused haze, fresh with her own tears as life slowly slips from her. 

It was torture knowing he was alone again as he's left to wallow in his misery. Often he laid in the same bed she would lovingly and so carefully drag him out of when he himself was too depressed to get up. 

But nobody was there to do that. No one who does it like her. They tried, surely in their own unique way however it wasn't the same. Him and Ellie had a specific deep bond. 

So it was difficult accepting her death, a slow progression, and it was a hard pill to swallow, that's for sure. 

In the unfortunate circumstances, he noted in a rotten grimace, that there's nothing he can do besides sucking it up. At the start, a few days after Ellie's death, he didn't try, instead played ignorance. His words exact, rarely he does speak, will only consist of the topic that she will come back to him in some shape or way. 

Eventually, people grew tired and left him to his devices, he understood why. Still they did try their best to be a shoulder to lean on if he allowed them. For some, he did do that when he couldn't fight anymore. Oftentimes he was eerily silent, still crying but it eluded him once he realized that no longer did anything come out. 

And so he stands on the special balcony for the orbital station that's shielded nicely with a thick, sturdy glass. The void of space colored in blacks, blues, purples and his favorite, red was refreshing as it is a daunting beauty. His sore eyes were dry when he wiped his sleeve across them, sniffling and wincing a bit at the slight pain. He grips his shaking hands on the banister, breathing deeply through his nose as he watches the larger than life twinkling stars hover above him. 

He is going to get better for his sake. Ellie's even since he knows she wouldn't stand for this. 

***

2)

Regret seeps in like poison. Henry was used to being alone, always on his own. So when climbing through the vents and popping out, he hesitates to move forward. It wouldn't be the first time he betrayed someone or had the same happened to him. 

Though this was different. Somehow unlike the times he did this, Henry felt bad. Guilty. 

In a world, cruel and unfit towards people like him and coincidently her as well should know better better to blindly trust. That's why he did what he'd done without having looked back to see her reaction as his experiences with the same hardened him. 

She was down on her luck. Just like him but she entirely gave up. He still had his fight in him. That's why he's here to begin with, right behind two guards chattering away unaware of his presence, while deciding what to do next. About to make a break for it.

Maybe he should head back just for the heck of it. What would go wrong? 

So he did, begrudgingly, mind you, he wasn't used to this. 

Once he returns to the hole in the ceiling, he cautiously peeks over, taking in the scene of the redheaded woman now curled up in the furthest corner. In the room already so empty and cold, near the door, is the warden’s right hand looking straight ahead, again unaware. 

Softly he makes a noise in order to get her attention which she wasn't bothering to try, even ignoring to seemingly in his growing annoyance. The redhead must know he's here for her. 

He's just trying to help her! In some way he was trying to apologize and that's rare for someone like him anyways. 

As the thief resists the urge to hiss louder or even cut his losses and turn back, he hooks his feet on the hanging staircase. Why it was there is beyond him. Then he curses it upon losing his footing, falling to a crumpled heap in front of the shocked woman. 

Before long he stumbled on his feet, she was gobsmacked to see him as he grabbed onto her arm. Unsurprisingly, the warden’s deputy noticed, stormed into the waiting cell, seeing that Henry was without his cuffs. It won't be long when the true shit goes down so he'd have to rush for it. 

Hope for the best outcome as this wasn't his plan. 

With her in tow, forcibly behind him, he made a beeline to the door. He may be a scrawny guy at least compared to the other man but he isn't a literal pushover. Thankfully, as by pure luck it remains at his side too once he barrels past, knocking the other down with ease. Another surprise to him is that she's running alongside with little resistance.  

The blaring noise of sirens rings in his ears seconds later. He kept going, huffing from the exertion and the mild irritation that throbs in his head. Soon he takes a sharp turn down the hallway, a path chosen in his mind. 

It won't be his smartest, cleverest ones out there, just one that would work for right now at this moment. At the hall's end, close to an office, he slams a fist into a circuit board on the wall, all in the dwindling hopes it's the right choice. 

The door slams shut so it was to his relief. 

He lets go, turns to face her, when he does is instantly met with an angry scowl, and a cold glare. Worse, he is caged in and she can do anything to him. She doesn't, instead stands there, hunched, in stiff silence, except for her ragged breaths filling the air. The cuffs that completely covered her hands so that may be the sole reason why.

In his hesitancy, Henry steps forward, hands up in faux surrender, with no words that he's no threat to her. Eyeing her cuffs then at the room they're in, he notices one, the decently sized trophy likely carrying a heavy weight and secondly, the vent in the ceiling. 

Moments later, trophy in hand, he bashes the cuffs until they drop on the ground broken. In a groan, he steps back, leaning on the table and motions to the ceiling. She runs her free hands together, as if attempting to gather the warmth. 

Of course, she's highly skeptical. Right until he's on his knees ready to boost her up. He doesn't mind being the one to do the lifting this time. She looks around and he knows she's searching for another exit. Then she moves quite quickly, placing her foot on his knee. 

In a flash, the hinges of the vent break apart and she climbs up. 

Henry stands up, dusting off and he hears the sound of people outside the door get louder. 

When he does look up at the ceiling, almost surprised to see she remains there, allegedly waiting, maybe uncertain about the choices laid out for her. It won't shock him whether she takes the grand opportunity to simply leave him behind.