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Should corpses be left to rot? Or should they be frankensteined back to life?
The old, yet well kept bookshelves of the Citadel loomed over the two figures strolling through:
One, a walking corpse of a voidling who wore an intricate red crown, adorning his taught rainbow headband; the other, a person digging out the corpse's grave demon hybrid, whose angry, crimson tail flicked impatiently behind.
The delicate chandeliers flickered above, shadows dancing around on every book, every plant pot, every wall, every strand of hair, and every tile on the floor. Like justice, it left no one. Nothing.
Spoke, however, did not bat an eye at the details. Oh, no, he didn't care about that.
He didn't care about the gnawing pain at his stomach, nor did he care about the animal inside him that kept chewing at his heart, desperately trying to crawl out, to gnash at anyone who stood in the way.
He was looking for books. More specifically, books about weapons. Weapons are power. And god, did Spoke adore power. It was addictive—it coursed through you like adrenaline. The sheer thrill of being above others, being able to control things. It's lovely. So, so lovely.
He lazily picked up a book from the wall and flipped through the pages. Dust trapped in the spine wafted out, drifting in the air, almost like snow. Spoke merely twitched his nose at this.
"The Ashpit", the book read. The author was Athenauem724. Spoke didn't know them. Didn't care. He was here for knowledge, not for an author. He didn't require a book signing.
He soon clicked his tongue in annoyance—this location contributed nothing at all. Might as well he'd burn that book like he burnt Jamato's.
Tch. Those were completely useless, he was there for all of them. Why would you need a book for that?
He put the book down, closing it and examining the leather cover. Intricate designs were etched into it, swirling around the corners. Spoke sighed.
What a waste of leather, paper and craftsmanship for such a useless book. Just like him. The leather was so smooth, yet sturdy. A firm grip for writing things on the go. Whoever these scholars were at the Citadel, they sure knew how to make excellent books.
Heh, perhaps he should ask one to join his army. That would be a great advisor.
And another great person to let down. And another great person to betray him.
CRASH.
The copper chandelier in which Spoke merely batted an eye to earlier crashed down just 2 blocks away, shattering and sending glass shards flying. Mapicc held up his shield whilst Spoke just curled down into a ball to protect the book and because those shards wouldn't hurt as much as how he was hurting.
He hissed as he felt clear, sharp, gritty shards embedded themselves in his armour, working way through flesh. His arms welled up with blood, the stinging so prominent like the feeling of claws digging through skin. He bit back tears, waiting for it to pass.
He was definitely getting an infection, seeing the rust-laced iron bars clatter beside the chandelier. He just wanted to read a book.
How did the chandelier even fall? Yeah, sure, this building is probably more than a year old, but it couldn't possibly be THAT weak? Plus, those copper fixtures looked pretty sturdy last time he looked. No tilting, no creaking, no signs of structural failure.
Hah, it's just like him. You can't tell anything is wrong.
He slowly uncurled himself, shakily standing up. Small shards of glass slid off him, remnants of what happened barely a few seconds ago. There were tiny droplets of his pure white blood on the floor from where the glass shards nicked him. The ones that were embedded in him didn't drip yet.
It was so ironic, such a corrupted and evil being like him having white blood. How disgusting. He didn't deserve to have that blood in him. It should be Mapicc. Sweet, kind, understanding Mapicc. Spoke deserved to have blood blacker than the void.
Suddenly, he froze.
Footsteps.
He heard footsteps.
He scanned the room. Mapicc was also pricking up his ears, trying to source the location of the mysterious thuds of a player's feet. Where could they be? No invis particles at all. Just the sound of footsteps.
Oh.
"Hey, Spoke! Look what I did!"
"What?!" Spoke ran ecstatically to Jamato, curious at what exploit he invented this time.
"I managed to make invis… WITHOUT INVIS PARTICLES!" Jamato proudly exclaimed, giving Spoke a potion with a seemingly normal shade of invis.
"Whoa!! Can I see??" Spoke squealed. This was exciting! They could go on more missions! Perhaps even prank someone like Wemmbu…
"Sure!" Jamato exclaimed, popping open the cork and taking a swig. Like a normal invis potion, his body faded away, but this time, there were no more particles. No way of identifying where they were.
