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The maze is cold and empty and damp and Spoke knows that there is a way out, surely there must be, but surely denotes nothing of true value anymore. Because, back then, surely everything he had done had all been one hundred and fifty per cent necessary, surely he’d had to lie to Mapicc, and Jumper, and Zam, and Planet, and— and surely, surely, surely, it was all he could have done.
This can’t all have been for nothing.
This is what Jamato wanted. This is what he had planned for Spoke all along; he realises it, now. So it isn’t his fault, not really, probably, it maybe definitely isn’t. He— Jamato played him. So, so, therefore it is all Jamato’s fault and Mapicc will forgive him, because it is Jamato, not Spoke, who did this to them. And after that, they can go home together. And after that, everything will be okay.
It’s like the universe hears his prayers. He turns the corner, and there— there he is. Mapicc stares back at him, wide-eyed, a red-and-black-and-white figure against mossy grey walls.
“Mapicc,” he rasps, stumbling towards him, and Mapicc startles, takes a half-step backwards, and when confusion sharpens into anger sharpens into cold fury—
Spoke doesn’t stop. It’s the only way left, forward, even when Mapicc reaches for his sword, even when that same sword is brought to his throat and he is pinned against the wall and Mapicc is glaring down at him and snarling curses into his face.
He’ll let Mapicc work through this, he’ll let him do whatever he needs to do in order to deal with his emotions. And if it costs Spoke something fatal, he knows then that Mapicc’s guilt will bubble up again and he’ll forgive him as he always does and it will all have be worth it. And so Spoke doesn’t fight back. They will work this out, together. It will be completely alright.
The blade digs in slightly; Spoke can feel the beads of blood dripping down into the front of his hoodie. He smiles—tries to smile, he means—and does no more than stare back. He doesn’t know how far Mapicc will take it, but he’s never seen him this angry before either. Maybe this time it will be irreversible. That’s okay too.
If this is it, end-of-it-all, his-final-breaths, it, Mapicc’s face will be his last sight and by god is Spoke happy that it’s him; he’ll die standing on his feet and he’ll die as the blade pierces his neck as his spine is splintered as he—his body, not really him, just flesh fibres, bones, brittle and empty, et cetera et cetera—falls, mess of limbs and copper liquid that’ll paint the floor a tickled pink. But it’ll be worth it, for him. For Mapicc’s forgiveness.
This is nice, he’s thinking, and Mapicc is still yelling at him, and Spoke can feel his trembling as the blade shakes against his skin. He was always too emotional for his own good. Spoke tells him as much, but the words come out garbled; he’d say it’s the sword, but who is he kidding? Mapicc is angrier than he’s ever seen and Spoke’s hand jerks upwards, a half-aborted motion, half-curled fingers; he’s lived in halves for as long as he can remember. And Spoke is half sure he wants to brush the wetness off his cheeks but he is also half sure he wants to curl his fingers around Mapicc’s neck and watch his eyes glaze over one final time.
No, that isn’t right. That isn’t how it’s meant to be. Anger has no place in him, not here, he was— no, he’s the martyr this time. Spoke, not Mapicc. He needs to accept this.
And so he settles. Of course he does. Fingers curl into a fist, but the punch lands short, and Mapicc’s looking down at him now, fire in his eyes, and Spoke nods. Do it. Please, and thank you, and I’m so, so sorry. The metal shifts slightly but he holds it in place, void-black fingers bleeding red, clutched around the blade, purposefully pressing into its sharpened edges, and he wants to beg for it but even in death, Spoke is a coward. His other hand is still hanging in the air between Mapicc’s throat and the maze’s wall. Despite everything, he is still guilty.
Maybe this will absolve him.
Maybe, maybe, maybe, this will make him an angel and he’ll be welcomed into— heaven, hell, nirvana, whichever option exists for freaks of nurture who did their best, their very very best, Mapicc, please believe him, he—
Maybe after they kill the rabid dog will the victims it bit be able to drink water again. Maybe the pearly gates lie ahead of him after all.
Spoke closes his eyes. He sees it now, he thinks. Not heaven—that’s absurd, to think that that exists for him—but something close enough. The past, fragments of it— him and Mapicc, together, his old lava-cast home and their adventures, destroying exploits and creating exploits and infiltrating the Mafia and everything how it used to be, how it will become again. Easier times, where when everything in the world was going terribly at least he knew that it would be Mapicc And Spoke against the forces of evil and not Mapicc Against Spoke, the force of evil.
He sees it, now. He sees it, he—
Footsteps. Loud, in the silence of the empty maze. Spoke’s hand tightens around the blade, please, come back, please please please come back, but to no avail, it clatters to the floor. He opens his eyes and his dearest friend in the entire world has turned his back to him. Mapicc takes another step away and it’s cold, so cold, without him near.
“No, this isn’t—” he starts. “Don’t leave. Mapicc, no, please don’t leave me, please—”
He doesn’t know what Mapicc says in reply. Can’t remember it, not now. He can’t— it doesn’t matter, either way. Swirling purple, obsidian frame, and when he blinks, shadow-like figures are dragging Mapicc away. His eyes are blood-red and glaring, accusatory, at Spoke, and he’s shouting again, enraged, and his— and Mapicc does not return.
Jamato’s voice is cool and brittle and Spoke wishes either of them were less cowardly. This stupid game has stretched on for far too long because they—both of them—were. He wishes Jamato would just do it already, get it over with, end it by ending him, and he wishes that he himself would get it over with, and he wishes—
He stares at the portal. Mapicc does not come back. He wishes, more than anything, that he would.