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Fuchsia blood on his hands, the taste of iron in his mouth, sharp and pungent. The Drifter knows what will await him once he looks up. He’s seen glimpses of it before, and there’s only so far you can run before your own shadow catches up with you. He cocks his gun.
Guardian had speculated that it was a safety mechanism of some sort, a desperate attempt (by whom exactly? Judgement?) to keep him alive until he has fulfilled his duty, whatever that might be, and the Drifter is inclined to agree with that notion. To a certain degree, that is.
(He does not think about the implications.)
Fate surely is a funny thing; if he had any humour left in him, perhaps he would laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Instead, he trains his gun on his shadow, lips curling into a snarl. [I don’t need your help.] his bot spells out for the… the impostor, shadow, puppet, he still is unsure what to call it. The blood staining his gloves fuchsia tells a different story. It doesn’t matter.
It feels weird, to be pointing a gun at himself, but he’s seen weirder things. More grotesque, more gruesome, and he’s not above shooting a lookalike in the head.
But the thing only stares back, face a blank mask. The Drifter notices that its cloak is a little more tattered than his own. Not a perfect replica then. His fingers tighten around the handle of his gun. There’s probably a metaphor somewhere in there, about control and mistrust, but he can’t be bothered to think of one right now. [What do you want?] he tries again, still not lowering his gun.
Whoever had created this thing, whether it had been the Jackal or Judgement (though he really, truly does not want to know why Judgement would try to keep him alive, because that would imply what he is doing serves a higher purpose, one that he is not aware of), he doesn’t trust it, not one bit.
His shadow inclines its head, and its fuchsia eyes glimmer a little, almost as if amused. Its expressions are… off, in a way he can’t quite describe. Every movement, every twitch of its lips is greatly enhanced, nearly an exaggeration, and if he didn’t know any better he’d think it was mocking him.
Then, to his utter surprise, it clears its throat, baring its needle-sharp teeth in what could almost pass as a smile. “Not help,” it rasps out, voice hoarse, and for a moment the Drifter wonders whether he would sound like that if his voice worked like it should. “Assistance.”
He frowns, knowing it won’t be able to make his face out behind the face covering. [I told you I don’t need your help.] He should just get rid of it. He knows his own weaknesses like no one else. It would be easy enough.
It smiles again, sharper. Hungrier. “I live,” it says at last, which is a weird thing to remark on, but if it truly is artificially created, then… well, he should know best what that feels like, shouldn’t he?
The Drifter hesitates for a second, the fraction of a second. There is no telling what that thing is capable of if left to its own devices. [Come on], he tells it, turning away though his gun stays in his hand.
The thing follows, obedient lapdog, well-trained bloodhound, its cloak rustling quietly.
He doesn’t feel at ease.
The sun starts to set early this far north, and the blood he’s lost—not that it had been a lot—is making him feel a little lightheaded, so instead of pressing onwards they decide to seek shelter for the night. For something so intent on assisting him, the thing is surprisingly unhelpful.
He watches it out of the corners of his eyes as he starts the fire that’ll hopefully keep them warm for the night, noting the way it lets its ungloved fingers wander over the cave’s rough walls, the way its eyes flit back and forth.
Suppressing a cough that is more due to his affliction than the cold air, he settles down, waiting for the thing to do the same. It does so after a moment, mirroring his posture. If there were anyone other than the thing up here with him, perhaps he’d be tempted to remove his cloak, basking in the relative safety of the cave, warded against the cult, but he does not trust this thing.
The Drifter doesn’t mind silence, not usually, but with this thing it seems… stifling, almost. As if it’s waiting for something to happen. For him to make the first move.
(Or for him to slip up.)
Not taking his eyes off the thing, he pulls up his holographic keyboard. [What are you?] he asks, because that seems like a safe question, one that won’t get him killed immediately.
The thing inclines its head, face a blank slate. “I live,” it says as if that should be obvious, and he suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.
A different approach, then.
[What do you want?] The only response to cryptic answers is, after all, to ask the right questions.
It smiles at him, sharp claws digging into the frozen ground, as if it’s in on the joke. There’s a fuchsia glint in its eyes.
“To come alive.”
And really, what does a puppet know of any of that?
The Drifter is loath to turn his back to the thing, but even he knows he needs the rest. Especially if he wishes to deal with it in a timely manner—which would be the best course of action, obviously, as the thought of an impostor wearing his face running around sounds less than ideal.
Thus, a compromise—he doesn’t quite turn his back to the thing, not entirely. He is a rather light sleeper anyway, and when he rests, he rarely dreams. He doesn’t count the prophetic visions, not really—they are not figments of his imagination.
Guardian had said something or other about locking one’s feelings away as to not have to deal with them (always, always running somewhere), but they don’t understand. They share the same fate, yet they don’t understand.
But, perhaps, if he finds the truth of this world, the root of his impending doom, then the dreams will come to him. Perhaps then he will understand what it is like to keep, to want, not just to seek and discard.
(Where are you running to?)
Bloodshed and violence come easy to the Drifter, not whatever this is. Wanting, perhaps, the wish to possess, to—
(That’s only half of the truth, though, isn’t it? There are some things he wants. Which is ridiculous, of course, seeing as there’s no capacity for something like desire in someone like him.)
But where he is going, he’s going alone, so he supposes it doesn’t matter in the end. It doesn’t truly matter.
(So where do desires go when they’re not wanted?)
He wakes with dawn, to the tip of a hardlight blade inches from his face. Outside, the sky is blue. He can see his breath.
The thing smiles down at him, sharp teeth stained red. It doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t need to.
Perhaps, if the world had been kinder, they could have coexisted. Seeing as the world is anything but, he knows only one can exist, and he’d rather it be him. The decision is an easy one.
The thing is rather gauche, not very versed in coldblooded murder (because it feels too much, or he too little?), which makes sense he supposes, and when he lunges at it, it stumbles back. Perhaps all that truly drives it is desperation, the frantic wish to be, and, well, that generally is not the greatest mindset for making rational choices.
He draws his own blade in one swift motion, waiting. He won’t attack first. There is no need to.
As expected it becomes impatient rather quickly, not cut out for clinical precision (and how could it be when it is anything but? When all it consists of is desperation and desire?), and it is easy enough to sidestep its half-hearted slash, easy enough to disarm it and force it onto its knees.
It’s easy enough to train the barrel of his gun on its forehead and shoot without a second thought.
Its body slumps to the side with a wet thud, blood staining the cave floor fuchsia—whatever influence Judgement must’ve had seems to be gone now. And Judgement must have been involved; there’s only so much a shade can do on its own.
(It’s always so easy to seek blame elsewhere.)
He nudges it with his foot, just to check if it is really dead.
There’s a disgusting feeling bubbling up in his chest. Perhaps it's pity.
He packs it inside the gilded cage around the heart he must surely possess, packs it away to deal with it later, packs it away until there is less of a mess, and pretends it does not exist.
(It’s always just ‘later’.)