"WAIT! THIS IS AWESOME!!" Spoke shouted, and ran to hug Jamato with pride and joy.
Oh, right, he was invisi–
Spoke toppled to the ground, missing Jamato completely.
"SPOKE!! ARE YOU OKAY??" Jamato exclaimed, half-concerned and half-amused.
How nice it is to reminisce on those times, huh?
"Ma-Mapicc." Spoke's voice suddenly trembled, "You have to listen to me please. RUN. PLEASE." This person was definitely Jamato. And out of all things that could happen, he did not want Jamato to mess this up again. He's messed it up way too much already.
"And why the hell would I ever even listen to YOU, Spoke?!" Mapicc snarled, and drew his sword. "I am a very capable fighter. You are not. Heck, you'd die, Spoke. I'm not letting you waste your sorry life fighting a random intruder."
Mapicc charged to the chandelier, his boots crunching against the scattered glass on the peach and teal tiles. He bit his lip and swung his sword at where the suspected intruder was.
Bad decision. No, horrible decision.
Mapicc was immediately stabbed through the chest with an enchanted netherite sword. Caught off guard, he stumbled back and his eyes widened in shock. Spoke only watched from behind, tears pricking in his eyes.
He doesn't want to lose Mapicc He doesn't want to get hurt. Mapicc would die and he would die and it all would end and he would have nothing left— but he would also be happy because he wouldn't be suffering.
Actually, what is even stopping him from driving his own sword into himself? Is it that animalistic will to live? Possibly.
And suddenly, a totem pop. The usual, deafening sound of fireworks exploding out of the gold and emerald handheld. Green and yellow sparkles swirled around Spoke's vision. And in the blink of an eye, Mapicc was gone. Teleported somewhere else.
It was him alone now.
The intruder pulled out a milk bucket from their inventory and downed it.
The usual, familiar inky black eyes appeared, contrasting against his bone white mask and his cream, wavy hair that draped down his shoulders. His dark blue coat stood out, the fur laden around his neck drifting in the soft breezy remnants of a second life.
"You loved stealing things from people and taking away their happiness... but I'd never expect you, Spoke, to take in my hobby of reading. Perhaps if you actually invested in that, you wouldn't be as messed up as you are right now." Jamato snarked.
Even though Spoke expected it, the cold, condescending, obsessive voice of Jamato rang in Spoke's ear like the ominous toll of a bell.
Of course it was Jamato who has been following him. Of course Jamato was here to ruin his life over and over again because, when did he ever not?
When he helped Spoke through his relentless insomnia, and comforted him and still woke up to talk to him at 2 am and would cuddle him to sleep even. But no, that was a different Jamato. This one only hurts him.
Spoke ran his teeth over his chapped, dehydrated lips, as if to bite down whatever hope he had that the same Jamato who cherished him so dearly back then was still there.
…No, he was long dead. It was worthless to hope that a corpse would revive.
Just like him, he'd never become alive again, no matter how hard anyone tried. He's simply. Dead. And there is nothing to be done about it. There is no need to waste resources on him. He's dead. People don't chase after dead people to 'fix' them. So why do people still chase him?
"Jamato…" Spoke growled, gritting that name against his teeth, crushing up into pieces just like how badly he wanted to tear Jamato's heart and glue it back together so he could suffer in every single step. To crush his bones till they were all broken and twisted. He'd know, at least, how Spoke felt.
He'd felt the unbearable agony in every step he took, vibrating through his core, causing bile to rise in his throat. But of course no one noticed! It's not like he was bleeding out, with the life ebbing out from his physical body.
Jamato giggled, narrowing his soulless eyes and focusing on him."You say my name with such spite, it's amusing. Have you tried saying your own name…. Spoke?"
…What kind of fucking question is that???
Observing the look of confusion and irritation on Spoke's face, Jamato had another fit of giggles. "You heard me, Spoke. It's not that hard."
"…What's in it for me?" Spoke spat, violently restraining himself from just killing Jamato on spot right now.
He can be patient. No problem. Not at all. He won't lose it over some stupid question by an even stupider person.
"Oh, nothing. Only my amusement as you struggle to say your own name, being so riddled with hate and loathing of your own name that you would spit it out like how you spat out mine."
