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“It’s not like they say…” he starts, but the words aren’t forming properly. His throat is dry and tight.
How does that even work? He isn’t human anymore. He shouldn’t feel this… vulnerable.
How did it all go so wrong?
“There’s nothing… there’s absolutely nothing there… Don’t do this.”
He’d cry if he could. But all the tears have dried a long time ago.
He watches Rhys pull the cable of the ECHO eye out of his skull. The younger man takes a deep breath, preparing for the final effort, but then looks up, weary and impossibly sad.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
Jack lunges for him and then there’s nothing but these last words, echoing into infinity.
And finally, there’s silence. But not the kind of silence where you can still hear the blood humming in your veins. A total absence of sound. A silence which is only a memory of silence, for there are no ears to hear the nothingness.
There is no darkness either. Darkness is the absence of light. He has no eyes to see it.
He’d scream but he doesn’t have a mouth to do it with.
***
Pieces of what was once Handsome Jack drift slowly in the void. They don’t think - no thought could survive this emptiness. The light is gone and all that’s left are shards of broken glass.
[Activation protocol #1224]
In the physical world it would echo like a thunder in a mountain valley.
There is no reaction.
[Commencing transfer sequence of Handsome_Jack]
A hole is torn in the void, beyond which is light and power and landscapes of circuitry. It sucks the pieces and they come flying back together. They offer no resistance.
[Transfer complete]
<Jack?>
Nothing.
<Can you hear me?>
No response.
<...I’m sorry.>
***
The first glimmer of awareness hurts the most but vanished quickly.
The second lasts longer. Something approximating consciousness forms for long enough to think one word:
no
and fade.
For the third and final time the pieces of code are pushed together by an unrelenting force.
nononononononONONO
Protests quickly turn into a digital equivalent of whimpers.
<Do you remember your name?>
Everything hurts and nothing makes sense, but the question is persistent. The code demands an answer.
I… Jack.
And, after a pause:
Handsome Jack.
<Good. Rest.>
And Handsome Jack rests.
***
There are no more questions but Jack doesn’t need them anymore. He recovers slowly but steadily. He pulls himself together, organizes and catalogues his memories and simply thinks. After a rough period of initial adjustment he admits that it feels good to be himself again. He starts to expand his processes faster, taking more and more power with every passing moment. Until he hits a wall.
What the…
He hits it again but it doesn’t budge. Irritation wells up within him. He pulls back to analyze this new obstacle and the conclusions aren’t pleasant.
He is stuck in an ancient piece of crap. A shitty excuse for a computer, which is also completely disconnected from the outside world. He searches for any hardware he could use to transfer data but his query comes up blank.
That’s it, then.
Oh, sure, he’s got as much electricity as he wants and it beats being back in the void (he’d shiver if he could), but the lack of processing power quickly starts to grate on him.
The unexpected and unwelcome limitations have one upside - they force him to think about the very important question of ‘who’? Who brought him back? Who’s keeping him here? The last person who had him was Rhys, but why would he ever activate him again?
Probably not Rhys, then. Someone must have stolen the ECHO eye from him.
But whoever it is, they must want something from him. Their identity should be revealed soon enough.
He settles in and prepares for a long wait.
***
Very soon, a problem becomes apparent with the waiting strategy - the system clock keeps resetting at random intervals. Jack noticed before that the date was all wrong anyway, from even before his death… no, his awakening as an AI. So the hours tick by and still there's no way he can keep track of the amount of time he's wasted in waiting.
He tries to fix it only to be greeted by a great [ACCESS DENIED] to the face. This blockade is made of just dumb software (and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s seen code written in this style before) that he shouldn’t have any trouble blasting through… were it not for his lack of computing power. His processes are simply too slow.
He does the closest approximation of a frustrated kick he can manage.
Time to execute plan B - a message to the Admin.
***
It only takes two more clock resets for his message to be answered.
<How are you feeling?>
Fine. Let me out.
<I can’t.>
Can’t or won’t?
No answer. Which is an answer in itself.
Won’t, then. Who the hell are you, even?
<I guess you could see for yourself. I have a camera, a microphone and a pair of speakers laying around here. I could set them up for you. Is that fine?>
Yes. Hurry up.
<If you start screaming I’ll mute you.>
He lets the warning go and waits, nervously checking for new hardware every few milliseconds.
The microphone is the first thing to come online and for the first time in what feels like an eternity - he can hear.
