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He’s on the frontlines, kneeling behind the blockade that was hastily constructed of barrels and barbed wire. No Man’s Land is just ahead. Gunfire sounds as rapidly as popcorn, echoing against the muddy gray sky.
So much of his journey until now has been glory, even if hollow. He’s made friends. He’s seized victories. He’s wondered if he’s on the right side. He’s wished he was home, carving a new doll he’d had the idea for while attempting to sleep on the rocky ground.
But he’s never been this close to death before. His heart is pounding. If he survives this, it will be his finest hour. He’s stopped counting the kills he makes – it doesn’t do any good to dwell on it. They’ll be the enemy for now. They can be a heartbreak once he’s back home.
Then one of his troopmates gets taken out, bullet through the head right before his eyes.
He can’t do this.
He’s up and bolting in an instant. What was he thinking? Always he’s used strategies, tactics, the element of surprise. When he can actually think through a situation, that’s when he shines, gets the jump on the other side. But this? This is luck of the draw. Does your bullet hit someone else, or does someone else’s bullet hit you? Not even the best marksman can aim well enough to stop themselves from being hit by someone who drew first.
So he’s deserting. Which he promised he would never do –
They were friends. They’d promised to keep in touch once they got back further inland. The one who’d been shot had even started to look, well, rather attractive, and now he was an empty shell, blood and brains leaking out.
Run, run, run. He’s gone and you will be too, if you don’t find a way OUT.
No one notices. For all intents and purposes, he never left the frontlines. The only man who could’ve testified to the treason is never going to talk again.
And all it takes is one wrong step –
Like divine retribution, his entire body is ripped apart in a cold shock of pure pain and agony. He flies into the air, legs splitting, arms splitting, bones shattering. Something’s gone wrong with his eyes. He can’t see what he looks like. And he never really will be able to, not again.
All he can do is feel, and it feels so horrible, why can’t he just die since that’s what the cards had in store for him from the very start –
With fans whirring, Neon J. clicked out of sleep mode, his radar quickly flashing green and beginning its cycle. Though it wasn’t as though he was actually using it.
“Damn,” he muttered. This was just great, just wonderful. The nightmares were horrendous, but always they just became annoyances by the next day. The big hurdle was what came in between. Maybe tonight he’d be spared.
A bubbling sensation in his stomach informed him that no he would not. Then said stomach turned, and Neon was bolting for the restroom adjacent to the bedroom.
Why, though? He didn’t have a mouth or a throat to connect to that stomach, and that stomach wasn’t filled with food, and honestly, that was the problem with this whole situation, but it definitely meant there was no point in hunching over a toilet. But it somehow made him feel better to do so anyway – feeling his way across the counter, making out a general white blur at the far end of the room. And once he’d reached the object that was just familiar enough, he curled up, screen aimed at the bowl as he choked and sputtered.
This always happened. First, he’d relive…that. But then it would turn out to only be a dream – or, if he was really unlucky, a memory that resurfaced at the wrong time. More than once he’d been sent running to the bathrooms at NSR headquarters after an overly suspicious sound had set him off. After that, well, he just got angry, because the way his body reacted to extreme anxiety was for his cybernetic parts to overheat while his human parts trembled. And then came the nausea. Always since he was a child, nausea with stressful situations, but he’d gradually been braver and braver, desensitizing himself, which was probably why he’d thought so confidently that in the thick of the war, he’d make it out on the other side victorious and not at all damaged.
Now? All that work undone. Because if he remembered any of that day, the revulsion would hit him like a tidal wave. He couldn’t stand; the sensation was keeping him bent. Had he skin, he knew there would be beads of sweat pooling on every inch of it.
Well, at least he was on the upswing. Sort of. Being awake was an upswing from being asleep. He simply hated to feel this weak, but his bedroom was far away from those of his creations for a reason.
