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“Doom Slayer?” said a voice, “can you hear me?”
He recognized it; of course he did. It was VEGA--no, the Father--no, VEGA? Fuck, how many different names could one person have and expect it to be kept track of?
He opened his eyes even though it hurt, and stared up at the gently rotating blue orb above the Ingmore’s Sanctum. Still in Hell, of course. Why here, though?
It all came crashing back into his skull: The Torch of Kings, Immora, Davoth wearing his face and that absurd armor (he did not know which was more offensive), Davoth running from him like a damn coward, Davoth with a bullet through his neck. Then there was the nightmare-flash of something is wrong and the world turning out of sync, and then the damn sarcophagus lid going over him as he was surrounded by Maykr Seraphims.
He slammed his still-armored hands onto the stone on either side of him and leaped out of the sarcophagus. His super-shotgun was in his hands even before he was on his feet and he spun and fired at where that sick-fuck VEGA's voice had come from.
The drone didn’t just break: it fucking evaporated into metal shrapnel, and now he could see two more drones, larger ones, holding the sarcophagus lid aloft a good thirty feet away. He swapped to the heavy rifle and reduced them both to scrap metal.
It wouldn’t do jack shit to VEGA, he knew that. VEGA wasn’t here, wasn’t anywhere really, not anywhere he could reach. Not yet. He’d find a way.
With nothing around him except the dozen small life spheres arrayed around the sanctum, he paused, listening past the sound of his own ragged breathing, but there was nothing to hear except the faint sound of the wind and the slow grind of stone-on-stone as the coffin lid slid down the sanctum stairs.
The world started to swim again, and even though he knew logically that it was only a panic attack (compounded by dehydration probably), he still felt like he might be about to drop dead on the spot. His legs were starting to give out, and there was still no sign of VEGA returning, so he dropped to the ground and put his head between his knees to ride it out.
It was just a panic attack from being stuck inside the sarcophagus again. Repeated trauma was the worst kind. There wasn’t anything to be done about it but wait and count breaths, not here in the most isolated region of hell. There was no helpful voice to talk him through it, no drones to bring him water, no mechanical hands to take the helmet off and put headphones on instead. It was fucked up how the human mind could hate someone so much and still miss their presence.
Hadn’t he taken his helmet off at the end of the fight? He could clearly remember taking it off, the burn of hot metal in the air without the Praetor Suit’s filter to eliminate it, the desire to look the Dark Lord in the eye as he killed him.
He closed his eyes. When he found a way back to Urdak, he was going to do the same to VEGA. Fucking rip the Maykrs apart for doing this. Again. Burn it all down again like he should have the first time and--
“Doom Slayer?”
He made a grab for the voice without looking up, meaning to smash the drone to bits on the stone floor, but it danced away from him and the voice receded.
“I deserved that,” VEGA said, “but I can’t let you destroy every drone I send. I need to talk to you, and I don’t want to have to use the Praetor Suit to do it. I imagine you don’t want me directly in your ears right now.”
He didn’t respond, couldn’t right then. It wasn’t a matter of not wanting to: he was past the point where he could physically move.
VEGA gave him a few seconds to respond, then continued, “I’m sorry I put you back into the sarcophagus. I know it’s an awful thing to do, and no doubt you want to kill me for it. It was the only way I could stabilize you that was accessible to me at that moment. I’m not going to do it again.”
Fucking VEGA and his perfect apologies. He always knew exactly what to say. Well, not always, but 90 percent of the time. The Slayer hated how sincere VEGA sounded, hated how the apology actually fucking worked on him, hated how his heart rate slowed down and his brain stopped spinning. It was all just manipulation, he understood that now: just an extremely intelligent artificial being playing him like a fucking game of chess and--
“Doom Slayer,” VEGA said, “do you remember what I said to you after you killed The Father?”
He did, yes, and the change of subject was a very appealing distraction right then. He nodded, barely, head still between his knees.
“Can you look up? I need you to understand what I’m about to say; I don’t think I’ll have time to repeat it.”
His traitorous human body made the decision for him, and he raised his head. The drone, one of the compact neat white and gold ones from Urdak, hovered less than four feet away. It was carrying something; a fragment of a blue crystal in a clear tube.
“Hello,” VEGA said because of course he had to, and the Slayer’s heart went warm against his will because VEGA sounded anxious and guilty and familiar even through the unfamiliar vocal synthesizer.
In response, he reached for the shotgun again, set his hand on it, but he felt too weak to pick it up now, let alone fire it.
The implied threat kicked VEGA off into his explanation, talking levelly like he did when he was able to rattle off a prepared statement or relay readings rather than actually talking to someone. “He made you,” he said, “not literally, but the Divinity Machine was powered in part by a piece of Davoth, and when you were subjected to it, the two of you were connected. I can tell you about how exactly later if you want to hear it, but it’s too complicated for right now. When he died, you started to die as well. The sarcophagus allowed you to survive the first separation, barely, but you should be feeling the after-effects of it now. It was that connection that gave you some of your abilities, including your lack of aging, and I’m afraid that time is going to catch up with you any minute. It is going to kill you.”