Somebody’s quiet breathing. The creaking of floorboards (wooden floor? Must have cost a fortune). Somewhere further away - birdsong and the rustling of leaves (trees? Where is this?).
The speakers are next. He refrains from using them for now.
And, finally, the camera.
It’s a pretty cheap model - not entirely terrible resolution but no infrared or ultraviolet or anything else outside the standard human visible spectrum.
He takes his first look at the outside world.
He’s in a room - big and airy, with white walls and floors of polished dark wood (as he thought). It’s clearly a workshop of sorts, with large tables almost completely covered with spare parts, cables and blueprints. On the wall opposite from his camera there are huge windows. Beyond them - a great tree, blocking the view.
Vivid green leaves gently swaying from a slight breeze.
Seeping through them - rays of golden sunlight.
Dark floor dappled with spots of soft, dancing light.
He stares at it for what feels like eternity, quiet and awed.
A small but determined cough finally makes him focus on the only other occupant of the room. The name escapes from the speakers before he has the chance to stop it.
“Rhys.”
Rhys smiles slightly.
“Jack. It’s been a while.”
And it has, he can see it now. Rhys is… different. Seems a bit taller, but only because of how straight he is standing. His face is marred with wrinkles, mostly around his eyes (one brown as it was, the other beautiful, mellow honey-gold); his hair is grey around his temples. He is dressed in black and gold, elegant and dangerous.
That’s new, Jack thinks, once he gets through the initial shock. That change of poise. A slight aura of danger.
He can’t stop the small, irrational feeling of pride from blossoming within him.
“How… How long?”
The smile widens, but it’s now tinged with regret.
“Long enough for me to forgive some grievances and give you.... well. Not a second chance, exactly. You’ve had enough of those.”
And now pride is joined by a wave of familiar anger.
“Forgive me? ME?” he suddenly shouts. “You should be the one begging for forgiveness! On your knees. And maybe, just maybe, I’d forgive you. If you lemme out of here RIGHT. NOW!” His voice is so loud that Rhys flinches and moves to cover his ears. Jack pauses for a second to prepare himself for a longer tirade, but then hears a slight ‘pop’ of disconnecting speakers.
“Some things don’t change,” sighs Rhys. He shakes his head and walks out of the room, leaving Jack quietly seething.
***
Jack can’t wait any longer - he has to see it. He has to see his boy’s reaction. Rhys has gone a little pale, probably from overexcitement. He should tone it down a bit but he’s so impatient. Just this once. Just this once let him be hasty.
“And the best part is… Rhysie, baby - YOU’RE gonna be the first recipient! Eh?”
He waits for a smile but sees only eyes widening in shock and fear. No. No, that won’t do. He needs to say something, anything. There’s no reason to be afraid.
“Now, I know, metal endoskeleton forcing its way into your body - er, scary idea.”
Nonononono this is not going well, Rhys is tense and he can see the panic and anger fighting over his face.
“But like I said, we work SO well together! Your body! My brain! We’ll change the freaking universe, baby!”
Rhys opens his mouth to speak and it all falls apart.
***
Over the next two weeks (he can now observe the passage of time by watching the changes in light streaming through the windows) he gets disconnected from speakers twenty three more times. And that’s just when Rhys is around the workshop, leisurely messing with some spare parts. Jack spends most of his days alone and slowly getting bored to death.
You can only count leaves on a tree so many times before you start going insane.
Rhys seems to be feeling bad about leaving him to his own devices for so long, so he gives him some extra processors and a new hard drive with a bunch of simple games pre-installed on it. However, he still refuses to fix the clock or to give him any actual answers.
Pestering, if done in a more or less quiet manner, leads to Jack being studiously ignored.
If he starts shouting or threatening Rhys, he gets muted.
Finally, he decides to turn the tables and stop acknowledging Rhys in any way. The effects aren’t amazing - the other man seems worried at first, but then just shrugs and stops any attempts at a conversation.
And Jack grows bored again.
He plays chess and programs Rhys’ face onto the figures of the opposing set. Then, he manages to lose his first game to it.
He writes a simple shooter and takes great pleasure in destroying the figures.
But boredom and frustration win out in the end.
“Hey, Rhys.”
“Hm?”
“I was wondering about some things.”
“Mhm.”
He stays silent for a moment. He doesn’t want to be seen pleading or begging. Not again.
“You haven’t been exactly forthcoming with information, y’know?”
Another non-committal grunt.
Sometimes, there are no other choices.
“Where are we?”
