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I. Fresh (Autolysis)
The car has just hit the deer, has collided with a sharp impact of metal and bone. Of course, in the struggle for power, the contest between break and dent, the bones are the first to give out. The car drives on, leaving the mangled body to rot in the sun. The body will begin to match the temperature of its surroundings (algor mortis), the blood will begin to settle in the spots touching the ground, at least, what isn't already spreading across the hot pavement (livor mortis), and muscles stiffen (rigor mortis). Autolysis begins as cells rupture, releasing enzymes that begin to eat the tissue. The body remain intact externally, but microbial activity begins in the gut.
The body sets the stage for the next step of decay.
As where all bad things seem to start for Spoke, it starts in the Maze.
Tall, stretching walls littered with cracks and climbing ivy, the tops shadowed, lightless, even with the countless shining stars above. The corridors, stained with his blood, covered in a layer of thick fog that smells like decay— rotting flowers and suffocating guilt.
Spoke knows, or well he doesn't. He thinks he is at the end of the Maze, a glowing exit made of warm light and sparkling quartz, but one can never be too sure. He's kind of like a rat in a man-made maze, scientist looking at him from above with a clipboard full of notes and a clinical gaze, because he knows there ought to be an exit but all the turns and corners he's taken before loop where they shouldn't, corners where there was previously open space, passages eaten out of previously impentetrable walls. It's dizzying, turns him every which way. He's lost, so lost without a bread trail or a red string or the scent of cheese, nothing to guide him but the primal urge to keep moving. To keep going, to never stand still because the fog might have claws or it might hide teeth and if Spoke falls he might never give up. Besides, if Spoke stops, he won't be anywhere closer to the exit.
But here it is? Might be? He doesn't trust his mind at all. It's been nothing but a liar and nothing but mean, hope and hatred coiled up like a venomous cobra, writhing like snakes, twirling and looping and slithering over and over and over each other until he can't tell the head from the tail. Kind of like an ouroboros. Hah. Spoke might be one of those. Creation and destruction all tied in a neat little bow. He did create himself, it's only fair that he destroys himself too, right?
There are documented cases of snakes eating their own tails, usually in captivity or under extreme stress or confusion; little ouroboros that could never hope to be the symbol of unity and infinity and all things good so many cultures deemed the ouroboros. Given no help, the snakes could asphyxiate or starve and die. A tragedy really. Not a self-made martyr because there's no audience to feel sorry.
Anyways, as he rounds the corner of the maze, where cracking stone gives way to space, to quartz and light, he sees a figure standing before him, a figure backed in warmth but whose presence brings no warmth to Spoke's heart. Perhaps once, long before this. Perhaps Spoke might have ran toward him. Now he steps back, half-hunched over himself in nausea from hunger festering too long. His legs quake and tremble but he will not fall before him. He won't. He won't. Because he, Jamato, doesn't deserve anything close to reverence, anything close to an apology, and that's kind of what dropping to your knees is.
Instead, he backs up so he can hold the wall, staring at the cloaked figure, his ex-friend, the white mask which now only looks at him apathetically. Spoke knew his face once. Knew his smile. Now the only thing that appears is the bug-shaped eyes, haunting him in his dreams when he succumbs to sleep.
"Jamato," he hisses, almost animalistic in the way the word leaves his mouth, in the way he presses his back to smooth stone to not have anything creep up behind him, in the way his senses tell him to run, to hide, if all else fails, to fight. In the way he keeps looking at Jamato, observing his every move, trying to gauge his emotions. It would be easier without the mask, but Spoke doesn't want to see his face, doesn't want to be reminded of all the things he's done so well at keeping locked away. Hidden. Safely buried.
"Hello, Spoke," Jamato says. And he's not— he's really not supposed to be here, but he is. In all his red-robed unglory. Spoke likes red but not this shade, this dying, muted shade of red incomparable to anything beautiful in nature. It's unnatural. Mapicc's shade of red is a lot more nicer, the dying embers of a fire, the burning hues of the rising sun, fresh ro— the prickle of thorns in his hands, blood matching red petals, bile in his throat.
He pulls himself out of the past, blinking past the glaze in his eyes as Jamato stops in front of him, closer than— well. As close as he was when Spoke tried to kill him. Twice. It's— it feels weird. To see all the carved details in Jamato's mask, to see the rise and fall of his chest that reminds Spoke that he is just alive as Sp— not Spoke. Not- yeah no not Spoke. Unless you count a corpse on the shoulder of the road as living. But really that would be the road itself right? What would that make heaven or hell? Do they even exist in such a world with such man-made machinations?
Spoke is drawn out of his thoughts as the glare of the exit is cut off by Jamato's head, as his eyes adjust to look up, wide, at the man who has ruined his life in every way and still thinks it isn't enough. He flinches back as Jamato's hand finds his wrist, almost hits his head against the wall and glares at the smugness radiating off of his ex-friend. His ex-friend who saw that flinch.
It's not like Spoke is terrified of physical touch or has a bad past with it. He isn't, and he hasn't. But Jamato is different. The hand that holds Spoke's wrists so uncharacteristically gently (and it still burns nonetheless) might tighten without warning at any time. Spoke knows it will. To make things worse, Jamato's hand is over fresh scars and they throb to the tune of his heartbeat, rabbit-paced in his chest.
