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Gun Gibson is pretty damn sure he’s dying.
It doesn’t come as much of a surprise to him. In his line of work, there’s really no such thing as a “happily ever after”. The cycle of violence is your hamster wheel. As you pick off your targets, you’re fully aware that one day you will take their place – it’s very much a matter of “when”, “where” and “how” rather than “if”.
The “when” is a January morning, the grey, gnawing kind of January morning that binds streets and fuel pumps alike in black ice. No, he isn’t trying to wax poetic here. It’d take more than impending death to make him do something that outrageously out-of-character. An hour or so earlier, before heading out to the battle that was fated to be his last, he’d slammed a huge keg of antifreeze just so he could move properly. Not that it’s done him much good in the end. Antifreeze, you see, just doesn’t work that well when it’s flowing under you rather than inside you. Is the numbness settling in his joints winter, or death? At this point, is there really any difference between one and the other?
The “where” is a run-down warehouse. Because of course it is. Of course it is, dammit. A run-down warehouse for a cradle, a run-down warehouse for a grave! Heh, how fitting!
The “how” is nothing fancy, just a good old clean shot through the chest, right through a major fuel line. Just a one-and-done thing, didn’t even hurt much. Sure, he was hoping to go out in a cooler way than being gunned down in a godforsaken dump after walking into an obvious trap for the umpteenth time because he was a dumbass… but to go out guns blazing was a privilege in itself, so he could live with that.
Heh…live with that… Gun Gibson thinks with an oil-choked laugh. Perhaps the quickest draw on the planet isn’t the only one who will die here today. Perhaps the world is set to lose a great comedian as well.
Warnings swarm in his vision like a plague of fat red locusts. Leak this, shutdown that… As if he needs any extra reminders about how royally screwed he is! Whoever designed his HUD should go fuck themselves sideways with a chainsaw!
Gun Gibson tries to block the warnings out, but finds he is simply too broken and drained to keep up with them. His processor is growing sluggish. Sometimes things get shrouded in a thick fog of a color he can’t quite place and his mind drifts to strange, muddled places. Kaoru’s little brother, he had this book about a guy whose head was filled with straw instead of brains. Yeah, that pretty much describes how he’s feeling right now.
The warnings keep piling on, and Gun Gibson curses at them in exhausted rage. Finally, he reaches the limit of his endurance and switches off his optics. There isn’t much to see anyway. The warehouse looks like shit even without warnings obscuring almost his entire visual field.
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself when his decision starts to haunt him.
Now that he’s offlined his optics, the finality of his fate sinks in even deeper. This darkness is forever. Is the trade-off really worth it? The warnings are gone, but the frustration, the anger is still there. It’s simply been redirected inwards. Now it’s crawling around inside his head and goddammit, it’s only a matter of time before it jostles awake the personal demons he’d fought so fucking hard to suppress...
Oh, fuck…
You motherfucker.
You just had to go there. Of course. You just fucking had to.
Gun Gibson is dying, but Makabe is still out there. Still out there, alive and kicking!
He’s failed his mission! Broken his vow!
How the hell is he gonna face Carol like that, dammit!?
“Come on, goddammit! Fight! Struggle! Don’t just accept it!”
He tries to get mad, to shout, to thrash around in the sludge of oil and warehouse dust, to force himself to his feet by some miracle of sheer fucking will - but nothing happens.
There’s simply not enough life left in him for that. Whether he likes it or not, that’s reality. He is done. Done like dinner.
His mind keeps trying anyway. Trying and shooting blanks.
“Fuckin’ come on, you stupid no-good bucket of bolts! Concentrate!” It yells at him with all the fervor of a toxic parent berating a child over math homework.
But nothing changes. Because in his heart of hearts, he has already made peace with his failure-laden end. And after a few more moments, even the most stubborn, hotheaded part of him comes to terms with that. Its tantrum fades. Having, paradoxically, accepted that it will never accept this turn of events, it, too, is now at peace. Gun Gibson is dying a loser, and he is gonna die mad about it, and that’s…okay?
The warnings are blaring again in his head. Fuck, you gotta be joking! He has already disabled his fucking vision, hasn’t he? How can they still be so vibrantly, cruelly red?! Override. Override. Fucking override! Why won’t they shut the fuck up and let him die in peace?!
Red. Red screams in his head. Red tongues of flame licking at his plating. For the love of all that is holy, put the Arc Fire down, Janperson. The bugs are gone. All that’s left inside me is straw. You can’t save straw by burning it, dummy...
...ah, crap. You totally burned it, didn’t ya?
A helium balloon tied to a stalagmite. A crooked and blackened matchstick fizzling out between metal fingers. Janperson sighs, sets it aside and tries again. Why so nervous? Who the fuck defuses WMDs and hacks into top secret databases only to choke when it comes to lighting four stupid candles on a stupid cake?!
Four stupid candles on a stupid cake…
A stupid cake to commemorate the activation day of a stupid troublemaking robot.
Ah, fuck…
The memories of that joy and warmth float up from the depths of his sluggish processor, dissolving in the odd-colored fog. It feels like being enveloped in the ghost of a hug.