Spoke didn't remember when his palm met Jamato's cheek. He did feel the sheer shock of his scar-ridden hand slamming on the smooth, bony mask of Jamato.
He could almost feel the sting of the slap on his own cheek, of course, being slapped so many times would give such effect. he almost felt the nausea that usually rose in him every time his face was met with a cruel hand. He almost felt the pain bloom in his cheeks.
He did feel the sting bloom in his fingertips, just barely. That sting still lingered. That sting made him feel alive. Just like all those tiger-like lines dappling his arms, that dripped with ichor.
The pure satisfaction flooded him, but instantly drained when Jamato raised his head, smiling as if he was handed a bouquet of flowers instead of being violently slapped.
"You just proved my point, Spoke. I don't see any reason for objection." Jamato smiled, running his fingers across the cheek he was slapped, pressing tenderly on his mask.
"Will you fucking SHUT UP?!" Spoke shrieked, flinging himself at the taller, claws extended. He wanted to rake his claws over Jamato's stupid face, he wanted to gouge out that irritating smile of his, he wanted to sink his claws until they penetrated through mask and skin, until Jamato screamed in agony of the feeling of claw hitting flesh.
He wanted to get rid of whatever memory lasted in him, whatever memory that told him it wasn't always like this, and in fact, the memory of how dearly he cherished Jamato and how dearly Jamato cherished him back. Because it wasn't coming back, and nothing would ever be the same.
Jamato dodged the claws flying at him and grasped both of Spoke's wrists, holding them tightly so he couldn't make a move. Jamato wasn't great at PVP, but he had amazing reflexes.
Seeing Spoke writhe around, trying to escape from Jamato's grasp, he cracked another smile. "Oh Spoke… calm down, would you?"
Spoke's face twisted into fury.
"Calm down?! CALM DOWN?!! Jamato, my friend is GONE because of you! We almost had it, I SWEAR!" he snarled, baring his teeth. If he couldn't tear Jamato apart with his claws, then he would do so with his teeth. Sink them into his wretched heart like some rabid animal, not releasing his bite until that impostor of Jamato bled dry.
Jamato scoffed. "You and your 'friend' almost had it? Oh please, Spoke. We both know he will never be your friend again. Who would want to be friends with you of all people? You're lucky I even mentored you and became your friend and your partner in crime at the start of this server.
"It seems though, however, you didn't take a single lesson to heart, did you? And 'almost had it'? For god's sake Spoke, do you really think he'd be your friend in the Overworld? You're pathetic. I'm surprised you haven't noticed this yet. You're all coddled up with your little army you stole from me."
Spoke flinched, clearly not expecting that.
"What would YOU know about friends, Jamato?! You have NONE! NONE, JAMATO!" he spat.
He desperately wanted to maul Jamato alive right now, on this spot. To hear him scream and beg, to watch the light die from his eyes. He needed to shut up. Spoke was better than him. He didn't deserve this. Jamato did.
"I can say the same for you, Spoke. Really, you never actually had friends. The only reason you became 'friends' with anyone is because you need someone to use because you are so damn dependant." Jamato shot back.
"Look at you. You would've killed me ages ago if not for the fear that you won't have someone to be dependant on. It's honestly amazing how you believed that my book was true. Oh, no, my dear Spoke. That book is full of lies." he chuckled, "Delicious temptation to lure you into coming here.
"It wasn't even that hard… only promises of power and knowledge is all it takes. That's kinda pathetic, Spoke, how you still believe and trust me…" Jamato huffed, clicking his tongue.
He was still remaining a firm grip around Spoke's wrists, avoiding the furious movement of void-black claws. He dug his grip even deeper, slowly constricting the blood flow in Spoke's wrists, so the wild movement of sharp voidmatter would subside.
"B-believe you??? Are you serious?? I NEVER believed you!
"Not for a single second since you abandoned me two years ago, Jamato. I only ever 'followed' you because I was hoping you'd have at least some form of humanity, Jamato. And- hgh- STOP GRIPPING MY WRISTS-" Spoke snarled, writhing around in Jamato's tight hands.