Silly to think that his toys would judge their maker for displaying vulnerability. Even sillier to think that it was for their own good that they didn’t have to worry about their creator. But that was how it simply was. Sometimes to the point where it seemed like calling them either “toys” or “troops” was somewhat of a lie, but Neon was in no position to admit what was really going on.
He was in a secluded room, all alone, in the dead of night. No one needed to know he’d spent part of the night choking on vomit that didn’t exist. No one needed to know he’d been this pathetic, this incompetent, this –
“Neon. Is everything all right?”
Oh. Oh, that was right –
He wasn’t alone. Not that night. Because of the nightmare, he hadn’t even remembered. His mind filled with curses of all sorts. Why had he even thought this was a good idea?
His radar identified the heat signature in his bathroom doorway. The most unique heat signature he’d ever detected, as it belonged to the only person he’d ever met who actually sucked heat out of the surrounding area and formed a wide cold space. A cold space with a distinctive shape – broad shoulders, slender legs, large arms, a head that didn’t make sense by many laws of reality.
Neon’s relationship with DJ Subatomic Supernova was as of yet unlabeled. They were definitely professional collaborators. And very definitely friends. They shared a thirst for the bombastic, a need to have all eyes on their artistic endeavors, a distinct sense that they weren’t as appreciated as they really should be. You’d think that would drive them apart, cause them to each be too self-centered to appreciate the other, but every time they met was comfortable rather than vitriolic. Which wasn’t to say they couldn’t riff at each other for consecutive hours.
So there was all that. And also the fact that they’d started spending nights together. Sleeping in the same bed. Doing other things in the same bed, too.
To be clear, due to Neon’s composition, he couldn’t actually feel anything that the DJ did to him. But he liked being told how good he was being, how well he was doing, and that had to be the reason he hadn’t quite admitted that part to the DJ yet, letting the DJ think they were filling him with a cacophony of physical sensations.
(The idea that he just liked the DJ getting pleasure off of him that much and was doing it for their benefit alone? Preposterous. He would never.)
(Well, maybe not “never.”)
The incident hadn’t shown up to Neon for a couple months, so he’d assumed it was safe. Assumed? No. Barged ahead pretending nothing was wrong because of course he couldn’t tell the DJ about this.
Well, here they were.
First, Neon froze in an utter panic. What to do? How could he escape? Was there an evasive maneuver he could perform? A battle tactic he was missing out on?
A grumble from his stomach reminded him that he wasn’t really in any condition to pull any fast moves. So he went with the far simpler and more obvious answer of just waving a hand at the DJ’s heat signature, saying quite sharply, “I’m FINE. Now go away!”
“All right, then. If you insist.” And the DJ turned on a heel and headed back to the bed.
“Shut that door behind you!” Neon snapped. And kind of felt bad about, because he knew that was a bit too rude, even for their flavor of banter.
“I’ll take a ‘please,’” the DJ responded.
“…”
And the DJ just shrugged, gave in, and closed the door behind them. Neon could detect them moving away from the restroom, settling into the bed once more, getting comfy. Sprawling out, those long arms likely taking up more than half the bed with the way they flopped about.
Well, that had been the worst-case scenario, but Neon had at least bought himself the time he needed. The DJ would go back to sleep, and Neon could sit here until the nausea inevitably faded.
Choking, coughing, feeling his stomach swirl. Why did it always have to be like this? He wasn’t even thinking about the incident anymore. His body didn’t seem to be with the program. Well, at least all that was left was to wait it out until he could stand upright again. Then find some way to face the DJ.
Neon remained in his personal hell, curled up around the toilet he didn’t even need, wishing he even had anything to expel or a way to get rid of it. To the point – and this happened more often than he liked to admit – that he now also had the strongest instinctual urge to cry over his situation, but of course, no tear ducts, either, so that was a second source of pressure building that he couldn’t release.
A gentle knock came on the door, followed by a soft yet insistent voice: “Neon. You’re not all right.”
“Yes, I AM – “
“You’ve been in there making the sounds of death throes for half an hour.”
