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Medkit has never been a sentimental person.
His desk is a mess. He doesn't care for trinkets and whatnot nonsense little mementos, nor does he ever manage to muster up enough energy to make sure his gear is cleaned and not streaked with dirt. His heart is small. Hard. Gray, stone cold, like rock worn smooth by time and current, and so Medkit has never been a sentimental person.
He has time to make coffee for himself, and Sword, in the morning; to loiter about and groan about paperwork. Never enough time to walk Sword over to Rocket's house, go window shopping with the kid-- his head turns away and his gaze falters to hit the tiled floor whenever invited to do so. Because he can't get attached. Not when Blackrock and Scythe hover like hawks above him, beady eyes trained on his chest like they could rip his organs out by glaring hard enough.
Hm. Blackrock.
"Blackrock?"
His stomach drops and his heart jumps to his throat. The lukewarm cup of coffee in his shaking, suddenly bone-cold hands falls to the countertop, shattering into thousands of tiny ceramic pieces. (In his head, anyways. Not as if it matters.)
His left palm bleeds from a multitude of large cuts as he brings it to cover his mouth. The coffee is all over the counter and now dripping onto the floor. He can't bring himself to care right now. The voice in the back of his head, too quiet for too long now, hums to him.
Hm. Blackrock.
A government approved seal, it seems, is what set him off. Medkit discovers this when his fingers finally stop trembling and he is able to fumble open the packet. A black rose is stamped in freshly dried wax on the envelope. The letter inside is no less off-putting.
Red ink, neat and elegant, scrawled across the page like a dance between consonants and vowels. He'd expected a bomb. This might have been the worse alternative. Choosing to ignore the coppery scent that the ink is emitting, he instead turns it over, flipping in his hands before finally deciding to read the contents.
First Aid Kit,
A lot of Sorry cause we didn't warn you about sending this letter and short notice:something big happened!! follows. The rest blurs in his head. When he finally looks up, the sun is high in the sky, and blood is roaring through deaf ears. The final line rings in the silence.
Our greatest apologies for the inconvenience.
What was an inconvenience? Subspace's dead memory or his apartment flat? Medkit's visit to Blackrock or them excusing him from his charges?
The dead do not dream. Perhaps Subspace no longer dreams, either, and Medkit will now only see his face in nightmares-- or plastered on one of those phighter billboards, maybe in the columns of news sections, because here's the thing;
Subspace Tripmine is now a dead man.
It is something inexplicable in the Inphernal nature that urges Medkit to apply for Blackrock citizenship once more, take a bus to the main compounds-- the loose metal walls of the bus rattle and people sway along to the bumps in the road, like too much tuna in a tin can. The sky is gray as Medkit hangs on for his dear life and watches his raindrop lose the race down the window. The bars are too cold. He tastes iron in his mouth, as fresh as the regret that has begun to settle heavily in his stomach. The hot, bubbling feeling is not unfamiliar to him, and neither is the headache that begins to set in very soon after. His temples ache.
Why he even agreed to this is a mystery in itself. Perhaps he knows already.
(The memory of pink in the backdrop of his mind waves to him. It smiles, and he catches a glimpse of canine and blood and saddened, tired eyes. Torn. The eyes of someone who has seen too much and stayed up thinking too late, of someone who knows they're missing something but can't bring themselves to admit it to the clock that ticks despite age and decay.
He is also decaying. Slowly. Undeniably. And in the end, he will rejoin Subspace in a time beyond his own. Do you think we'd word together like this in every universe? Subspace had asked once, looking up from his violently colorful vials of chemical, and back then Medkit might have only shrugged half-heartedly. Probably ignored the huff of disappointment from under Subspace's gas mask in favor of pointedly looking down at a wilting vase of grayish roses instead. In lieu of a response, he'd plucked a flower from its glass holder and tucked it between the feathery white-and-pink strands of his partner's hair.
He regrets not saying anything instead, even when Subspace giggled as he took the rose out.)
Young and foolish and everything in between was them. Grav used to joke that half the workplace believed the two were married. He used to mutter a quiet retort about how Subspace is married to his work, not Medkit, or You've got it all wrong, but Grav would only let out a loud, boisterous laugh while the magenta twink slung an arm over Medkit's shoulder. He smelled of chemicals, cleaning supplies, and chamomile. Never as still as Medkit was, always bouncing off the walls and drinking too much coffee for his own good, and when he wasn't brewing another cup he would be trying to coerce Medkit into making him one by nuzzling into the doctor's sleeve.