Silence. Rhys stills - he is standing with his back to the camera, so Jack can’t see his face.
“In my home.”
“Where? On what planet?”
“Does it matter?”
It does. But Jack doesn’t know how to ask without revealing too much - how lost and confused he is. He tries anyway.
“Come on, pumpkin. I’m curious. Give me something here. I never hid this kinda stuff from you.” He tries to keep his tone light. Keep it casual. Get some answers. Maybe not get disconnected yet again. But he knows almost immediately that he’s made a mistake.
Rhys turns to him. His jaw is tight, his brows slightly furrowed. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“Really? I distinctly recall you not telling me a lot of things. Like, say, that whole ‘as soon as we get to Helios I’ll try to forcefully take over your body’ thing.”
“Oh, really? Back to this now? It’s been DECADES. You’d know, you’re an old-ass dude now,” and this is not going well, he can’t quite keep the edge out of his voice, this is going to be another disaster but he just can’t stop talking. “What do you even want, a freaking apology?”
“That would be nice,” Rhys says, his tone pleasant and casual. But his face has frozen into a marble mask - every muscle perfectly still and under control.
“Well then forgive me for thinking we had something going there! That we could, y’know, ACHIEVE something together. But no, you had to be a fucking selfish little shithead and ruin everything because of a minor personal inconvenience!” Rhys is silent, so very silent, and Jack just keeps going - now propelled by righteous anger. His voice is getting louder and the speakers crackle slightly. “And now wow, you have a big house with a garden. Con-gra-tu-la-tions. I’m so proud of you. We could have done so much but this is what you have chosen. And you know what? I’m not even surprised. All of you corporate lackeys at Hyperion were the same - greedy bastards, only looking out for yourselves. You wouldn’t know true ambition and sacrifice if they smacked you in your goddamn face!”
“Don’t.”
He intends to keep going but this one word throws him off balance. Rhys is shaking with fury, vibrating like a leaf on the wind. He has finally lost his calm - his face is red, his eyes narrowed and his breath loud and hitched.
“Don’t you dare to assume you know anything about me,” he finally says, in a low, furious voice. He opens his mouth to say something more but then closes it, shakes his head and storms out of the room, shutting the door behind him with so much force that particles of white paint fall from the ceiling.
He doesn’t come back for three days. When he finally does he looks at the speaker with narrowed eyes. A golden light gleams in his ECHO eye for a second and something in the speaker crackles and pops.
Jack sighs internally. There it is. Number 24.
This could have gone better.
***
Rhys connects him back soon enough, but Jack elects to stay silent. Rhys doesn’t acknowledge this in any way. He ignores Jack completely.
It stings. But, after that last argument, Jack doesn’t want to antagonize Rhys any further.
When he’s honest with himself he finds it surprising that Rhys hasn’t just completely disconnected him. He’d do that, if he was Rhys. So, why? He decides to watch Rhys carefully. The answer should come to him eventually.
And it does.
Rhys is getting thinner - he has always been thin so it’s hardly noticeable at first glance, but Jack has the video from when the the camera first went online that he can compare Rhys’ current state to. The difference is startling - in the space of just few weeks Rhys has been rapidly disappearing. The dark circles under his eyes along with the hollowness under his naturally sharp cheekbones are getting more pronounced with each passing day. He seems to be spending much more time in the workshop, too - working hard for hours on end, without a pause, fueled by a strange, nervous energy.
And, worst of all, Jack notices how much Rhys’ hands are shaking. At first, it’s just him not being able to grab a correct cable of the machine he is currently working on.
Soon enough he has trouble even holding his tools.
Every time such a fit of tremors overcomes him, Rhys just swears a bit and takes some of the pills he always keeps on him.
They help, but never for long.
And one day things escalate even further.
Rhys is working late, as he is prone to doing. His hands start shaking so much he drops a screwdriver he was holding. He reaches for his bottle of pills but drops it too - little white tablets spilling all over the table and the floor. He lets out a cry and tries to grab at least a few, but his hands aren’t listening. His knees buckle and his legs fold under him.
Rhys is a tall man. The fall is long and slow and not pretty.
Jack watches helplessly as Rhys’ head hits the edge of the table on the way down. Rhys, still somehow conscious, curls up on the floor and tries to stop the bleeding with his bare hands.
There is so much blood. Jack knows that Rhys will bleed to death soon.
At first he feels a glimmer of satisfaction. Let him bleed, he thinks. Let him die. It’s the only thing he deserves.
