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Spoke stands there as Mapicc is dragged through the portal, a too-quiet, "I'm sorry," falling from his lips, drops of water in an ocean of apologies that Mapicc has never heard, waves and waves of sin and mistakes that pile up to suffocate and bury him. Fossilized in failure like a mosquito in amber. Just as parasitic as one too. His apology chases Mapicc through the portal, is greeted with emptiness as they all disappear, leaving Spoke in the maze in what feels like finality.
Spoke looks at his hands and feet. Betrayers, who kept him rooted and shaking as Mapicc was fought and dragged away, curses on his lips and gleaming teeth. Who kept him in the corner like a cornered fox, hackles raised but no strength to strike, spent all of it running away. Spoke knows that there is no coming back from this, no fixing his friendship with Mapicc, not with words.
Spoke is very good with words, but not when it comes to something that really matters. Not when it comes to things like this.
Mapicc hates him, really hates him. Mapicc thinks their friendship meant nothing when it is the only reason Spoke is still standing, still living. Mapicc, his purpose, his reason for being, raison d'être, something he would tell Mapicc if he was sure he could pronounce it right, something he would tell Mapicc if vulnerability didn't always feel like ripping out one's heart and handing it with a forced smile saying, "here you go!" Mapicc isn't the problem. Spoke is.
Spoke has always been the problem.
If Spoke was a little more noble, a better man, he would fall down onto his knees at Mapicc's feet if just to show Mapicc that he was worth throwing away all his ego for. He would wrap his hands around Mapicc's thighs as an anchor, plead up to him until Mapicc got disgusted enough to kick him in the ribs, to kill him. It would hurt, but it would be necessary. Spoke took advantage of Mapicc's easy forgiveness one too many times. It was only right then, to apologize.
It is too late for Spoke though. Far, far too late to kneel and beg for anything. And while Spoke can clasp his hands right now in some semblance of prayer, the forgiveness he requires cannot be given by the gods. Is not going to be given to him, ever. Spoke will have to live with that.
Spoke is a pot of ink, has always been. He thought that maybe by hiding his nature— to blot and spill, he might save Mapicc from being corrupted. But his secrecy only made things worse. Perhaps fate. Fated for Spoke to be the pot of pitch-black ink, fated for Mapicc to be the piece of paper and Jamato the person and the quill. For Jamato to knock the inkpot over and spill black void onto the pristine white of the paper, to soil it in a way that the only solution is to crumple it up and return to a new sheet. Perhaps, perhaps, Spoke should have just stayed away. He's selfish though, too selfish, and from the moment he had lied to Mapicc and told him that his atrocious house was good and Mapicc had beamed, smiled at Spoke in a way no one ever did, he had thought to himself. Thought to himself that Mapicc didn't know anything that Spoke had done. Thought that maybe if he kept it that way Mapicc would stay.
But Spoke has always been cowardly. He's never been good in battle, never been good at holding up his sword and shield to block hits. In this world, it was necessary to be strong, to be powerful, to be smart. Spoke was smart. He realized that if he could not win by blades alone, he must find something else to give him the fortitude for victory.
Enter exploits.
Spoke was very good at exploits, his body made more of void and code than flesh and bone. For a while, it had hurt, to realize he wasn't as human as even people like Parrot and Flame where, but he realized it gave him an advantage. Code flocked to his fingertips like a school of fish around bait, whispered infinite possibilities into his ear that he skimmed through with the help of JamatoP, the first person who saw something in Spoke. The first person to leave.
When he met Mapicc, he was broken and crazy. Insane, as Mapicc had called up to him from his stupid base and asked him why he was talking to himself. But he hadn't run. And Spoke had seen maybe a little bit of Jamato in him, before everything went down. Before Jamato left. The way Spoke could just be by Mapicc.
Mapicc was right. Spoke was insane. He was crazy. He needed to be put down like a foaming dog in the street with a loaded gun. And if Mapicc, beautiful, light-catching Mapicc wasn't there to aim the cold metal at Spoke's heart, Spoke could do it himself.
The truth was, Spoke was an empty house. He had all the windows and doors and painted walls of the previous inhabitants, proof that someone had lived there, but none of the furniture. He thought that maybe by inviting someone in, someone who loved him—because forget math being the universal language, forget violence, Mapicc had shown that love was universal in the way he had loved Spoke when Spoke was unlovable, in the still-faint traces of it lingering behind his eyes even as he spat insults and his lips curled up in disgust as he was dragged away. He thought that Mapicc might be able to brush away the dust gathering in the crevices of his heart, let it beat again, let him breathe again. He thought he might stop feeling like an abandoned house, like a room no one wanted to enter.
Universal languages were still not immune to miscommunication. Spoke found this out the hard way as Mapicc's fist had connected with Spoke's face.
Or maybe this was just Fate's way to taking back the love Spoke had made the mistake in thinking he was deserving of.
Mapicc made Spoke think that he was something more than broken furniture laying on the sidewalk to be disposed of later. Mapicc had arrived with medicine and warm hands and an easy-going smile, and Spoke had taken it devotedly, without question, only for it to dissolve in his system like a body unwilling to heal.
