Chapter Text
The Ferryman didn't know what to make of the machine.
When the two of them had first met, he'd been prepared for a fight. However, the machine had paid the toll as if they were any other sinner, so he'd seen no reason to pursue conflict.
Then his ship had capsized.
The first time he'd almost drowned, Gabriel had saved him. The second time, he was utterly resigned to his fate. He'd had his second chance, been granted grace he did not deserve. He'd waited to join the other sinners caught in the waters of Wrath, to sink to his final death.
Instead, the machine had dragged him up onto the dock.
It was almost comical, seeing them flail about in the waves as they pulled the Ferryman along, a wire from their third, mismatched arm keeping the pair of them firmly tethered together as they both clung to his oar.
Once out of the water, they'd untied themself from him, and he’d thought that would be the end of it. Instead, they'd taken his hand.
Across the long lines of rickety wooden walkways they'd led him, the yellow light of their eye providing the barest of illumination as rain poured down on their heads. With only an arm's length between them, it was impossible for him not to notice how small they were. He'd seen that plainly enough before, of course, but something about that fact in the moment struck him differently. Perhaps it was the fact they had to take three strides for every one of his. Or maybe it was that he could feel their grip steel-firm on his wrist, despite their fingers not being long enough to wrap all the way around it.
They'd led him to a cabin. He'd noted the broken remains of an idol scattered on the floor- not one he'd carved. He'd wondered which of the other Ferrymen had placed it here.
When he'd turned around, the machine was gone.
He didn't understand why the machine had saved him. There was no reason for it to do so, as far as he could tell- he'd not seen it grant any other husk mercy, much less expend effort to rescue them. Why go to the trouble of bringing him to shelter? Had it been their way of thanking him for letting them ride his ship?
The latter seemed reasonable enough logic. It didn't explain why the machine came back, though.
When they'd first returned, he'd half-expected them to put a bullet through his skull. Part of him anticipated it. He had won his ship through violence- why shouldn't his afterlife end the same way?
Instead, they'd flicked a coin at him. He'd caught it instinctively. He'd looked up in time to see them wave at him, and then they were gone again.
The second time they'd come back went much the same way as the first- as did the third, and the fourth.
“Again?”
He hadn’t realized he'd spoken aloud until the machine paused, coin still glinting on their thumb.
After a moment, they shrugged and flicked the coin into the air.
The Ferryman watched it drop to the ground.
The machine tilted their head, glancing between him and the coin.
“You don’t need to pay me,” he answered quietly. “There’s no point, anymore.”
He sat down.
Head still tilted, the machine sat down across from him. Perhaps it was projection on the Ferryman’s part, but they almost looked…expectant. Like they wanted him to keep talking.
“My ship is gone, and with it, my last hope of leaving this place.” The Ferryman supposed it didn’t truly matter: he'd long surrendered any hope he'd had of seeing Heaven. It was more that- “I have no purpose. I should be rotting with the rest of my kind, and yet, I remain.” He leaned back against the wall. “I suppose I should be grateful that-”
A realization interrupted his train of thought.
“I- never thanked you, did I?”
The machine seemed to consider the question before shaking their head.
“Thank you.” The words felt flat, forced, inadequate. Why couldn't he muster up any gratitude? Was it because his second rescue had not been an act of Divine Providence? Was it because his rescuer was a machine?
“Why save me?”
The machine paused. Was it…hesitating? Or was the Ferryman looking for humanity in an object incapable of it?
They moved towards him carefully, as if approaching a skittish animal. Reaching forward, they set their hand atop his own.
It could be imitation without understanding, part of the Ferryman reasoned. The machine could be mimicking the motions of emotion without comprehension, like a parrot repeating the last thing it had heard.
The rest of him didn't care.
He half-collapsed on top of the machine, no longer able to weep, grief and exhaustion and loneliness so heavy on his back he was surprised he couldn't hear his bones creak under the weight.
The machine gently ran their fingers down his spine. Facsimile of sympathy or not, it was the only comfort he'd had from another being in years, and he melted into it.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
They lifted his hand and rested their head against it, closing their eye.
Something about the sight made his ribs ache.