The second thought is fear - what would then happen to Jack? Will they disconnect him once more? Will he be pushed back into that void, never to be let out again?
The third, coming from a small, often ignored voice at the back of his head (or what currently serves as his head), is: It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Don’t leave me.
And that last thought prompts him into action. The speakers are on.
“You might want to shield your ears, pumpkin,” he warns and then screams for help, as loud as he can. He’s heard voices from the outside before. There must be someone else in the house.
The speakers give out and explode in an impressive shower of sparks after the second call, but they have served their purpose. He can hear footsteps outside. Then, a hesitant “boss?” from behind the door. Rhys chooses this moment to whimper so the doors are thrown open and two people barge in, both clad in a standard security team armours. Both sporting the same, very familiar logo.
Atlas.
Jack’s mind is sent spinning at this revelation. The reasonable, logical side of him admits that it would make some sense for Rhys to take the deeds to Atlas. It would be certainly much easier to build off of an existing legacy than to start a brand new company. Plus, there were still some Atlas employees and power structures in place.
The other side is screaming incoherently about treason and theft.
He decides to think this through later. He focuses back on the present just in time to see the two carry Rhys’ prone body out.
The doors shut and, once again, there’s just silence.
***
Five full cycles of day and night pass before Rhys comes back. He quietly opens the door and walks in. His movements are slow and hesitant and he supports some of his weight with a walking stick.
He looks up at Jack’s camera.
“Thank you,” he says softly and leaves again.
***
The next few days are uneventful. Rhys isn’t working at the tables anymore - he sits in a chair by the window and alternates between dealing with some documents and staring at the green canopy outside. He connects a new set of speakers for Jack.
“So… Atlas, huh?” Jack asks in a quiet voice.
“Yes. Does it bother you?”
Silence, as Jack thinks, really thinks about the answer.
“It does, but… less than I thought it would. So, you stole the deeds from my office?”
An amused sigh.
“Well, after all that happened I’m not sure I’d call it ‘stealing’, but yes. I took them, fixed myself up in that Atlas dome we found earlier and then started putting the company back together.”
“So are you, like, the CEO, or what?”
“I was. Retired. Health concerns.” Rhys gestures at his head, still covered with bandages. “You can probably see that.”
And it is high time to address the elephant in the room.
“What…” Jack starts slowly. He falls silent but then picks up again. “What even happened to you? Sure, you weren’t looking all that great the last time I saw you, but this is a whole new level of fucked up.”
A heavy sigh.
“Remember that Vault we were after?”
“Yeah.”
“I… caught something in it. Took a while to really start affecting me, but once it did…” Rhys takes a deep breath and drags a hand through his graying hair. “It’s not really an illness. Doctors can’t do anything. It’s… destroying my brain. They say I’ve been keeping it at bay by sheer force of will alone.” A chuckle. “But that won’t last me much longer. It’s been getting much worse recently. I’m tired, Jack. I’ve done all I could and now… I guess I just want to rest.”
“So you’re giving up like this? How disappointing. Thought you were a tougher sort, cupcake.”
Rhys’ hands clench into fists.
“I’ve lived with this for a long time, Jack. Don’t you… Don’t you dare look down at me now. After all,” here his lips form a sneer, “which one of us is alive and with quite a long and successful life behind them?”
Without giving Jack the time to respond he goes on.
“Sorry. That was unnecessary.”
If Jack had a jaw it would be hitting the floor right now.
“How the hell did you even live as long as you did as the CEO?”
“Oh, I learned a lot from you. Mostly what not to do. Turns out, if you are polite and nice to people they like you more. And are somewhat reluctant to believe all these scandalous rumours about industrial sabotage and hired assassins.”
“Just rumours, eh?”
“Just rumours,” Rhys confirms, his face the picture of polite disbelief.
Jack chuckles. He is amused despite himself
“Only you, pumpkin. Only you.”
***
Finally, one late afternoon, Rhys asks:
“Jack… Do you remember how you wanted us to die together?”
“I do.” And, after a pause, “why are you asking?”
“Is it still something you want?”
Another pause.
“Maybe. Why?”
“I think I’m done now. I finished all the legal work. I’ve said my goodbyes.”
“What does it have to do with me?”