Self-inflicted, the scars are from yesterday, sometime between what he thinks was evening and midnight. The fog makes it hard to tell. He had walked so far for so long that his legs had given out, and he had dragged himself to a little hollow to rest for a bit before continuing. Stuck, his mind had begun to torment him about his losses, about nagging impendingness. Something like death but not quite because Spoke has never been afraid of death, has already died. Is nothing more than a walking corpse masquerading as a living human being. It's like watching a storm brew on the horizon, knowing it will catch up before you reach shelter. It's like a plant digging the beginnings of roots into soil. It's like an old dog giving up its last breath, head cradled in your hands.
He couldn't— it was unbearable, he couldn't take it anymore, he just couldn't. He didn't know who he was, didn't feel real and alive (as real and alive as a ghost can be), didn't feel in control, just needed them to stop. He was looking at the stars, what little he could see in the darkness, and he needed to know that those pinpricks of glittering light existed in him too, in the inky blackness of his soul. (They didn't, of course they didn't, because Spoke doesn't deserve good things and he isn't good. He isn't made of starmatter and space diamonds, isn't made of galaxies and love. Just blood and bone and ink). So maybe he rolled his sleeves up and maybe he dug his claws into his skin until red ran down his arm. So what? He was practically a professional, had done this times in the past, alone, with no one to care, to watch. He had sat there and watched it slip down his arms and he had let the pain come in a rushing wave and sweep everything back to shore.
That's not for Jamato to know. He doesn't get to know anything about Spoke ever since he left him with nothing, ever since he got the idea that Spoke was the one true villain of the server and wouldn't allow himself to be swayed otherwise.
Jamato tilts his head and pulls back Spoke's sleeve and Spoke just stands there, doesn't do anything, because he's pinned against the wall and his other hand won't move and as much as he tries to push Jamato away it's feeble, he doesn't move. The fabric of his hoodie sticks to his wounds and tears. Spoke looks away so he doesn't see the aftermath of his self-hatred and desperation.
"Hurting yourself, Spoke?" Jamato says, and the tone makes something curl in Spoke's gut. It's wrong, all pity and condescension and a thousand other things that shouldn't go together. Spoke doesn't answer, shuts his mouth and keeps it locked until Jamato grabs his chin and forces his head toward his arms. He squeezes his eyes shut. Jamato's fingers dig into his chin tighter.
"Open your eyes." A beat where Spoke doesn't listen, shakes his head. A repetition, this time more firmly. "Open your eyes."
This time he does, catches a glimpse of red lines upon red lines and feels the urge to vomit. Jamato nods in approval.
"Good," he says. "See what you've done to yourself?" Spoke wants to ask why he cares so much but the reason is that he doesn't. No one who cares would do this. He nods, only to be done with this faster. Jamato is still talking to him like one might talk to a small, misbehaving child.
"You did this and this is only the beginning," Jamato says. "If you are already breaking now, I wonder how you will do when there are so many more worse things to come." Of course there is. Of course. Because Jamato can't let Spoke be done. He can't ever be satisfied, he can't ever leave something alone. Spoke may be a sinner, but it can't be worth this amount of hatred, right?
He lets go of Spoke's face. He rubs at the indents Jamato's fingers left on his jaw and shoves his sleeve down, uncaring of the sting. Jamato stands off to the side, as Spoke rubs at the wound.
"I thought you wanted the pain? Isn't that why you did it?"
Spoke scowls, but doesn't say anything. It isn't worth it. This time, he follows Jamato, tails behind him like a tamed dog, tail tucked between his legs. Jamato does not look back. It is as if he knows that Spoke will follow, and he hates that. Spoke hates that.
They walk toward the supposed exit, the lights now off, their footsteps cold and echoing in the hallway. There is no escape from the maze. There is not a doorway back to the light afterwards. There is just a dark room, lit only by flickering lights made of fire, large and unassuming. Which automatically means nothing good. The animalistic part of Spoke agrees, every muscle lined with tension, ears pricked for danger, lips ready to bare sharp, snarling teeth. Not safe, not safe, not safe. Spoke wants Mapicc. Mapicc is safe.
Jamato stops on the left edge of the room, turns to Spoke. Spoke keeps ample distance between them, angling his body so nothing can sneak up on him while he's keeping an eye on Jamato. His ex-friend is predictable in his unpredictability, which leaves Spoke wary. He was supposed to be the unpredictable, not Jamato. And yet he's here with Jamato standing still, confident, like he knows everything there is nothing he does not know about, while he is standing still confused to why he is here.
"You want to be powerful, Spoke?"
Spoke stiffens at Jamato's voice, chokes down a growl that threatens to slip between his canines. He isn't one for silence, but Jamato's voice is grating and never says nice things. Not anymore. He's like a living embodiment of all Spoke's bad thoughts about himself. Spoke you are the evil of this server, Spoke you should just kill yourself, Spoke you ruined your life better than I ever could.
The thing is, Jamato is right. Spoke does want to be powerful. Did? He doesn't really know anymore, honestly. He was— when he met Mapicc at first, he was still coming off his power high, but as he spent time with Mapicc, he realized he didn't really need to be powerful to be loved. But he did need to be powerful to protect him. And then at some point the want to be feared, to be respected came back, because no one took him seriously, all laughed when he did heroic things. And then all the talk about how much of a failure and a monster and a villain he is, maybe at some point he had internalized it. But Spoke really doesn't know much about himself besides the fact that Mapicc isn't here and he's never felt so empty. Power could fill that up, right?