Present Medkit's breath slows and his Adam's apple bobs. His throat is cinched shut. Who is he kidding? He misses the simpler times when his lungs wouldn't burn every time he caught glimpses of bright pink. He misses when Subspace's eyes twinkled instead of gleamed manically.
He misses Subspace. The tin walls of the bus rattle once more and the metal of the pole he's hanging on to is no less cold than before.
Room 214 is the number, he thinks, but can't quite bring himself to step into the elevator for fear of seeing memories again. Hot, unshed tears prickle at the corner of his eye--
His hollow eye socket under carefully gold-embroidered teal cloth aches with phantom pain as the burnished yellow hallway light above the door flickers on and he sees a pair of initials carved gently into the soft wood, still there despite a millennia of weathering--
It's dark inside.
The papers are messy, sheafs like fluttering autumn leaves littering the floor, while stacks teeter dangerously close to the edge of the table. Scuff marks, paired with the occasional scorched wood, line walls and furniture. A pair of moth-eaten satin curtains flutter in the breeze that slips in through a slightly cracked open window. Said window creaks as it sways to the wind. The place smells musty, perhaps closer to something sweeter, like spilled, too-sugary diabetes-inducing coffee or the chamomile tea that Subspace had refused to admit he'd liked.
Liked. As if his spectre weren't probably clinging to the wisps of memory that flickering light bulbs try their hardest to conceal in this dingy apartment. Charcoal streaks and moving shadows. Semantics. Medkit has never been a sentimental person, and his heart is not nearly big enough for anything except Sword, but Subspace's memory fills up all the empty cracks in between.
In between worrying about Scythe. In between late night drinking dates with a familiar pink horned Inphernal, and training sessions with Sword, and strange, government-sealed letters inked in blood--
Subspace is there. A constant, even when his body is likely long gone by now-- wrapped in cheap industrial plastic and slipped as quietly into the sea as a tear falls from his singular eye.
"Wouldn't that be amazing, Meddy?" Subspace's grin is silly and lopsided, too-sharp teeth lining his gums. A fang pokes out onto his lip, and Medkit has to admit it's rather endearing. Well. Sue him. What were they talking about again?
He tries to think past the fog clouding his glasses, the (mostly Subspace-induced) fog in his brain, and the (also mostly Subspace-induced, but for a completely different reason) pink fog filling the room. He pushes the frame of his glasses up his sweaty nose where it had been previously sliding off, the plastic slick with perspiration. They really need to install air conditioning in this place, fuck the government. It's the middle of summer and they land the two new graduates in a rotting apartment with no AC.
"I think it'd be okay," He replies honestly, although he'd lost track of the conversation about ten minutes ago. He's only honest because he thinks just about anything is okay. Medkit pushes a stray bang out of his face as Subspace yelps in joy.
"We're gonna change the world! Change Blackrock! Just watch, you're going to stand right next to me while we conquer every faction!"
He smiles, not at Subspace's ambitious and albeit alarming plans, but at the glimmer in the other's eyes when he looked at Medkit.
There are no salvageable memories amongst the wreck that their relationship has become. Trying to reawaken the burnt out embers would never do anything, anyways. And besides. Medkit has Sword now, and Subspace is dead. His apartment remains frozen in time, as if the last Phight was still a day away and Subspace would show up gloating about how he would take the win. Medkit wants to run his hands along the wall and feel the stillness down to his bones.
(He doesn't, for he has never been a sentimental person, as he will never be, and so he has no use for those recollections locked away in the back of his mind.)
Amongst the papers on the singular cluttered desk are letters marked with his name. Never sent, some of them quite old, by the looks of it. There's about twenty of the inconspicuous papers lying in a semi-organized state near the edge, seemingly taken out prior to Subspace's death.
As if he'd read them again, some part of Medkit whispers conspirationally. The part he always fought with but also the part that usually ended up being correct. So maybe Subspace did read them. That means absolutely nothing.