It was hard to walk back to the still shimmery portal that Mapicc had been dragged to, was hard to pick up the sword that Mapicc had dropped in the scuffle— Reyna, her diamond edges still wet with his own blood. red and dark against the pale crystal. It is hard to hide himself, in the little crevice of the maze where he feels sort of safe, a fox in the hollow of a tree sleeping away the cold, hiding from the snapping jaws of hunting dogs. It is hard to prop up the blade, hilt down between his knees. He kneels there for a moment. His hands are slippery from where he sliced his palm on the blade, hands too shaky. Who wouldn't be trembling in the face of death?
Mapicc probably. But Mapicc was always the stronger of the two of them. Always reasonable when Spoke wasn't. Always sane and present and honest and caring and everything Spoke wasn't, because try as he might he could never escape fate, brutal destiny, the impact of metal into bone and meat as the car hits the deer. But there's no light here, no light to persuade Spoke that he is staring into heaven, no beautiful present Mapicc to hold Spoke as he puts both hands around his throat and chokes, rips all the air out of Spoke's lungs as Spoke's vision fades and he thrashes— because that's what animals do without oxygen, even as he convinces himself that this is good. That this is necessary. That he wants this.
Mapicc only cried once. Once when Spoke chorused into the room he had carved out while Spoke risked his life to take down the Mafia. It was the first time Spoke had seen Mapicc cry, and while Spoke hadn't, even while close to death, Mapicc had. Spoke had stood there as Mapicc had squeezed him so tightly he couldn't breathe— though truthfully, Spoke had been practicing holding his breath just in case he decided to jump into the void. (He had found that you never get used to suffocation, but he was sure that it would be made all the easier with the soothing balm that was Mapicc, provided that Mapicc would be so gracious to offer Spoke the mercy Spoke didn't deserve.) Anyways, Spoke had felt Mapicc's tears, had stood there shocked, because he hadn't expected the chorus to work, had already accepted the fact that he would die, accepted it a long time ago.
Spoke had stood there, stiff, and he had felt a brief sadness well up in him as he raised a hand and reciprocated, as he buried his head in Mapicc's shoulder, smelled pine and gunpowder and had thought to himself, I hope you get used to this Mapicc, because you will be the one to pull the trigger.
Because as much as Spoke didn't care if he died, he didn't want to do it himself. He didn't want to die alone because maybe then it would prove finally that he wasn't worth being cared for. It is human to want to breathe your last with someone else and Spoke has clung to this, his only proof that he may be human, with everything. Everything he has.
Mapicc is not here. And Spoke knows that even if he was , even with all of the anger and hurt he would not kill Spoke. Knows this because Mapicc told him, looked him in the eyes, red on blue-white and told him to live, to go and make a place somewhere else. Because Mapicc does not know that Spoke wants to die. And Spoke, even if he would tell Mapicc everything else, would not tell him this. Does not want to see the hurt and horror flicker over his face.
Mapicc, however, does not know what is best. Mapicc's concept of mercy is different from Spoke's. Where Mapicc might cradle a bug caught on a grill, might set it free, because he is not a cold-blooded killer, Spoke would set it on the floor and smash it. Quick and pain ending.
Spoke does not get the luxury of a quick kill. He does not get euthanasia, will not get a bullet to the head. Spoke does not know how to hurt with blades and weapons, only with words, only with his own nature. Spoke's death will be slow and painful. He knows this as he watches red trail from his palm down his arm to kiss the pich-black cracks that lace his arms like a physical representation of his sin and unworthiness of life. He knows this as he feels his breath hot and stuttered on his hands, as he feels burning tears on his face, sees them drop down to the blue of the blade, trying to wash away the metal he will stain with his blood yet again.
His gaze flickers down to the ground. His blood will spill, here, he can see it already, a painting of cooling life-blood. Like a crime scene, it will remain long after the red has been scrubbed away, the lingering memory of a corpse on the ground that will cause people to step more carefully even without knowing what happened. The trace of his body on cold stone, essence seeping through cracks.
He does not cry as much as he thinks he would. As much as someone would cry over their own life. But Spoke is not really living and he is not really human, and he does not cry out of pity as much as just to have tears to cry. Because the funeral of a particularly loved person must have tears and no one will cry over his death unless it is him.
He pictures it now, walking up the steps to the church to stand there still at the entrance, head tilted back to look at the large words carved into the front of the building. It blocks the sunlight from his face, beams arching over him like something holy.
"Haec Porta Domini. Soli Iusti Intrabunt In Eam."
Spoke does notknow Latin, but the translation helpfully settles itself right in the middle of the brain like a lazy cat in the sun.
"This is the Gate of the Lord. Only the Just shall enter into it."
Spoke is not Just or Righteous, but he enters anyways, palms pressing against the smooth wood of the large doors. They open with the creak of old wood with the press of psalms on his tongue and prayers of forgiveness in his hands. The church, however, is not dressed for service, but for a funeral.
He steps across the aisle, footsteps echoing in the solemn, ancient silence, peering around. The pews are still and empty, hymnbooks tucked in grooves neatly. The air is thick with dust and memories, light filtering through the grand stained glass windows, throwing the ground into pastel rainbows.