Spoke is a caterpillar, one of those poisonous ones. He feels the urge to eat and eat and eat everything that comes into his path, to consume and destroy until the black hole of his heart no longer feels empty. Until he feels complete. He must eat to grow big and strong so that when he eventually makes a cocoon, he has enough energy to emerge victorious as a butterfly. To have undergone histolysis, the eating of tissue by enzymes, the repositioning of vital structures as the body molds itself into growing perfect wings, well, that's a big accomplishment, right? To be able to endure such a process and come back better, a if from a holy fire? Metamorphosis is a cleansing of some kind. The replacement of the body for something better, change in its most complete form.
Maybe when Spoke crawls out of his chrysalis, he won't be so vile, he won't be so hated. Maybe all his sin will have been erased, maybe he will get the chance to start anew. Power will give him that chance, no? Will wrap his body and hide this forsaken flesh while he molds himself into something more whole? Will give him the ability to change how other people see him?
Spoke wants his wings so badly. He wants it more than anything in the world. He wants to be worth loving. For Mapicc, especially for Mapicc. Wings will do it. They have to, he doesn't know what else will. He's tried everything else.
"Do you want to be powerful Spoke?" Jamato is saying, and he should probably tune into this even if it is a little weird that Jamato is just letting Spoke have this after everything. After leaving him and taking away his exploits and no goodbye. After beating him into the ground and deciding that Spoke still has more bones left to break, more blood to shed, more tears to give.
Spoke is cautious. He isn't stupid. Jamato probably has something, definitely does, but he won't know unless he listens.
"If you want power, you'll have to give something up. Ash did. Wifies did. I did too."
Wifies? Spoke is not familiar with what happened to Parrot, just that at some point he was haunted by someone called The Director after Wifies' death. A person Spoke had masqueraded as because the name sounded cool and powerful. Because BAT and Parrot had talked about him in whispered voices, fear making their words tremble, eyes searching around for something listening. More of a folk tale than man, The Director had seemed, and Spoke was ever so happy to play the role, already creeping through their walls.
Maybe something with that? Spoke really can't find it in himself to care all that much. The past is the past and Spoke has his own issues and he's not on the best terms with Parrot, which has really all been Parrot's fault lately.
He's too familiar with Ash. Ash gave up his friends and empathy for power, lived a life of loneliness in return for an army under his command. Drunk himself sick almost every night. Told Spoke they were just like each other, one and the same.
And Jamato…
"What will you give up?"
What will Spoke give up? He's lost a lot already, has pretty much nothing. No one. Has he not given enough yet? Has he not given up everything? His entire life? What cost does power demand? How much further down must Spoke go? How far can he go before it is too late?
"Stumped?" Jamato asks, hands folded behind his back, head tilted like a curious dog. At least on a dog it would look cute. On Jamato, with the emotionless mask, it just looks creepy. Like a haunted doll. Like code pulled up and messed around with until it is no longer recognizable, all man-made instead of natural. "I have just the thing."
Two Null come from the shadows, dragging someone between them by the hands. Two more follow behind. Spoke's throat tightens as they drop the person at his feet, as Spoke catches a glimpse of red horns and red bandana and red, red, red, lovelovelove, Mapicc curled up on the cold ground trying his best to breathe. His eyes meet Spoke, wide and terrified in a way they never really are. Mapicc isn't scared. He isn't scared until Spoke's life is on the line. He isn't— he— he's supposed to be the strong one.
But here he is, not getting up, no weapon in sight. Here he is, looking close to tears but still looking at Spoke, looking at Spoke like he trusts him. Like a dying dog with boundless love in its heart. Not dying. Not dying because Mapicc is not dying. He's—
Jamato presses a scalpel into his hands and it is like a noose tied around Spoke's neck. He knows what Jamato wants him to do before he even speaks it into being. Jamato wants him to kill himself because he wants him to hurt Mapicc and Mapicc is as good as Spoke. His throat tightens, building nausea as the floor threatens to drop. It might not be tied right. They might not drop the floor, might leave him to step and die a slow, painful death of suffocation. He's suffocating right now, eyesight wavering as Jamato opens his mouth and damningly tells Spoke to pick Mapicc apart.
II. Bloat Stage
The next stage; during bloat, anaerobic bacteria proliferate, producing gases such as methane, carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and hydrogen sulfide, which cause the body to swell. Fluids may be expelled through natural openings, and the skin may loosen or slip. This stage is often accompanied by a strong odor due to compounds like putrescine and cadaverine. Insects, particularly blowflies, begin laying eggs, and maggots may appear, accelerating tissue breakdown.
It is, of course, not pretty.
But no one cares for the deer beginning to rot on the side of the highway, do they?
"I ca—" Spoke looks away from Mapicc's face, away from the raw, unfiltered trust in Mapicc's gaze. It makes him nauseous. His Mapicc doesn't look at him like that. Doesn't lay at his feet tamely okay with being killed. That's not— this isn't right.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" Jamato's voice is how it has always been, unbothered and low. He speaks as though this isn't torturing Spoke, as if he doesn't harbor so much hatred in his heart for Spoke that it leaves a fathomable tension in the air. Spoke should be the one hating Jamato, if anything.