Half an hour? Was that seriously true? Neon could cross-check that against an internal clock; surely the DJ was exaggerating –
Oh. No, they weren’t.
“I am NOT dying,” Neon sputtered.
“I should hope not,” the DJ said from the other side. “If you couldn’t contribute your instrumentation for my next single, the composition would sound incredibly foolish.” Was that the sound of the door creaking? Oh, no no no no no –
“WHAT are you doing in here? This is a restroom! You don’t just barge in on somebody IN THE RESTROOM!”
“You’re not well.” The DJ sat down on the floor, cross-legged. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you suffer.”
“I never asked for your pity – “
“I’m not offering pity, or even sympathy. I’m asking how your systems work so I can shut it off.”
Neon almost laughed at that. Of course. The DJ fancied themself able to solve any problem with the wave of one giant hand. You could tell them the planet was about to explode and they would insist they’d got this.
“It doesn’t shut off,” Neon related. “It is my curse. My burden to carry, across the long distances that are the years.”
“At least you aren’t any less dramatic than usual. that’s a good sign.”
“It will go away on its own,” Neon urged, “so long as you LEAVE ME ALONE.”
“Now, you see, I can’t do that,” the DJ replied. “I have to sleep in that bed, you see, and you’re going to keep me awake all night with that awful hacking.”
Except Neon could directly translate that sentiment. They’d hit a stalemate. Neon didn’t want to be seen in a state of vulnerability. He didn’t want to be helped, and he wasn’t going to let the DJ help him, but the problem was that the DJ wasn’t going to leave until he’d allowed them to help in such a capacity to completely solve the problem. They were both aware of it, and the DJ was just as unwilling to give up their ground as Neon was his.
“Why do you even care?” Neon asked. “Are you attempting to fill a savior complex? Inflate your own ego?”
“Well, if I sat on the other side of this door and let you retch all night, that’s a bad look. Don’t you think?” They tilted their orb just a bit.
Neon sighed. “There’s no reason we should BOTH turn up to tomorrow’s meeting on three hours of sleep.”
“I said. I can’t sleep while you’re making that noise.”
“LIAR!” Neon pointed accusingly at them. “You can sleep through anything short of a tornado siren! You’re CHOOSING not to sleep so you can behold my misery!”
“You’re getting confused, Neon. I’m self-absorbed, not sadistic. Your misery holds little to no entertainment for me.”
“Then why are you still HERE? Woe that you should behold me in such an abject state…” Neon’s voice quivered. “To think the unbreakable, unshakable commander of Metro Division should be reduced to a trembling pile of iron, steel, and flesh, wrapped around a receptacle for the lowest of waste…”
He interrupted himself with another dry-heave.
“Don’t be daft,” the DJ responded. “You should know well by now that once you’re back on your feet, nothing will have changed. Or do you still believe yourselves on par with the other simpletons of this city? I thought I’d made it quite clear that while you could never reach my level, you are certainly more than that.”
“Oh, but will it truly go back to the way it was come the morning?” Neon wailed. “More importantly, you say you will see me in that light once I am back on my feet again. But what about now?”
“You are making a bigger deal out of a stomachache than anyone ever has to make out of a stomachache,” the DJ said flatly.
“YOU were the one who insisted on barging through that door when I said NO!” Neon reminded them.
The DJ sighed. “What even is this? It can’t be something you ate. All you’ve had today is motor oil. Which once again you went out of your way to comment was…bangin’.”
“What fortune that I should have had something so bangin’ indeed as my last meal while still seen as strong and competent in the eyes of – “
“NEON.”
He sighed. Gave in. “I’ve always had anxiety problems. This is what becomes of me when they take over. My overheating systems do nothing to help the problem.”
“And what made you so anxious this night?” The DJ obviously relished the chance to play therapist.
Neon took quite a while to muster up the courage to admit it: “…A nightmare.”
“A…nightmare?”