What a damn good cake that was…” Daneel’s Dessert Fuels”, huh? Would you look at that! Fuckin’ robot cake, baby! The future doesn’t look half bad!
Shit, such a shame he won’t live to see that future…
Shit, he would give anything to eat cake with Janperson just one more time!
Shit, dying sucks…
Shi…
Floating. Drifting.
Drifting down.
At least, the warnings have stopped. Sweet, sweet relief.
Down and down into the encroaching fog…
“--- --bson!”
Huh? What’s that? Are his audio sensors playing tricks on him?
“G—G---s-n!”
The thuds of mechanical footsteps. Amidst the fog, someone is calling his name.
Gun Gibson does something he thought he’d never do again. He onlines his optics. His last sliver of usable peripheral vision shines with a vibrant and unmistakable purple.
Oh…
You are here…
I’m so glad…
Gun Gibson tries desperately to reach out, but finds he’s too weak to even lift a finger. He gives up on that and instead opts to focus the last dregs of his processing power on his hearing.
“Gun Gibson! I’m here with you! Please, hold on!”
Janperson’s voice.
It broke through the haze of death to reach him, and now it feels like the only thing anchoring him to reality.
It has a rough, staticky edge to it. Fuck, the poor bastard sounds like his heart is breaking to pieces...that much even Gun Gibson’s half-fried audio sensors can pick up.
Because he cares. He always cares so much, dammit...Cares hard enough to worry his processor off over a fuckin’ birthday cake because he wanted Gun Gibson to have the best birthday ever, the sentimental dumbass...
How sad. How outrageously fucked up. All that love, all that selfless kindness– it’s not gonna do jack shit. Because, Gun Gibson realizes with a shudder his body can barely manage, he’s too far gone to even recognize himself. Because even when Janperson drops to his knees by his side, clutching his frozen hand so, so tightly and begging him to hold on, it’s still not enough to reignite his will to survive. Gun Gibson, who moments ago raved and rebelled against death with every shred of his being, now finds himself hell-bent on going through with it.
“Please, Janperson...Just leave me alone. It’s alright.” Something inside him is whispering with almost religious conviction. Gun Gibson’s tanks churn with disgust. This isn’t like him at all. Has he really lost himself that badly?
How pathetic.
In the end, it all stems from cowardice, doesn’t it? He had accepted his fate far too whole-heartedly because he didn’t have the guts to hope. And now, bound by this ironclad acceptance of death, he can no longer break free even if he wants to.
Apologizing profusely all the way, Janperson pries open his chestplate with a tool from the Jaycar’s repair kit. With hands that are almost supernaturally quick and precise considering just how badly they’re shaking, he begins to apply first aid. Pinching off leaking fuel lines, applying patches...Always so methodical and focused on the task at hand even if he’s falling to pieces, that beautifully kind, stupid, brave motherfucker.
Because unlike Gun Gibson, Janperson has enough of a spine to keep hoping against all odds...
Because “to fight for justice is to protect life and love”...
“I’m sorry, Janperson. I let you down. I wish I could’ve done more.” Gun Gibson thinks, and lets himself fade away…
…Until Janperson, his composure cracking at the seams, embraces Gun Gibson with metal-denting force and shouts:
“Gun Gibson! Don’t you dare die! Don’t you fucking dare die on me!”
Gun Gibson’s thought processes stutter to a halt so suddenly that he thinks he’s finally bit it.
But then, the truth comes to him. It comes to him sluggishly, scanline by scanline, like a photograph loading on the screen of a chunky old computer, but it comes.
He is not dead. He is still alive.
He is still alive, and, without a doubt, he has just heard the unthinkable.
He has heard Janperson say fuck.
Janperson. Janperson. The Janperson! Has just said fuck, for fuck's sake!
So that’s why Gun Gibson's still alive. He’s alive because hell has frozen over!
“Oh, Janperson, I’m never letting you live this one down!” Gun Gibson thinks with a sudden and absurd clarity.
Wait…
What was that?!
The part of him that’s already made peace with death immediately rails against that thought in violent protest - Bullshit! Be realistic! You’re done for! - but this time its voice sounds muted and weak.
Realizing that somehow, the sheer ridiculousness of things has let him tap into a well of strength and zeal for life he didn’t think he had, Gun Gibson smiles with oil-caked lips.
It sure is weird and anticlimactic, though...After all that suffering and depressed navel-gazing, after accepting death, this is what it takes. He is (and he is now almost giddily certain that he is ) about to be saved from the brink of death by baby’s first swear word? Now this is gonna be one hell of a story to tell at the Bravo Town oil bar!
But hey, what the hell?
Life is a treacherous thing. It rains down one low blow after another and breaks you in ways you don’t even know existed, so why bother being picky about the straws you grasp at? In the struggle to go on when the odds of survival are so small, anything goes. Even if the thing that keeps you going is dumb or just plain cringeworthy, hold on to it no matter what.
So if the desire to rib Janperson about saying fuck can make him gut out a couple more seconds of life, then he's gonna make that desire his mission and see it through to the end, critical injuries be damned, his own inner quitter be damned...And if some heavy-duty higher-power shit has a problem about it? Well, it can go fuck itself too!
So thinks Gun Gibson as he holds on.
And he manages to hold on just long enough.