Spoke looks down at the cool metal between his hands, brings his thumb to the blade and presses down until sharp blade pierces his skin.
Jamato is talking about Spoke's wounds. He is talking about Spoke's want for power. He is talking about Spoke the caterpillar trying to grow beautiful wings. He is talking about the loyalty, the devotion that Mapicc looks at Spoke with. Like Spoke is the god who hung all the stars in place, the one whom Mapicc owes his life to. Mapicc used to look at Spoke with devotion, but never, never did he sit like a dog at its master's feet. Spoke doesn't think that it is in Mapicc's nature to die quietly but he never wanted to test that, never wanted Mapicc's life to be in too much danger.
All the times Mapicc almost died was because he threw himself in front of danger to protect Spoke. He had, hadn't he? Time and time and time again and Spoke had taken it for granted. He supposes there was something dog-like in Mapicc then. But not this. This person laying at his feet is not Mapicc. He cannot be. Mapicc hates Spoke and Mapicc doesn't act like this and Mapicc isn't all quiet like this so it isn't. It should make it easier to take the sharp edge of the blade and gut him like a fish but it doesn't. It doesn't because he still looks like Mapicc. And Spoke promised himself that we would never hurt Mapicc with the intention of hurting Mapicc. Does that make sense? He knew that he would probably hurt Mapicc just by his nature, how he was wired, but if there was no ill intention then it was okay, right?
If Mapicc kept coming back then it was okay, right?
Right?
Hm.
"Spoke," Jamato says, voice lilting slightly. Like this is all just some big game. Like he isn't actively ruining Spoke's life. Spoke's scabbing wounds sting as his sleeves catch, as he brings his arms down from where he was holding himself tightly. Apparently the time for consideration is done. Apparently Jamato is bored.
"If you don't have it in you to claim the power you oh so desperately wanted, that's fine. But you aren't coming out of this without losing something— someone— important to you. You don't get to walk out of this okay."
The caterpillar, fat with all the food it has been storing up, finds a secluded, safe space. It finds a spot to hang from, attaches itself to a home-spun silk pad with its cremaster and sheds its skin, revealing the chrysalis.
Jamato doesn't move one inch forward, stands there as tall and stiff as a statue but Spoke steps back and shrinks as though he had. The scalpel is still clutched in his hands.
"If you cannot do it yourself, I will do it for you."
Jamato holds out his hand, mask blank and apathetic. He is waiting for the scalpel. He is waiting for Spoke to give him the weapon that will wrench out Spoke's heart. That will kill Mapicc. Spoke looks down at Mapicc, still laying patiently at his feet.
That won't do. That won't do at all.
Jamato won't be nice. Well, it's hard to be nice or kind or gentle when you're slicing someone open. But the motivation behind what you do is important right? If Spoke doesn't mean to hurt Mapicc, if Spoke does it with the right amount of love, it can't be all that bad right? It won't make Spoke an awful person? It won't prove Jamato right? It might even hurt less with love. Less than if Jamato was doing it.
So he'll do it. For Mapicc. Despite the bile rising in his throat. It's— oh it's awful. He hates Jamato. He hates him so much. Hate isn't a strong enough word. It just isn't.
Spoke's throat tightens as his fingers tighten around the blade, as Jamato retracts his hand, as Spoke slowly kneels at Mapicc's side. This is horrible. This is really— Spoke doesn't have the words for how bad it is. It makes his hands shake, makes him sweat and shiver and feel sick and he hasn't even started.
Spoke rests the sharp tip of the scalpel against the bottom of Mapicc's ribs. His best-friend-reason-for-being, patient as ever, kind and gentle, doesn't even flinch at the cold metal. He's used to cuts and injury, got used to it from all the fights he took for Spoke's sake. It makes it worse. Spoke has to stabilize his right hand with his left because his hands are shaking too badly.
He prays to Mapicc, a silent apology that he can't choke up past the bile in his throat and begins to draw the blade down Mapicc's abdomen, little by little as skin gives way, exposing Mapicc's inside to the cold air of the bunker. Mapicc doesn't even scream, doesn't try to stop him. Like a dog, he allows himself to be held still, allows himself to be poked with the needle administering euthanasia. Loyal to a fault, he trusts that his owner knows what is best for him, tries to work past his fear. Like a lamb to the chopping block willingly laying its head down for the butcher's blade. Willingly.
Mapicc just squeezes Spoke's hand with his own, turns his head to the side so that he cannot see the organs threatening to escape. It's— oh god, Mapicc is just like him isn't he? Mapicc… doesn't care if he dies. He told Spoke this long ago and Spoke, like an idiot, shoved it off. Mapicc told Spoke that he would be okay with going out fighting. But he's— he's not even— he's just laying in Spoke's arms. It's just— it's— why? Why let Spoke do any of this? Why? Why isn't he doing anything?
Spoke drops the blade, lets it clatter on the ground and reaches to hold Mapicc's hand between both of his with bloodied fingers. Mapicc's blood on his hands. His airways tighten like a noose has been drawn across his neck suddenly, like he can feel the sudden weight of his crimes, like a preview to the weight his neck, that poor bone will try to hold up before snapping. It will be all too quick. All too quick for someone like Spoke.