That wasn’t enough. In his attempt to look strong, he’d made himself look even more pathetic. “But not just ANY nightmare!” Neon added. “It was a reminiscence of the…of the worst…”
His voice quavered. Creaked. Cracked.
“The worst day I ever had on the battlefield.” His tone had gone flat, devoid of its usual lilting theatrics. “Every now and again, I remember it. In time, I will…forget. Not completely. But this will pass.”
“Ah.” The DJ nodded, then was silent. They mulled it over. An engineering problem or even a medical one, they could figure a quick way to soothe. But this? They had to have suspected this would come up eventually. Given Neon’s past, it was an inevitability. They’d somehow never considered exactly what they could do in such a situation, though. They couldn’t remove the memories, nor rewrite the past. They weren’t even fully sure they knew how to react to a PTSD-related situation in general.
Their fingers drummed a repetitive beat on the bathroom tile as they dragged out the silence. Finally, something occurred to them: “Do you even need that toilet?”
“No. Old forces of habit. There’s nothing to throw up into it. Which is why this is such a PROBLEM.”
“You…would be more comfortable on the bed?”
“I would be. If I could get there.”
“May I…?” They were already reaching to him.
Might as well. “You’re not going to let this go unless I say yes, so yes.”
Neon let himself be gathered into the DJ’s embrace. Their long, thick arms were very good for holding, for carrying. If Neon felt particularly safe or sentimental there, well, that was only because no one couldn’t in those arms. (So he rationalized.)
As the DJ rose to bring Neon back to the softer mattress, Neon realized an immediate change. His fans were slowing. There was a distinct sense of less heat churning through his guts.
Of course! Why hadn’t he figured it out earlier? The DJ’s singular ability to absorb rather than emanate heat was transferring to him through the contact! Like an ice pack. Already, Neon felt less nauseous.
The DJ attempted to set him down on the bed, but he clung on. “You’re drawing out the heat,” Neon insisted, “so I would appreciate it if you DIDN’T let go.”
“Noted.” The DJ maneuvered into the bed without ever removing their arms fully from Neon, nestling by his side. Ah, that felt quite wonderful. Pressing against their chest was even better for Neon’s firing systems.
Maybe he could just drift back off to sleep here. His mind and body were already calming –
“Do you need to talk about it?” the DJ ventured. It was the only thing they could really remember about helping someone in this sort of state.
“I don’t NEED to talk about it,” Neon huffed. Then, more quietly, “But…I may WANT to talk about it. It is a sordid story, after all.”
“Regale me.”
He hesitated. If this gave the DJ any undue worry – transferred into his nightmares –
“Neon. I assure you can’t give me any more brain damage than Bunk Bed Junction has.”
“Bold words, from one without a physical brain.”
The DJ wondered if maybe this was the part where they should be stroking a hand up and down Neon’s back, because that was what you did to flesh-and-blood people, so maybe it was the same thing for cyborgs. They began to do so, slowly, gently, and Neon admittedly liked it a lot.
“I’m…afraid,” he confessed. “It haunts me whenever I remember it, and I can’t pass that on – “
“I will be fine. Don’t underestimate me, Neon. Now tell me what it is you need to tell me.”
“It was…the last day I spent on the field.” It was spilling out and Neon hadn’t even wanted it to. “The first day they put me on the frontlines with a gun. Until then, I’d been leading assaults at smaller battle sites. Using my brain to think through situations. Those are the days I’m…still proud of. Should I be? I did such horrible things – “
“You aren’t horrible, Neon. Do I need to bring up all you’ve done for your boys or the people of your district? Don’t think I haven’t noticed how your creations are built to self-destruct if they sense a certain amount of fear caused. Really, if you don’t see how you’ve become a savior for this city, then perhaps you are less intelligent than I thought. Take your pride. We all need to cope.”
“That day,” Neon resumed. If he still breathed in a normal fashion, he’d probably be hyperventilating. “I saw one of my fellow soldiers shot in the head. I’d…cared about him a lot. Maybe in some of the same ways I feel about you. He was dead without a warning. After that, I couldn’t take it. I…”
He then realized that no one in existence but himself knew this next part.