Anything to move. Anything to escape. Anything to get out. Anything to get out. Anything to get out. Anything to breathe. Anything to live-
No, no, wanting to live is stupid. He's already dead. Why would someone dead want to be alive? It's not like they can even want things in the first place. He's only alive because-
"And why would I ever follow you, Spoke? Why would I follow someone so manipulative yet so foolish? Spoke, do you really think your precious army has always been following you?" Jamato smirked, unbothered by the shorter voidling's squirming, "Do you really think that you are a good leader? That people deserve you? No, correction—do you think you deserve other people?"
Spoke's blood ran cold. "What do you even mean by that, Jamato? What—what could you possibly know? You're not even in my army. You don't know what we do. You don't know me. You're wrong.
"My army is loyal to me because I treat them humanely, unlike you. You can't say stuff like that. You wouldn't understand at all. You never do. So leave me alone, Jamato. I don't know what the fuck you even want from me." he spat, trying to hide the slight quiver in his voice.
His army wouldn't betray him, right?
Other people betrayed him when they found out he was a walking corpse. But Null loved corpses. They wouldn't betray what they love, right? But oh, what can he even say! He himself betrayed Mapicc.
Apparently, that broke Jamato.
"NOBODY FUCKING WANTS YOU, SPOKE!" Jamato screeched, "NOBODY WANTS YOU! YOU'RE GENUINELY WORTHLESS, SPOKE! ALL YOU EVER DO IS LATCH ONTO PEOPLE! YOU CUT THEM OPEN, YOU MAKE THEM BLEED, AND YOU LEAVE THEM. AND SOME SICK PART OF YOU THINKS THAT THEY'D COME BACK?!
"Honestly, Spoke, it's all pointless. It's always the same thing again. You never change, ever."
Manic laughter bubbled into the yells scraping out of Jamato's throat, cracking a smile of insanity as his grip on Spoke sharpened, the claws digging into skin, grazing those 'tiger lines' of Spoke.
It's hard to tell when cold, salty droplets slide down your face whilst you are being yelled at.
For Spoke, he only realised when those drops pooled around his jaw as he opened his mouth to speak.
"N-no, Jamato, people want me, I- I know it… some do… I know they do…they have to…" he stammered, jaw quivering as he tried holding back his unravelling heart.
It's not supposed to spill- no one can see it. No one will ever see it. He can't show it. Nothing good would possibly happen. He needs to wind it back together, pretend like it never happen. Sew it back together with words he spits in the mirror, worthless, empty phrases of 'affirmation'.
Those stitches were never meant to be undone. Not even to Jamato. This was genuinely the worst thing that could happen. He's being unravelled in front of the last person he'd want to unravel in front of.
"Yeah, they want you to FUCKING DIE!"
…
"THEY WANT YOU TO DIE SPOKE, BECAUSE YOU'RE THE WORST PIECE OF SHIT TO EVER EXIST ON THIS SERVER! HECK, AT LEAST ASH WAS COMMITTED AND DIDN'T HAVE AN EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN EVERY 5 SECONDS!" Jamato spat at Spoke, who's face was moist with the tears that smoothed down, leaving pale tracks in their wake.
"I–I don't want to die–"
Because I'm already dead.
"Oh really? Spoke, you know that both of us know that is all you want right now. To disappear. To fade away. Because that's what everyone wants, right? For 'the good of the server.'"
"I pro–promise, I'll fix myself, I will!" Spoke sobbed. Those cries ravaged against his ribs, gnawing at them, prying them apart. His throat throbbed sore with stuffed down cracks in his voice, sending vibrations echoing through his weak body that he never took care of, shaking it around like a leaf in the wind.
He knows though, he can never fix himself. Everyone he met has said so. He's incapable of thinking of others, incapable of being a good friend, incapable of being a good person, incapable of living, incapable of breathing, incapable of existing, incapable of being normal, incapable of being kind, incapable of being considerate, incapable of being respectful, incapable of being an amazing person, incapable of being loved, incapable of doing FUCKING ANYTHING.
"You're beyond fixing, Spoke. You do realise that, right? You're like a jellyfish—everything you touch gets hurt or dies. How miserable. People fear jellyfish, but at least they eat it. You, my dear friend, are useless." Jamato frowned, "You provide nothing to this world and only cause pain and suffering, just like a mosquito. You're honestly a waste of oxygen." he sighed.
