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Death was...unexpected.
Not the fact of it. It had been a bit of surprise, but time had turned to taffy as he bled. He'd plenty of time to get used to the idea of it. The consistency of it, though, that was something else.
Death was...diffuse.
The directional anchor points of reality – here or there, past or present, dead or alive – had ceased to apply with the identity shattering impact of bullets. There were a countless cloud of hims, each distinct, each discrete, and yet somehow the sum of that infinity was one.
Danny Matheson. The one. The only.
Except not, of course. Danny Matheson was the dearly departed; dead and rotting in his plastic shroud. If he wanted (he had, once) he could see him. What was left was just an echo, a record repeating itself into eternity. A back-up.
He wasn't even a high-fidelity copy. Danny didn't/did know what a back up was, or high-fidelity. There was leakage. He was permeable. Dilution. Improvement. It didn't scare him. He felt nothing he hadn't felt before – did he feel anything, though, or just remember feeling? - but he thought it should scare him. At least a little.
So he looked for the people who knew him best, who thought of him the most. No. That was unfair. Who talked about him the most, the focal-point of him coalescing around the sound of his name. To Charlie, to Miles, to Anna Philips back home who he'd thought didn't even know he was alive and...Major Neville.
Tom Neville talked about Danny a lot, to Danny a lot.
In Georgia Tom soaked in a marble tub of hot water, lotion-milky water pale against dark skin and hard muscle. His arms dangled over the sides, water dripping on the marble floor, and he stared at the ceiling as if he knew Danny was there.
'The Georgians have a high and mighty opinion of themselves, Danny. All this, though?' He kicked the water. 'It's made them lackadaisical. Irresolute. They need a firm hand, and I have always had one of those.'
A fist smacked Danny in the face. Pain shattering through the bones like acid, red washing his vision. Rough hands caught him and dragged him back up. 'Just throw a punch and go down,' an anonymous voice muttered in his ear. 'Don't fuck him off.'
They shoved him back into the fight. Danny spat, tasting blood, and blinked at the smirking, jinking Tom. He thought he was weak, because Danny didn't want to fight, didn't relish hurting anyone. Maybe Danny was – if he wasn't weak, he could have saved his Dad – but that didn't mean he couldn't throw a punch if he wanted to.
You didn't grow up with Charlie Matheson for a sister without learning how to give a dead arm on the run.
He swung and connected, putting his shoulder into it. Even as Tom staggered backwards he'd known it was a mistake. The beating was worth it though, just for that second of surprise on Tom's face.
In the bath Tom sighed and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair, closing his eyes. He looked tired, older in an indefinable way, and there were raw, wire-thin scars scored into his forearms.
'I should have shown a firmer hand to Jason,' he said. 'Julia always sheltered him too much, always shielded him from the realities of our lives. If I'd intervened earlier, he would have learned. Like you did. I was proud of you, when I heard. I couldn't tell anyone, of course. The general would have had me killed, I couldn't even blame him. You were our enemy, but you died a warrior. I respect that.'
He fell silent, brooding, and finally got up to get out of the bath. Danny politely averted his eyes, except he didn't have eyes and the sensory consequence of death was omnipresence. So he watched as Tom dried himself and tied the towel around his lean waist.
'I was proud of you, Danny,' he said. 'I never got to tell you that.
It was possible Tom Neville's sectors were corrupted. Danny couldn't judge. He was dead and besides...
Tom Neville was the man who killed his Dad, who tried to kill his sister and was the only non-family member that Danny had ever kissed.
'Does that make you feel tough, beating up an 18-year old kid?' Danny sneered. It hurt to breathe and his nose itched with dry blood. 'What's that say about you?'
A sort of uncomprehending rage twisted Tom's face. Danny didn't think that a lot of people talked back to him. Not these days. Tom reached through the bars and grabbed him, yanking him forwards.
'You mouthy little shit,' Tom said. 'What do you know about the world, about discipline and respect.'
'People respected my Dad,' Danny said. 'They would have fought for him – and he never raised a hand to anyone.'
A cold smile twitched over Tom's face, reaching as far as his cheekbones and dying before it reached his eyes.
'Well, we've already agreed, son,' he said. 'Your father was a better man than me, but he's dead and, trust me, men like him don't go to heaven.'
At the time Danny didn't understand that – his Dad was the best man he knew – but then Tom grabbed the back of his head and...kissed him. It was hard enough to resplit Danny's lip, the tang of hot, fresh blood on his tongue,
He liked girls. He'd assumed. Everyone did, didn't they? Not that he'd ever had much chance with any of them – he was always with Charlie, it would have been weird.
This though – hard lips and demanding tongue, fingers rough in his hair – made him hot and aching in ways he'd only ever managed with himself before. And that had been quick and hurried in their one bathroom, Charlie's impatient demands for him to 'get out' better than the realisation that when Maggie told her to leave him alone, Maggie knew what he was doing.
Despite himself Danny leant into the kiss, closing his eyes and pretending it was someone else. Someone he didn't have to hate.
Then Tom stiff-armed him away, wiping his hand over his mouth.
'A lesson for you, son,' he said. 'Your dick doesn't care about your high-minded morality.'
Tom went to dress in his new uniform, a starched green declaration of his new allegiance. Of what people not privy to his private musings thought was his new allegiance. He straightened the jacket and gave himself that empty, dead-eyed smile.
'All of this was Miles' fault,' he said. 'He 'rescued' you and got you killed, he ruined me – but he'll reap what he sowed. I told him I'd kill him; he might have forgotten, but I won't.'
Danny would have told him the truth if he could, but just because he was present didn't mean he was palpable. So he left, letting the gravity of his name drag him to Charlie sobbing in her tent.
Death was only the end of dying. It wasn't so bad.