“Neon?”
“I deserted.” Neon’s voice cracked.
“You…” The DJ did a double take. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I gave up on my country, on my friends, on everything,” Neon whimpered. “I just wanted to LIVE, damn it! I thought maybe I could run away – deal with the fallout later – but – but how was I to know about the land mine?”
“The…what?”
“One wrong step,” Neon breathed. “No warning…all I had to do was…step in the wrong place. Was it because I knew what I was doing was wrong? It…it detonated, and…the worst pain I’ve ever felt…” Now his heart rate was speeding up. “Barely anything…left of me. I couldn’t see anymore…that was the last thing I saw…it hurt. They brought me off the battlefield, sent me home a hero. Put me back together with technology, made me into this. I tell the stories I’m proud of because they’re a part of me, and I will ALWAYS be a soldier, but from that moment, I just wanted – I wanted – I – “
“Slow down, Neon.”
“To – make things again,” Neon choked out. “Create instead of…dest – “ And another choking heave as his nausea returned.
“I understand,” the DJ said softly. “I…must admit I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I’m not a hero. I never was! But I – I can’t – “
“No, no, you were,” the DJ insisted.
“How can you SAY that?”
“I can quantify heroism in a multitude of ways. We can look yet again at your work in Metro Division, or, should we scour your wartime days, there will undoubtedly be more than a handful of acts that can morally balance your desertion…among the other things that I suspect are playing into it.”
Neon felt slightly irritated, because of course the DJ had to turn it into scientific jargon and think they could use logic to solve an emotional problem. (Neon desperately wished it were that easy to do so.)
“Is there anything else you need to talk about?” the DJ offered.
“No,” Neon sputtered. “That’s all there is. Are you satisfied now? Has this sated your curiosity for the darker side?”
The DJ felt relief upon hearing this, because if Neon was back to milking everything for drama and attention, that meant his mood was at least marginally improved.
“Because no one knows,” Neon admitted. “You will guard that secret with your LIFE.”
The importance wasn’t lost on the DJ. “Agreed. I will. Though I don’t like the implication that you think I would ever treat something of importance as idle gossip.”
“Have you not done so INNUMERABLE times in the past?”
“I do not partake in anything so petty.”
“And if I asked you to stop bringing up Eve’s past relations with a member of the rock revolution at every opportunity?”
“That would just be unfair, Neon,” the DJ teased. “After all, the look on her face when it is mentioned is one of my primary sources of entertainment.”
Though the DJ didn’t have any way of sensing heat the way Neon did, they already knew the cyborg was getting heavier in the mattress, his radar flickering. Good. Then they had solved the problem, after all. But they could gloat in the morning. Now just wasn’t the time.
“N…ova…” Neon whispered, obviously fading out of consciousness.
The DJ put a hand to the side of his monitor. “Sleep,” they commanded softly. “Drift away knowing you are safe in the arms of the universe.”
They mentally patted themself on the back for that one. It was very smooth.
Of course, as Neon’s radar blinked out and he entered the sleep state once more, the DJ had to admit their heart was a little broken. That would have to be a secret Neon couldn’t know, but how could the DJ not feel the strain of knowing the pain their friend – their lover – whatever Neon was to them was going through all of that?
They attempted imagining the mine. Well, that was enough on its own to probably inspire a nightmare or two on the DJ’s end.
All they wanted to do was to take the pain away. To get Neon to a state where he would never have any reason to stop waxing theatrical and spewing hot air. But that couldn’t be done in a day. It would have to be worked on over time.
A challenge, then.
And if Neon never truly lost the effects of those nightmares, that just meant the DJ couldn’t stop trying.
They pulled him closer as their own body relaxed. Though Neon was made of cold metal, he was surprisingly more comfortable to lie beside than one would expect.
And the idea that the DJ only thought that because they were smitten? Absolutely preposterous.