Blood continues to spill out from the gash in Mapicc's abdomen. Spoke is half holding Mapicc's hand, half trying to keep all the organs and blood back where they are supposed to be. They keep slipping between their fingers. Keep avoiding him, avoiding their purpose. They should be trying to keep Mapicc alive. Mapicc should be trying to keep Mapicc alive, but he isn't. He isn't. He isn't, he isn't he isn't he isn't he isn't. Please, try and stop the blood, Spoke begs through his mind. Please show me you want to live. Please show me that I'm worth living for. Please. For some reason, Spoke can't get tears to form. He can't even cry, just sits there in muted horror, in fear and hurt and worry and a thousand other emotions that threaten to suffocate him.
Mapicc, for all the times he is able to read Spoke's mind, does not budge.
Spoke jumps as Jamato kneels before him. The only thing separating them is Mapicc's sprawled, dying form. Spoke is so close to Mapicc he can see the light leaving his eyes. He is so close he can see Jamato's clothes shift slightly as he breathes. He has the scalpel in his hand. Spoke didn't see him pick it up. Then again, he didn't see Jamato until he was kneeling across from him either.
Jamato reaches out with the blood-stained blade and Spoke hisses, bares his teeth and moves so that Mapicc is somewhat shielded by his body. Jamato isn't touching Mapicc, not when he got them both into this mess. Jamato is not hurting Mapicc. Not anymore. Jamato just snorts, unfazed, and shifts so that he has better access to Mapicc. Spoke tries to move again. Before he can budge, Jamato's left hand comes up and grabs Spoke's wrist with surprising strength. His nails dig into Spoke's wounds as Spoke tries to wrench his arm out of Jamato's touch. Spoke goes still, heart beating frantically, one hand still curled around Mapicc, propping Mapicc up on his legs.
He is powerless to stop Jamato as he finishes the slice to reveal Mapicc's ribs. Mapicc shivers as if he is cold, continues to lay there lifelessly, even as Jamato, with surgical precision, retrieves Mapicc's heart and frees it from his ribcage. Mapicc jerks in Spoke's grasp and then stills completely, dead.
Mapicc is dead. He's deaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead and he can't be because he— he prom— did they ever promise each other they would stay alive for each other? Did they—
Spoke stares at the heart in Jamato's hand. Jamato drops Spoke's wrists to cradle Mapicc's heart, blood dripping down his wrists in a mockery of Spoke's own. Mapicc's red blood and Spoke's black tar from a thousand itchy cracks. Spoke's own, dull blood he shed in an attempt to regain some of the control of his life that he had lost. Some of the aliveness he hadn't felt in ages. He thinks his heart must have stopped too because he can't feel it in his chest. Can't hear what Jamato is saying, can't feel Mapicc's body in his lap.
That used to be his friend. That— Jamato killed him. And Spoke couldn't do anything about it. He just… Let him.
Spoke chokes on the oncoming flood of tears, bends over Mapicc's body and screams.
Jamato just watches. Over Spoke's sobs, he speaks.
"Didn't you want this?" He asks. "Doesn't it feel good? The power? Doesn't it feel awful? To lose everything?"
It's horrible. It aches and stings and chews at Spoke's mind and heart with dog teeth and sharp claws. It is indescribable. It is torture. It is nothing like he has ever felt before. Spoke continues to weep. Jamato is cruel. For what? Spoke did not do nearly this much to him and yet Jamato must take everything, must kill Spoke over and over and over again only to still be unsatisfied.
A fox-fur scarf is not enough. He must kill the entire population. Must shoot them all and wear their tails on a belt. Only then he might be happy. Only then he might leave Spoke alone. Spoke is already dead, what more does he want? Spoke's heart in in Jamato's hand, nothing in his chest, no breath coming out of his lungs. Nothing. Spoke has nothing to give. Spoke is nothing. Not anymore.
Jamato hands him the heart.
"Eat it," he says. "For that is how you show love."
III. Active Decay
Active decay is characterized by significant tissue liquefaction and mass loss. The body’s soft tissues are rapidly consumed by bacteria, insects, and other decomposers. Skin darkens, and the body may collapse as internal structures break down. This stage produces the most noticeable odor.
A dishonorable thing to let happen, especially in ancient war. A mourning would have happened, some kind of burial, before which the loved ones might have chased away the hungry dogs and vultures.
But of course, this is just a dead deer, not a sapient creature. If we stopped to bury every animal we broke with our cars we wouldn't get anywhere now would we?
Spoke is still kneeling holding Mapicc to his chest when Jamato stands up. His cloak billows out behind him as he adjusts, but Spoke can only see a sliver of it from his peripherals. Most of his vision is locked onto Mapicc's chest, where his heart would now be. The hand not propping up his once full-of-life friend is holding the still dripping heart with a sense of urgency, like if he thinks hard enough, he might be able to fix this. Might be able to put Mapicc back together again, might place the heart in his chest and have it beat again.
Jamato just looks at him. At the tears still flowing down his cheeks, at both the desperation and creeping hopelessness with which Spoke holds Mapicc, at the sobs he tries to silence that wrack his whole body. Sitting there, Spoke looks as lifeless as Mapicc.