Dear Meddy,
Do you see the eyeball that I have sitting on my desk? I see it. It used to belong to you, but now it's mine. You're not getting it back, and I'll always have a piece of you right next to me. I hope you're listening, Meddy. I was so dumb, thinking you would work with me, huh? You tricked me. Defiled my name. And now you're off to invent GREATER THINGS?? I'LL SHOW YOU GREATER THINGS!!!!
NOT from Subspace.
Hm. Medkit almost has the insane urge to laugh at Subspace's past callousness and childish writing. The edges of the paper are slightly crinkled, as if someone had scrunched it up in the past and then tried to gently smooth it out. Gentle was not a word he would've used to describe Subspace, nor his tendencies, but who really knows at this point.
Meddy,
Fuck you. You took half the crystals, didn't you!!! I know you did!! Now you're going to turn them into those freaky teal HEALING things and "save people" . Well, guess WHAT. You are in the wrong, and I will always be right because I have BLACKROCK backing me up! I will find you and get MY crystals back!! Just you wait!
From the great SUBSPACE TRIPMINE!!!
This letter only takes up about three quarters of the paper it was written on. The rest fades into doodles of Medkit's horn crystal and small feline creatures with angry faces drawn on them. Fresher penwork indicates hastily scribbled calculations and small diagrams. Maybe from when he finally matured up, Medkit thinks in amusement.
Meddy,
Ugh. I can't believe you're not here to help me do all this PAPERWORK. You're probably out there living your best life in like, Thieve's Den, or something. Hanging out with all those traditional freaks and drinking tea. Yknow what? I could actually use some chamomile right now for my stupid migraine that's been going on for days. Maybe also the throbbing feeling in my arm that hasn't gone away since SOMEONE threw weird chemicals on me.
From your favorite scientist, Subspace.
A lot less exclamation marks, he sees, and almost no exaggerated statements. Was this the turning point, he wonders. The too-late regret that began to set in very soon after the fight? Likely not. He'd like to think that it was, though. Shuffling past a few more letters, he settles on a relatively long one. The few papers after the first five or so have begun to get marked with dates, and this one reads:
January 5th, 198
Meddy,
You left five years ago. I haven't written one of these since four years ago, when I was a much younger scientist with no rot creeping up my arm. Did I mention? It feels like each nerve in my shoulder was carved with wood and then set on fire. Should've paid closer attention to it, because now it's really stiff. All your fault. I'm starting to wonder if the government really cares, because they've just been upping my workload bit by bit. Feels like I can't get around without falling flat on my face at least once. And then Hyper has to help me up. It's rather embarrassing, but if you knew him, you'd also know that he does not give two fucks.
No name at the bottom this time, no overly grand title or capitalized phrases lined in government-red ink. The general mood, after nearly four years of him being gone, seemed to have gone down. Also, Hyperlaser being mentioned was strange, but okay-- Medkit had never even seen the guy's face, only knowing that he only ever wore chunky armor and a helmet.
August 7th, 199
Meddy,
I'm tired.
Medkit pauses. No name on this one either, and it's suspiciously short. The last bit of the page is ripped off violently. He's never seen Subspace like this before. If he remembered correctly, there was a phight the day right after this was written, and Subspace was still threatening to kill him painfully and slowly. Well.
He shuffles through a few more, finding that the stack was nearly gone. Just one sheaf remained at the very top. It was crinkled and stained with something that looked suspiciously like tears or spilled tea. Medkit stares at it.
February 29th, 204
Meddy Medkit First Aid Kit,
I'm evil. The government is evil. The singular eyeball on my desk says so. You say so, too.
I missed you. I'm evil.
The last period in the letter slides off the page as if Subspace had slid off the table or dropped his pen immediately after finishing. The idea that he might have died after penciling in this last note to Medkit is such a sick thought.
Medkit has never been a sentimental person. Medkit is living machine, perfection reincarnate, and his heart cloys with love. With pink and shell-colored fog and two pairs of fuchsia horns. A rustic piece of technology too tired to continue on, one much too aware of the fate that awaits it once its broken gears finally wind to a stop. Perhaps this is what Subspace felt in the end too.
He wishes they hadn't wiped off the blood or soot on the walls or replaced the buzzing fluorescent lights. Each stain held a memory, and now all that is left in its place is sterile silence.
When he leaves and locks the front door, a slip of ghostly, crumpled slip of paper is scrunched in his palm.