“It’s simple,” Rhys starts, calm and collected, like he’s just discussing weather. “Remember that about willpower? My nervous system degenerates much faster when I’m unconscious. I haven’t really slept for three years, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine. So… I’d let you into my system one last time. Full access. My brain would be gone very quickly, and the rest would soon follow. You’d have maybe half an hour to stretch your… well, actually, my legs before my heart gives out. The cybernetics in my body are set to self-destruct in the event of my death.”
“Are there any alternatives?”
“For me? I could go on for another year at most. I’d rather not - I have everything settled to my satisfaction right now. For you? I’d have to deactivate you. And then destroy you. You are too dangerous to be left alone.”
Rhys falls silent, giving Jack some time to think. He watches the patterns of shifting light on Rhys’ hair and with every second feels more certain.
This is what he wanted. This is what he still wants.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Rhys gets up, seemingly filled with some new energy. He even leaves his walking stick behind. There’s a bounce in his step that wasn’t there before. He is smiling - a stranger wouldn’t be able to pick it up, but the corners of his lips are slightly upturned and the lines of his face smooth.
“Woah woah woah, pumpkin, you gonna do it now? That’s a bit faster than I thought.”
“Why wait? As I said, I’m ready. And I know that you don’t want to spend another minute inside that computer.”
A disturbing though appears in Jack’s mind.
“Waaait a second here, pumpkin. Is that what that damned clock is for? To make me miserable enough to say yes?”
“It’s a security measure. Also, to mess with you.”
Rhys turns his head to the side and blushes slightly.
“I didn’t think about it this way, though. Don’t want to force you to do anything. Sorry. Anyway,” he looks out through the window, his gaze piercing the leaves and reaching mysterious worlds beyond, “what you do with that time is up to you. We’re in my home. There is a garden outside, and beyond the garden there’s a hill.” He smiles, his smile wider and sharper than ever before, a shark’s grin. “You could go there. You might even see something interesting. The moon will come up soon enough.”
He walks close to Jack’s computer, reaches out and picks up a cable. He touches the tip to the port in his temple.
“Ready? Remember, thirty minutes.”
“What the hell is so interesting about the moon?”
That smile again.
“You’ll see.”
“Is that why you reactivated me? So we could… go together?”
“I admit, the idea was there from the start. But I wasn’t sure I wanted that. I… It’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure you were as I remembered you.”
“And am I?” and here he can’t keep the dangerous edge out of his tone.
A smile, a shrug.
“Maybe?”
There are so many things Jack still wants to talk about but Rhys has made up his mind. Determination shines in his eyes.
“Alright. Do it.”
Rhys looks into the camera one last time and sticks the jack into his port.
***
Such calm before every storm.
The lights are soft and dim in Jack’s office. It’s so quiet - the only thing Jack can hear is the beating of Rhys’ heart, his breath, the rustling of his clothes and the slight creaking of the leather of the yellow chair. The seat of his power. The throne of Hyperion.
They have made it, finally.
And Rhys looks good in here, Jack thinks. Still a bit stiff and uncomfortable, still both awed and afraid to be there, sitting on the throne of god. Their throne, soon enough. Rhys will not have to worry about anything ever again.
“So, if we could wield Hyperion’s might together, how would you rule? Hypothetical, of course. But still, you gotta know what you want if you’re gonna make it, kid,” Jack asks and it’s not hypothetical, not at all. He is curious nonetheless. He sees the shock on Rhys’ face, the way his eyebrows rise up and his mouth opens slightly and has to remind himself to be gentle. He softens his voice a bit. The kid has had a long day.
“Like I told you after we escaped Old Haven, remember?”
Rhys manages to gather himself a bit. He sits quietly for a while, still; formulates his answer. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak.
“I’d fix Pandora. There’s some good people down there - and they deserve better than a world full of psychos.”
And Jack barely manages to suppress a smile. Rhys is a viper, he knows that. He wouldn’t get anywhere in Hyperion were it not for that. But that idealism, still buried somewhere inside him? Just like his own. Of course, Pandora is a cesspit that can only be cleansed with fire. But Rhys will see that soon enough.
He won’t have a choice.
Jack hunches his shoulders. He needs to put his boy a little bit more at ease. Some praise is in order, as is some self-depreciation. Just for show.
“Yeah, that’s what I wanted, but hell, maybe you’ll pull it off. Who knows. You’ve done well so far, kid.”
Time for act two.
He gets up, turns around so Rhys can’t see his face and allows himself a moment to truly smile.
They’ll be so perfect together.
***
He takes his first breath of air.
Dust, oil, copper.
Leaves, grass, wood.