"You're pathetic, Spoke," Jamato informs him. Hah. As if he didn't already know that. "That was all you had to give?"
He gave everything. Everything except Mapicc, emptied his whole e-chest, all of his memories, all the things that would tell the world that Spokeishere existed once. There's nothing left of him. He isn't here anymore. And Jamato took Mapicc too. Jamato…
Spoke's hands tighten around the cooling body that was once Mapicc, digging man-made creases into Mapicc's torn, red hoodie. He clenches his jaw and doesn't say anything. Jamato. He's really the root of all Spoke's problems, isn't he? Spoke could have had greatness and power and Mapicc if Jamato didn't decide that his life's purpose was to torment Spoke. Spoke was a caterpillar on the way to becoming a beautiful butterfly and Jamato was the parasite that killed Spoke, that left him dying in a chrysalis that felt all the more like a coffin and not a catalyst for metamorphosis.
Jamato was the reason Spoke couldn't change. Jamato was the reason Spoke wasn't a butterfly, the remnants of forming wings on his back, half of his body forever turned into mush. He would never be a finished product, just an ugly blemish, an example of natural selection, of the cruelty of fate.
Metamorphosis would have hurt Spoke, it was hurting him. He's not a caterpillar, he feels pain acutely. But it would have been good. It could have been great. He could have his power, his wings, his Mapicc. Everything could have finally been okay for once. Now instead of necessary pain, he experiences unnecessary torment. This isn't making him better. Jamato is just doing this out of hatred. He doesn't care about Spoke, he probably never has. The only person who ever cared about Spoke was Mapicc and he's dead.
The only person who ever cared about Spoke is dead.
Spoke should be more grieved by this notion that worms its way up from the depths of his heart and mind but he can't find in himself any more tears to cry. He just feels empty. He adjusts his hold on Mapicc so that he can dig his sharp claws to the scabbed skin on his other arm. Pain blooms, but it is not enough to cover up anything.
"Isn't this what you wanted, Spoke?" Jamato is saying, standing rather smugly in front of him, wiping Mapicc's blood on his robes like it didn't belong to someone so important to Spoke, someone so integral to his life. "You were the one who did this after all."
"Don't you hate yourself?" Jamato asks, tilting his head. Spoke doesn't move, he can't. "Don't you want yourself to hurt? Isn't that why you do anything you do? Dragging in the people who dared to care about you?"
Spoke remains silent. Jamato's words filter through his ears, dance their way to his brain and twist and merge with the thoughts that already send Spoke spiraling. Failure. Coward. Manipulator. Murderer. Mistake, they say. Why can't you do anything right? Why don't you just kill yourself and get rid of the problem? No more Spoke, no more hurt!
They were right. You are a monster. You are a villain. You are the problem. All you ever do is mess things up and make things worse. The world really would be better off without you.
Spoke chokes on a sob, feels every breath grate against his ribs, knives against fragmenting bone, chipping off pieces that dig into his chest. Tar running down his throat, a noose around his neck only growing tighter. The misplaced heart in Mapicc's chest.
"Stop," he begs, even though Jamato isn't talking. "Please." He doesn't even know what he is begging for.
"What do you want, Spoke?" Jamato asks, condescendingly.
"Make it stop," Spoke pleads, setting Mapicc down gently on the floor to crawl his way toward Jamato. He hovers at his feet, hands clasped like he is praying to an apathetic god. He very well might be. "Make it go away. End it, I don't care."
Failure. Mistake. Monster.
"End it?" Jamato starts.
"Yes," Spoke chokes out past his unresponsive tongue. He fumbles with the axe in his inventory (wow he didn't even know he had one of those with him! How handy!) and holds it up to Jamato. "Kill me, please."
Jamato takes the axe as Spoke exposes his neck, bows his head like a man before the chopping block. He'd make a good sacrificial lamb, even if his wool is stained with all the people he has hurt before this. He won't run away. Not this time. Except the beautiful star-sharp pain of metal meeting soft flesh doesn't happen.
"Kill me," Spoke says again, words slipping around his sharp canines in a way that makes it sound hissed. "Kill me, Jamato. I— isn't this what you wanted?" A broken laugh passes his lips. He's still staring desperately at the ground beneath his hands and knees. "Didn't you say this would help save the server? Jamato."
"What the fuck is— Spoke?"
Spoke raises his head quickly. The axe, the mouton, isn't even held above his head. Jamato is standing there also staring, head turned off to the side where the voice was. Spoke follows his gaze, heart pausing then starting again then stopping as if it can't decide how to react.
"Mapicc?!" Spoke asks quietly, voice breaking on the two syllables. It shouldn't be possible… he died in Spoke's arms and yet… Yet he's still here, standing by the entrance, one hand on the wall, looking over the room with wide, very bright, very alive eyes.
Spoke turns his gaze from him to the lifeless corpse still spread on the ground, back to the alive Mapicc, head pounding. He's so— Mapicc? Alive? That's great, amazing, but wh— who's the person dead? Is that also— it has to be Mapicc because Spoke could pick out Mapicc from anywhere and everything is the same as the Mapicc standing shocked over there. Unless Mapicc is like— no, no Spoke won't look a gift horse in the mouth. Mapicc is alive! And he's here! And Spoke can stop being a ghost!
