Chapter Text
Ever there's a reason,
It's silver,
It's gone.
~ Pixies, Silver
☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎☠︎︎
“I’ll see you back at the Bucket, right?”
“...No.”
Shrike flinches.
There’s never been so many things packed behind one little syllable. It’s spoken softly, from a place of complete and utter exhaustion, and Shrike can’t blame him for being exhausted; Beebs has worked himself to the bone just to keep them barely afloat, and this is the no that declares that they have finally, officially, sunk. It’s full of commiseration, and regret, a no designed without hostility, because deep down Beebs is just as wounded by the notion of parting ways as Shrike is. It’s a no of genuine, heart-wrenching disappointment that Shrike would fail him so thoroughly that he has no other option but to leave.
They don’t say goodbye. Neither of them actually want this to be goodbye, so neither of them say it; Beebs just leaves Shrike standing in the waiting room, jaw agape and reality askew. And then he’s gone.
Shrike’s world stops and ends and a litany of other dramatic things, but right now he’s not feeling inclined to make a big performance out of his drama; he stands in the waiting room in silence until he’s called in for his surgery. He sits on the gurney and lets the Osteon nurse look him over, answers all her questions like a good boy would; bites his tongue at her unwarranted pitying expression once she realises just how miserable a creature she’s brought into her practice.
This is all I have.
It’s true. There are a few things hidden in his glasshole, but not much of value; his El Bandito comics would sell for a pretty penny, being Terran literature and all, but considering that’s literally all he has left he’s not so willing to part with them. On that note, Shrike realises that he doesn’t even have his El Bandito tapes anymore. He left them on the Bucket. Mierda.
Beebs will be taking the Bucket, naturally. It’s not something that needs to be discussed. The 400K pixels Shrike lost during his most recent gambling rampage don’t exactly match his half of the initial investment that funded Monkey Wrench, but they both know that over the course of time since they went into business together, he’s lost them a fair bit more money than that. Hell, he probably still owes Beebs money, even after giving up his shares, and his tapes, and his life.
That was his life.
“You might feel a little pinch.”
Shrike feels a lot more than that, but that's not her business, nor her problem. He glances up at the Osteon nurse, and nods once in consent. “Go ahead. No puede ser peor que esto.”
She blinks back at him, confused by his Spanish, but he doesn’t clarify anything for her. Sometimes he speaks too low for the translator on purpose; things he needs out of his mouth, but would rather nobody heard. It can’t be worse than this, he’d said, and it can’t be, and it isn’t. She gets on with her job regardless of what he said- because he doesn’t actually get a say in whether this procedure happens or not- and for a moment it does indeed pinch. It pinches at his entire nervous system, set aflame as this technology that he’s had intertwined with his person since he was barely old enough to hold a gun, that has become so familiar as a piece of himself that it feels a part of his natural body, is ripped from him just as abruptly- just as kindly- as everything else he knew and loved.
He gasps, pained and loud. He doesn’t hate her for making him feel like this. He doesn’t hate Beebs for giving up on him, because he had to give up on him, and he doesn’t hate this random woman for putting him under the knife, because she had to as well. It’s her job. And despite the incomparable difference in his relationships with these two people Shrike is still keenly aware that neither of them are hurting him out of malice. Maybe he’d actually feel better if there were malicious intentions there; he could at least feel some self-vindication that way. The gentleness with which he has been killed only tells him that he deserved it.
And then it’s over, and for the first time in years he is himself as he remembers being as a child. Not that he remembers much of that; the time between being discovered and donning the red suit is fuzzy and presumably short, and anything before that is long gone from his psyche. Everything he ever did that he can remember was done while wearing that suit. It defined him, and now that the collar is off, he isn’t sure how to define himself.
Gambling addict, maybe. Idiot who likes cartoons. Less than an hour ago he could have said mercenary, but since he now has neither the team nor the means to prove himself such he doesn’t think he can claim to be of that occupation anymore. Ex-mercenary. Ex-cop. Friendless loser alone in the universe. Endling.