He makes his way to the coffin in the front, plush lid laying open. Spoke peers down and comes face to face with himself, flowerless and alone, skin pale from death.
A flower lying lonesome on the altar in front. Spoke picks it up, a poppy, whose fragile stems threatens to snap under his fingertips. He steps back in front of the coffin, digs his feet into the floor and then bends over to place the flower underneath the clasped hands of himself.
As soon as his fingers brush cold skin, the other Spoke's eyes snap open. His hands find Spoke's wrist. Spoke tries to jerk back with a noise of surprise, eyes wide, but he restrains himself, digs claws into his wrist as the poppy shifts, red bleeding into darker crimson. The now-transformed rose entwines its stems around the wrist of him and the other Spoke, digging freshly made thorns into skin. Other Spoke drags him closer, half into the coffin to press his lips against Spoke's ear and whisper in a raspy voice,
"All your fault."
Spoke yanks his hand back, cradles the bleeding wrist as he stumbles away from the altar, tripping over the steps in his haste and falling backwards. To his horror, the breath that leaves his lips, catching on ribs, sounds like a death rattle.
Spoke snaps back to his body with a gasp like a person exiting the surface of water. He doesn't quite know what that was and yet he knows all too well what it was about. What happened. The sharp tip of the sword is pressed against his skin, like the part of the bulshido code of sharakiri, a way of dying with honor. But Spoke is not honorable.
Spoke, the old one, has been cleansed, has walked through the fire and come back alive. Not whole, never whole, but changed enough to perform this final act of service. Spoke is no longer a coward. Spoke will no longer run.
With a last exhale, he falls upon the sword. Feels a line of stabbing fire trace his abdomen as blade goes through something vital enough and comes out the other side. Feels his vision swim as he keels over, nauseous. No one to cradle him now but the vast sky he cannot see.
Desperately, he drags himself out of the hollow, no plan in mind except to see the heavens above, roadkill rotting on the side of the street, glassy eyes fixed to the celestials above like travelers to new lands focusing on something familiar. Spoke focuses his eyes on the gray-black above, not on the trail of blood from his hollow, a trail not unlike the one a fox makes limping from a closed jaws of a beartrap, sacrificed leg still in metal teeth. He pants, tries to find stars, faint light in nothingness, imagines them sprouting up like summer wildflowers.
He has no parting words for the cruel world, just for his world, who is on the other side of the portal and hates him, just four last, uncharacteristically quiet words, vulnerable because he promised his best friend in the whole wide world he would try to change. He did, just a little, just enough to know what is meant to be done. With a choke and the drag of sharpened edge that catches against muscle and meat on the way out, Spoke pulls the sword out, fumbling in a way that makes it hurt more, slices more against vulnerable insides and makes him whine and whimper, voice straining to find purchase in echoing silence.
As the blood leaves his body, warming the cobble under his back, wetting his clothes with red, as Spoke tries to stuff organs back to where they belong to look presentable, Spoke imagines that this is his proof that he has done the impossible— proved to Fate herself that he is not the monster she says he is, because monsters are killed by the hero. Spoke knows he is not the hero but he cannot be the villain anymore if he rids the world of himself, if he rights his wrongs through this action. He has saved everyone. He has—
He squirms. Dying really, really hurts, but if he imagines Mapicc's lap beneath his head, his hands cradeling, running through Spoke's knotted hair, it is more comfortable. He can assure himself that the blood is pooling beneath his head like a halo. that he was the sacrificial lamb who laid its head down on the chopping block and looked up at the butcher with gentle eyes because it knew that its execution would save, that its life may not have meant something but its death will.
I love you, Mapicc.
His four chosen words, his devotion, his love that he holds close to his chest in the matching strips of fabric he and Mapicc share. He holds it to his slowing heart and hopes that Mapicc won't miss him too much, or maybe that he will, but that he will nonetheless know that this was necessary. That he won't blame himself. That Mapicc will forgive him. He really wonders how Mapicc will react, if at all. The old Mapicc would have cried, but the old Spoke would have shied away from performing death and both have changed over the years. Will Mapicc scoff? Will he ignore it? Spoke can't bear to think about that, focuses on his body betraying him instead.
Breathing is harder now. Everything hurts and he feels cold and shaky and feels turned inside-out.
Who is he kidding. Mapicc hates him, can't hear the repeated, "I love yous," Spoke repeats until they are woven into the very fabric of his being, until all that circles around in his head is Mapicc, Mapicc, Mapicc.
The name of his best friend is the last thing Spoke thinks of when his body gives up, tears drying on his face, eyes open, still trying to find light in the dark, a steady blooming blossom of red still blooming on his chest, hands still folded over the last strip he has of Mapicc.
The maze goes back to silence. old enough to have seen everything that it doesn't particularly care.
Far off and yet so close, Mapicc huddles in a warm cell, communicator that he smuggled in throwing bright light across his shocked face as he reads and rereads the chat message on the screen.
SpokeIsHere was slain by SpokeIsHere using [Reyna]
And Mapicc closes his eyes, throws his head back, and weeps.