Except Mapicc (the alive one, of course), is looking at him kind of funny and Spoke remembers that he was literally begging for Jamato to kill him and Mapicc? Doesn't really know? About Spoke's suicidal thoughts all that much? So it's definitely jarring and Mapicc looks like he wants to have a talk but Spoke still has to deal with Jamato who is— wait where did he go?
Spoke looks around, can't catch a glimpse of Jamato's cloak in any shadows, it's like he vanished completely and— and it actually doesn't matter anymore because Mapicc is by Spoke's side and he is alive and breathing and Spoke double checks that as Mapicc pulls him into a hug, presses his ear against Mapicc's chest and counts his heartbeat. A little quick but there, present and real and real and realrealreal.
Lovelovelove, Spoke's mind says as Spoke's body relaxes entirely into Mapicc's arms. Safesafesafe.
This is nice. He missed this. He missed this so much it was tearing him apart. But it's okay because Mapicc is here to put him back together.
Mapicc pulls away slightly so that he can scan Spoke's face. His brows are furrowed in worry, his mouth dipping into a frown. His hands never leave Spoke's face, holding him so very gently.
"You want to kill yourself?" He asks. And oh that just proves that he did hear everything. Spoke doesn't know how to feel about that. It's something he's been trying to hide because well. What if Mapicc leaves? But he supposes that he learned that Mapicc wanted to die too so it was okay to tell him right? To be vulnerable? This wouldn't make him any less lovable?
"I'm sorry, Mapicc," Spoke says shakily, because all he's good for is spouting apologies. "I d— I'm— I didn't mean to. I j— something is wrong with me and I d— I think it started when I made myself and I'm not— I don't think I can fix it."
"Spoke," Mapicc says, and Spoke can see from his face that he is trying to understand but can't. He can't because he doesn't have all the pieces, because loved as he was by Spoke, Spoke couldn't find the courage to tell him all the parts of himself. His birth, his creation, that came from his own hands, from the void that almost took his life. There's so much. So much he doesn't know. It would take a lifetime to tell him everything. That notion hurts.
Spoke just continues pressing forward. "And I'm sorry that—" that you care about me, he wants to say, but can't. Because that's giving Mapicc an out, right? In a way? And Spoke isn't Spoke without Mapicc. He isn't alive without Mapicc. So he can't leave. For both of them he can't leave. "I'm sorry. I'm not meant to be a butterfly and I— trying to got you hurt and I d— I don't know if I can forgive myself for that."
Mapicc is squinting at him in confusion, but he is clearly trying to put things together and Mapicc, for all his dumb jokes and everything, is not stupid. Spoke trusts him to figure it out, to find the metaphor in his words, to decipher and unscramble Spoke's fried mind. Spoke thinks in a way only Mapicc can figure out. He speaks in riddles only Mapicc can solve. That's how it has always been. It means they're meant for each other. It does. It has to.
"The wings aren't worth it," Spoke says, and his shoulders shake as he shudders. Mapicc's arms tighten around him as Spoke lays his head on Mapicc's shoulder. Their tails are intertwined like they're meant to be that way. "Not when I lose you."
He peels himself slightly away from his best friend when he starts moving, wondering if maybe he overstepped, got too comfortable, talked too much, but Mapicc is just turning to look at the dead Mapicc on the floor. He looks at Spoke then at Mapicc then at Spoke.
"Ohhhh," Mapicc says, graceful-loving-Mapicc. Spoke sees the pieces click together in his mind. Mapicc opens his mouth to speak again and Spoke can sense that this is important— well everything Mapicc says is important to him, whether he acts like it is or not— listens like a priest to his god, like a dog to its master, like a fox to its instincts. Mapicc's word is truth, it is love, it is word.
"I forgi—" And then, because the world is cruel to Spoke, doesn't want to give him his moment of reprieve, doesn't want to him to have his good things, doesn't want him to be forgiven, Mapicc starts to melt in his arms.
IV. Advanced Decay
At this stage, most soft tissues have decomposed, leaving behind partially dried skin, cartilage, and bones. The rate of decomposition slows, and the body may attract fewer insects. Remaining tissues continue to break down chemically, and the surrounding environment may show signs of nutrient enrichment from the decomposed material.
Where nothing held the poor deer in death, nature welcomes it back home with gentle arms. She assures it that it never was separate from her. That all along it was a part of the world it grew up in, the one of love, not the man-made one that scorned and left it.
The deer discovers that although its death might not have meant anything to anyone, it brought life to the surrounding flora.
And that… That's enough for the deer. (It's not. He will never come to terms with the life he could have lived that was taken away from him so soon.)
Spoke wakes up in the prison.
His back is pressed against the wall. His arms protest with fresh pain every time he moves his arms, so he tries to move them as little as possible. He's hungry. Really hungry. It's hot in here. His hair hasn't been washed in ages. He feels like he hasn't moved in ages.
He's hungry. He's hungry. He's hungry.
His stomach protests, nausea threatening to build. But there's nothing he can do except wait for the guards to bring him food. Which could be soon. Or never. Feral animals are used to going days without food. Spoke is too. But he doesn't like the way that it sends his brain back to its most primitive instincts. Doesn't like the way it takes note of all of the danger he is in.