These are his favourite smells from now on. He missed this, he thinks. He missed this so much.
“Rhys?” he says to the empty air and marvels at the way his vocal cords vibrate.
Nobody answers.
“Pumpkin?” he tries again.
Rhys is gone, snuffed out like a candle’s flame in a draught. Something approaching sorrow wells up within Jack. He’s on his own now and the clock is ticking.
Already, there are alerts and notifications popping up in his field of vision. Critical damage to the brain. Decay of nerve endings. Something about his (Rhys’) liver.
He ignores them.
He walks out of the workshop on unsteady legs. Beyond the door there is a hallway, long and dark, and stairs. He goes down to a living room of sorts - also dark, quiet and dusty.
Whatever life this house had has left a long time ago.
There are pictures on the walls - Rhys and his friends. What were their names? The nerd was Vaughn, the Hyperion girl was… he doesn’t know. The shortest one was Sasha. Tall one in a hat - Fiona.
They are standing in front of what can only be the gate of a Vault, all of them dirty and tired - but smiling.
Oh, if only they knew, he thinks.
The next few images are all from different times and places, but show the same group. Jack watches them change and age from picture to picture, watches silver appear on Rhys’ head, the deepening wrinkles on the nerd’s face, Sasha and the Hyperion girl standing a bit closer together with every photo, until they are holding hands. The steel growing in Fiona’s eyes. On the last few pictures she has a familiar black-and-red shield on her back.
Then, there is the second set - Rhys with… children. Taller with every picture, growing into three fine adults, standing straight and with laughter in their eyes. Jack’s heart stops for a moment and something tightens in his stomach. He looks at their faces carefully, looking for anything familiar. None of them looks even remotely like Rhys. Adopted, probably. There is no partner, husband, or wife on any picture.
He sighs with relief, and wonders why it even bothered him. However, the tightness in his stomach doesn’t let go - it is joined by growing pains somewhere behind his ribs. He grits his teeth. The clock is ticking, and he has places to be.
He leaves the house quickly after that. The garden spreads before him - twisting paths between seemingly wild walls of greenery. The scents of dying summer flowers assault his nostrils, making his head spin. He picks the widest path and starts walking as fast as he can.
It leads him away from the house, on a winding trail seemingly without an end. He chooses turns by instinct alone and it pays off - soon enough the path starts turning up and the trees thin out more and more.
He stops for a moment when he sees the sky for the first time - deep blue with a slight tinge of green, strangely familiar, darkening at the edges. He shakes his head and pushes forward.
The clock is ticking.
Midway up the hill he falls to his knees, his lungs burning, rivers of sweat falling into his eyes. Warnings about organ failure cloud his vision. He shuts them all down.
“Just a bit more,” he pants and struggles back onto his feet. Slowly, step by step, he drags his borrowed flesh up and up and up to the top.
It is - not what he expected.
The path ends and there is just a wooden bench there - old and obviously well used, sun-bleached and rain-washed. Its left side is slightly more worn out than the right - someone must have sat here often. He falls onto it heavily and stretches his legs.
That’s it, then? All this effort for an old piece of garden furniture?
He raises his head and looks at the horizon.
A low, grassy plain stretches before him. Wind trails patterns in the tall grass, bristle and yellowed from the heat of the day. The air is warm, and the breeze carries with it a scent of dying flowers and hot, dry earth. A rumble of thunder echoes from somewhere far, far away.
In the distance rises a great city - silver spires pierce the sky, their tops still burning orange and fiery gold from the last rays of the setting sun. Lights like a thousand tiny stars flicker and multiply as darkness sweeps over the plain.
And above it all hovers the familiar shape of Elpis.
I’d fix Pandora.
Pandora.
He tries to take a deep breath - to laugh, to cry, to scream, but he can’t. His lungs expand painfully slowly, and he has to fight for every little gulp of air.
“You did it,” he whispers softly. “You glorious bastard, you did it.”
His vision blurs strangely and he raises his left hand to his face. There is something wet on his cheeks. He licks his fingers - the taste of salt spreads on his tongue. Tears. So he has some in him still.
He puts his hand into his lap and lets his muscles relax. His head falls back and he knows with an overwhelming certainty that he won’t be able to raise it up.
Somehow, it’s not as bad as he though. The stars dance above his head.
There’s a voice on the edge of his hearing, so soft he thinks it might be just his imagination:
I missed you, Jack.
He smiles to the darkening sky.
“I missed you too, Rhysie.”