It’s all very difficult to think about. That’s why he usually tries not to think at all. And then the Osteon nurse is prompting him to “Please feel free to get dressed, whenever you’re ready,” because he’s buck naked and staring despondently at a poster on the office wall that reads Feeling Low? in dripping blue font and tries to sell him antidepressants, but he doesn’t want antidepressants. He wants to feel as bad as his circumstances are. Shrike stands from the gurney robotically, and proceeds to dress himself in the first real clothes he’s owned since adolescence.
Black. The standard issue civilian clothing is all black; gender neutral underwear, loose-fitting unfashionable pants, and a long sleeve shirt that boasts sleeves just slightly too short to meet his wrists, so he rolls them up to his elbows instead. It’s the most meh ensemble imaginable, and Shrike feels appropriately meh wearing it, instantly missing his red. But when he goes to don his new socks, he realises he hasn’t lost everything he liked about his uniform.
They didn’t take his boots, and why would they? Who else in the universe would possibly want the shoes he’s been wearing for near enough a decade now? They’re technically uniform, yes, but nobody would pick them out and scream LAW without the context of the suit to go with them. So Shrike puts on his new socks, and his old, familiar boots back over top- solid, magnetic, nicely weighted- and cracks a wobbly little smile over this one creature comfort he’s been spared.
It’s enough that while he’s on his feet, he still feels like himself. Whoever that is. There’s no mirror in here, so he turns to the Osteon nurse, and inquires “Handsome, no?” Gesturing down to his new threads.
His voice tremors over the words and he cringes, hearing back in real time just how not okay he is. And she must have heard it too, but she titters at him anyway like he’s funny regardless, and answers “Very.”
There’s a pause where she just smiles at him, unsure whether to say whatever it is she wants to say, but when Shrike makes no move to leave she continues “You know, Mister Sanchez- I only started working here after you left, but I've heard about you,” she tells him, perfectly friendly, but despite both her politeness and friendliness Shrike goes still with unease, just imagining the sort of things his ex coworkers must like to say about him “So I’m aware of your endling status, and how long you lived here at headquarters. If you don’t mind me being too nosy, where do you think you’ll go after this?”
He hears the real question behind it. Where’s home? Do you even have a home? And suddenly the tone shifts, and Shrike despises that smile on her face, because it’s born of pity. He'll bet she doesn't even actually think he's handsome. Most people don't. So he sees her friendly little lies and raises his own, making a point of telling her;
“Home,” and it comes out quick and snappish, partially out of insecurity, partially because when he thinks of the word home the first picture in his mind is the Bucket, with Beebs, and it aches to think he can't go back there now. He can officially add homeless to his list of self descriptors. He clears his throat “I'll just be going home. Nowhere special. Get some dinner.”
She looks at him for a long moment. Whether she sees through the lie is unclear “Okay, well, if you're all set then I suppose we're done here. Security are just outside- they'll escort you to your ship “
Shrike thinks she would have had him stay and chat with her, if he'd come across a little more inclined to share. He thinks she was fishing for information about his life, more of his woes, anything she can use as gossip fodder for the hundreds of waiting ears that are his ex coworkers, all of which he imagines are just foaming at the mouth to hear about the spectacular failure that was Shrike Sanchez branching out on his own. Well, he ain't giving them nada. He left, he reluctantly returned, and now that he's fully decommissioned he'll be staying gone for good. That's all they get to know.
He doesn’t say thank you, because Nurse Nosy doesn't deserve a thank you; all she's provided is his electric silence, anger radiating off of him like static. Shrike exits the clinic where his old self was killed and is immediately confronted by security, who also receive silence while they walk him through halls he's more than capable of navigating himself, right up until they're all at the dock, and then they need him to comply further, give up more of himself in the name of their bullshit.
“Your guns.”