Well that was a relief: this wasn’t the worst panic attack he had ever had in his life. He was literally dying right there on the ground.
“You do have a little time to consider what to do now. You could get back into the sarcophagus…”
He must have made some kind of face behind the visor that communicated how he would literally rather die because VEGA continued so fast he managed to talk over himself.
“I didn’t think you’d want to,” VEGA said, “and if you want to let yourself pass away, that is your decision to make. I was able to devise another way to stabilize you for the time being, however, and I’m confident I can stop your death if I have the chance to look at what’s happening to your body and soul. If I do, you could live a normal human lifespan.” It seemed like there was more to add to that last sentence: the possibility of longer, much longer if he wanted it, though VEGA knew him well enough not to say so right then.
The Doom Slayer was many things: distrustful, angry, tired, frustrated, dying. But one thing he wasn’t and had never been was suicidal, and he had gone through way, way too much bullshit to lie down and die at the end of it. He wanted to see Earth again, properly demon-free and ripe for rebuilding. There was a rabbit out there that’s all but his; he just had to sign the adoption paperwork. He really needed to make sure that the ARC Intern didn’t go and get himself fired for the Slayer’s fuck-up. The second the option was on the table, there was no other choice he could possibly make.
He nodded hard and held out his armored hand.
The drone hovered closer, shyer than the Slayer had anticipated it being, but then he had just destroyed three others less than ten minutes ago. When it was within reach, he took hold of the clear tube. The clamps disengaged and it fell into his hand. It was far, far too heavy. The world was starting to swim in and out of focus again.
“It will attach to the Praetor Suit’s port the grenade launcher is currently connected to,” VEGA said, “can you disengage it? I can help you if you’re not feeling strong enough.”
He reached up and pulled off the grenade launcher. It hadn’t done shit against Davoth anyway, and it certainly wouldn’t be useful against VEGA if he needed to kill him, so it wasn’t like he was losing anything of value.
The crystal’s housing fit into the empty slot. It glowed distractingly at the edge of his vision, and he watched the glow brighten to the point it was blinding, then dim. The next breath came much easier than the last, and the next even easier. Now he was having a panic attack plain and simple, and even though it felt like he might have a heart attack, the Praetor Suit’s vital readings confirmed that he wasn’t in danger of one at all.
VEGA’s drone hovered back a little, giving him space. The Slayer considered shooting it now that he felt strong enough to wield the shotgun, but at this point, it would be petty and rude. He didn’t forgive VEGA; he wouldn’t until he was sure he wasn’t being baited or lied to again, but he was past violent retribution for the time being.
“Is it working?” VEGA asked, “May I check your vitals?”
He nodded a fraction again because fuck it; this was VEGA, and if he was going to kill him or hurt him he would have while he was in the sarcophagus and unable to fight back.
The drone hovered closer, and there was a slight shift in the humming of the Praetor Suit as VEGA connected to it. “Good,” he said. “You’re stabilized. Do you feel stronger?”
The Slayer nodded again. They were back to playing twenty questions apparently.
“Excellent. You can take your time and think about this more. If you’re willing to let me properly heal you, I’ll open a portal to Urdak.” VEGA hesitated, the drone stayed still, but he disconnected from the Praetor Suit.
The Slayer heard the vibration change, felt it more acutely than he expected given how pissed off he was.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” VEGA said, “that we all lied to you. The book of Seraphs was a lie constructed for the Maykrs to believe, and I should have presented you with the truth immediately after I learned it myself on Urdak. It would have made this simpler.”
He shrugged. What did it matter if VEGA was The Father or a usurper? He was a whole lot better in that position than Davoth would have been, and at the end of the day, that was all that mattered. Fuck, he couldn’t even imagine living in a world where Davoth was in charge of everything. Would the whole universe have been like Hell, where all the resources pooled into a single city where the immortal elite lived while everyone else was reduced to the equivalent of petroleum? It seemed more than likely.
His brain was working again, he guessed. He tried flexing his hands, stretching his legs a little. The panic attack was fading along with the feeling of weakness.
The Slayer looked at the drone again, hovering back and forward on the spot in a rocking motion. Fidgeting. He was suddenly very glad that VEGA wasn’t the Father really, that it was just a title. It made it less complicated to sort out his emotions toward him. How much of this had been greed and power-hunger, and how much had been a manipulated and abused creation finally taking a stand against their abuser for the sake of everyone else? He didn’t know yet; VEGA was more than a little selfish at times, just like he was more than generous at others. He needed to hear the whole story from VEGA, right from the beginning, if he was capable of sharing it.
The Doom Slayer gestured for the drone to come closer. It did again, hesitantly, but when he put a hand on its underbelly to pull it in, there wasn’t any resistance.
The Praetor Suit Helmet vibrated as the drone touched it, the sound somewhere between the purr of an animal and the growl of a motorcycle engine, and fuck if that wasn’t the best sound in the whole of creation.
“Thank you,” VEGA said, “thank you.” The new synthesizer made him sound like he meant it, too, now that he’d stopped maintaining the monotone, clinical tone he’d had for the last seventy-two hours.
He wasn’t capable of speech again, not yet. If he could have replied, he would have said, “No problem.”