He's so hungry. He's—
Oh. There's food. If he turns his head a little bit, it catches his eyes, a plate of food all for him. Cooked chicken and some bread on the side. Not the worst thing to eat. He's had less. He can't smell it, but that's okay. His body hasn't been listening to him lately.
He drags himself over to the plate, reaches out with tentative hands. The texture isn't right but. It's okay. It's okay. It's food. He is hungry. And, like a beast, he is a slave to his own impulses.
He takes a bite.
It doesn't taste like chicken. It is nothing like he has ever tasted before. It isn't right. It isn't. It isn't—
He blinks. There is no plate before him. Only a familiar body in a red hoodie. Mapicc. Oh. So. That must mean that.
He looks down at his hand. Dripping blood down his arm from where he holds it, a bite through the once beating muscle, is Mapicc's heart.
Oh.
It's all co— really it's all coming together.
Spoke was never the caterpillar was he? He never had the chance to become a butterfly, never could because he just wasn't one. He was one of those parasites that killed the caterpillar in the cocoon but those beautiful, colorful wings were never his to have. Perhaps that's why he took and he took and he took. If he couldn't have his wings, why shouldn't anyone else? Or maybe it's just that taking was all he knew how to do. Maybe. Maybe.
And well.
He looks back down at his hand. At the stark red trailing down his blue-gray arm. Jamato said… Well Jamato told Spoke at some point that their were groups that ate certain parts of the deceased to honor their memory, help them pass in the afterlife, or keep part of their soul. Maybe he's remembering it wrong. But Jamato also told Spoke to eat Mapicc in that dream? Thing? That he was in? So maybe it holds some truth. He said that that's how you show love. Spoke doesn't know anything about love. Jamato does. Probably. It feels… Counterintuitive. But maybe it's a way of showing love to someone who's passed? Maybe. Maybe Mapicc needs this from Spoke. Spoke will do anything for Mapicc. He wants Mapicc to feel loved. To know Spoke loves him. Even if it's not in the classic way.
Jamato's wise. He knows a lot of things. Admittedly, he used it often to torment Spoke but. That still doesn't take away the fact that Jamato is knowledgeable.
So carefully, cautiously, Spoke raises the heart to his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a bite. The flesh holds against his teeth, threatens to give way, before finally surrendering. Blood spills down Spoke's mouth as he chews. It's— It's all too much.
Mapicc's body decomposing quietly in the corner. The smell of rotting flowers from who knows where. The feeling of suffocating warmth that makes Spoke want to pull his sleeves up. He won't. He won't, because he hates what is underneath.
Jamato must be wrong, he thinks nauseously.
The organ in his mouth doesn't taste like love. Mapicc lying still doesn't feel like love. The blood staining his sleeves with his best friend's blood doesn't feel like love. It feels like betrayal. It feels— Spoke feels sick.
He scrambles to turn to the side, and he vomits up everything. Dry heaves over the puddle of sick for a while, vision swimming, his own organs trying to escape the confines of his body. Desperately trying to get the forbidden taste of iron tang out of his mouth, out from between his sharp teeth. To no avail, of course. To no avail.
When he is done, Spoke wipes his mouth with a sleeve and crawls to Mapicc's body, heart still held aloft in his hand. Like last time, he tries to place the heart back into Mapicc's chest. Like last time, Mapicc remains stubbornly dead.
Spoke flops down next to him, curls his tail around another unresponsive one, buries his face in the crook of Mapicc's shoulder and neck and dies.
Let my heart beat for you, he thinks. Or not at all.
Fate, cruel as ever, does not let Spoke switch places with Mapicc. She just allows him to rot silently next to his best friend, painfully alone.
V. Skeletonization
The final stage involves the complete breakdown of soft tissues, leaving only bones and sometimes hair. Skeletonization can take weeks to years depending on environmental conditions such as temperature, humidity, and exposure to scavengers. Bones may eventually degrade chemically over long periods, completing the recycling of organic material into the ecosystem.
Suffering is finally over.
Spoke wakes up in the prison.
His back is pressed against the wall. His arms protest with fresh pain every time he moves his arms, so he tries to move them as little as possible. He's not hungry. He doesn't think he ever wants to eat again. It's hot in here. His hair hasn't been washed in ages. He feels like he hasn't moved in ages.
But he's. Alive? Awake?
And definitely alone.
Definitely alone.
Which means that Mapicc is probably alive? Hopefully. Hopefully. But it doesn't really matter at the end of the day because not even Mapicc will be able to bring Spoke back from this.
Spoke looks at his hands. They're… His? He can almost see the remnants of blood, can almost smell it in the air. He considers slamming his head against the wall until his brain matter is out for all to see.
It won't do anything.
…
Mapicc's probably dead. Thus, Spoke has nothing to lose. What is their to lose? His life?
Spoke is dead. He died a long time ago. No one mourned. No one showed up to his funeral. No one even noticed.
Nothing really matters now. Spoke can do anything at all or he can do nothing. His actions no longer have consequences. He's a ghost. People can't see him. Can't see what he is doing.
Spoke lowers himself to the ground, curls up, presses his back against the warm wall and pretends that it's a familiar body, Mapicc, spine pressed against his, convincing him he is alive before Spoke walks off the edge, sure he is dead.
Well.
It would be too late anyway.
Spoke is already falling.