Shrike wishes he had a bomb strapped to his chest. He wishes he could take them all out in a blaze of glory, right along with himself in one big final fuck you. He pulls his guns from his glasshole, one after the other, setting them down in the large outstretched hand of his guard, who takes and tucks them into a case at their hip. Shrike understands that he will never see those guns again.
“Where you heading?”
Oh, god, he does not want to try and answer that. Shrike grinds his teeth, scowling at the corrugated metal floor “Just stick me on the next shuttle out of here, no more questions. Comprende?”
The demand is spat, not friendly in the slightest. His guard sighs, awkward, and tries to reason “Shrike, man, come on- I'm just followin’ orders here. Confiscate your guns, then get you a cab, anywhere you want. Can't we just make it, like, not weird?”
Shrike goes still, pursing his lips as he finally looks up at his consort. He takes in the shy voice, the hulking figure, and suddenly his righteous fury deflates from him like air from a balloon. He knows this shmuck.
“Oh- hey, amigo,” Shrike offers an uncomfortable greeting, regretting his murderous desires of only two seconds ago. He doesn’t actually want them all dead. That's definitely not part of who he is “No, it's- it's not weird. I didn't realise it was you.”
Big guard huffs a breath, something close to a laugh in relief “Okay, cool, cause it's not like I want to take your stuff. You know that, right?” they inquire, sounding genuine, and Shrike nods, understanding that this is just another person who has no choice but to hurt him “So, y'know, just tell me where you wanna go and I'll get you a cab.”
No choice but to hurt him, and no understanding of the ways that they're hurting him. Shrike has suspicions that commander Tezzoree has set this up specifically out of desire to know where he’s living now that he's fully rogue. Handing over an address would have been dangerous- an invitation for unwanted surveillance- but admitting the truth is infinitely more embarrassing. Shrike strains to think through his options, not yet certain where he could even stay the night, let alone where would be safe for LAW enforcement to know he went. And then he has a lightbulb moment. A real eureka. He's going to throw them off his trail, and he's going to do it in style.
“Well, I was going to go home,” he lies, hellbent on keeping up that charade “But, now? I'm feeling lucky.
“Take me back to the casino.”
A little voice in the back of his head that sounds uncannily like Beebs tells him that ending the day of his ultimate downfall in the same casino where it started is arguably kind of sick and wrong, but to Shrike, right now, it's easily the best option. Big guard would seem to agree.
“Shrike, man, that is so you,” they laugh, already punching the coordinates into the screen on the back of the taxi shuttle “Y’know, I don't care what anyone says- I missed having you around here. You always kept things exciting.”
And, really, that's the nicest thing anyone could possibly say about him. Suddenly Shrike finds himself kind of choked up.
What do you like about me? He'd asked Ricket, not even a day ago, and Ricket hadn't given him an answer. Now, Shrike fills in the blank. You keep things exciting.
That's who he is at his best. It's good to be told as much. And it didn't come from his good friend Ricket, but from this old coworker he was never particularly close to, whose name he can barely even remember. But maybe that isn't a coincidence, maybe it means something more than its surface facts; maybe Shrike is just more likeable in the eyes of people who haven't been close with him yet. He'd believe that.
“Thanks, amigo,” he says, and means it. Exciting. He's going to take that compliment and ride it until its legs give out. He's going to suck it dry; make something of himself, by himself, and it'll be the most exciting venture the universe has ever seen. He ducks down into the waiting cab, raring to get on the road.
“That’s alright, man.” Big guard waves him off “Y'know, if you're ever back here not on a job, we should totally hang out sometime.”
Lovely pitch. Never going to happen. Shrike offers his friend the sort of grin that's accompanied by a wince, and lies to them again “Oh yeah, hermano- next time I drop by, for sure,” and then, realising that his exciting casino venture probably isn't going to get off the ground very fast with his current financial predicament, he winces further, and asks, casually “Hey, uh… any chance I can borrow, like, a couple hundred pixels?”