How long does it take for the animal to lash out? How long does it take for the branch to snap?
For Spoke, it only took him for his own thoughts to be said out loud.
He lashed forward, sinking his teeth into Jamato's arms that constricted around his wrists. They dug down, tearing through Jamato's own void-black flesh. It hit bone, sliding against the smooth surface.
Jamato hissed in pain, writhing around in agony, but he only gripped Spoke's wrists tighter, letting his claws dig into Spoke's veins. This only led to Spoke biting down harder, the blood from the growing wound dripping into his mouth, the iron tang of ichor settling in. Jamato arched his back and kicked Spoke hard in the stomach, sending him tumbling backwards into a bookshelf.
A dozen books clattered out of their resting spots, tumbling down onto Spoke's veins, who winced in pain. His back hurt so, so much. He felt dull bruises bloom in the places the hard leather books had crashed down on, bound to leave its mark for at least a week. Pretty weird how someone dead can feel pain. Perhaps death wasn't the escape.
Jamato strolled over to Spoke, dusting off his fur coat while examining his bloodied hand.
He clicked his tongue, "Tch… you just showcased what I said, Spoke. You hurt everything and everyone. Even those books. Precious, thick books full of knowledge."
"I really do wonder why you still keep that totem. Aren't you scared you're going to hurt your poor little army? Hah, in fact, it would be safer in my arms, don't you think?" he murmured, pondering to himself.
It all sounded really muddy to Spoke, who was still feeling numb from the books weighing him down. Not to forget his wrists bleeding, but it didn't really bother him much.
It was awfully familiar. He'd felt the feeling of warm, sticky blood drip down his skin, snaking around his forearms like a sinful snake.
His head still throbbed from him crashing into the wooden and copper bookshelf, and his ribs felt dull from the sudden force. He wanted to spit at Jamato's face and tell him that he was wrong, and he's been taking care of Null so well and he deserves the totem.
But all he could get out was exactly what his mind was yelling in the background.
"I–it hu–hurts…" he rasped, because it was true. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad that he wants to rip out every nerve in his body so he wouldn't feel that pain anymore. But he's dead, how does he still feel pain? It's stupid.
His hands were shaking, the agony making him wince every so often.
Apparently, that wasn't enough for Jamato.
"You're having a really hard time saying what you need to say, huh… and yet you can tell all those lies so easily. Perhaps… you need a… helping hand." Jamato sighed, rolling up his sleeves.
What did Jamato possibly mean by tha-
Suddenly, rough hands closed around his throat and pressing down hard on his trachea in an attempt to constrict his airflow. He let out a sudden yelp which turned into wheeze, the sheer pressure stunning him.
Soon enough, a muddy-like dizziness washed over, and his eyes watered through the stress. He writhed around, trying to get out of the chokehold, desperately trying to get a gasp of air. A loud, uncomfortable ringing settled in his ears, screeching till it made him feel like his ears were going to bleed any second.
Random black spots that looked like little space creatures he read about in a book started to dot around his vision, obstructing his view. Actually, what was even happening? Everything felt so stretched out yet so fast. He felt the agonising pain of his lungs screaming to be relieved of carbon dioxide as though it was lasting for centuries, yet everything in his vision seemed to be happening in double the usual speed.
Where was he even? What was he doing?
Why is he alive, he died months ago!
Those black dots grew more intense as his eyes watered even more, distorting his vision even more. The ringing in his ears only ever grew louder and more high pitched, and he swore his ears were bleeding. Or is he just confused with his wrists?
Was it finally over?
Is he finally free?
POP
His totem.
He forgot about that-
Spoke was thrown back once more, but this time free of Jamato's grasp.
Right, totem pops were basically a mini firework. Good. More knockback.
Oh but his head hurts—oh fuck–
He snapped out of his bleary daze and glanced up to see Jamato ominously looming over him. Oh fffuckkk… he existed…
"And you just killed them. The entirety of Null. You promised a minute ago you wouldn't. And look… they're all.. dead… because of you."
"Nh-no… it's your-your fault…" as much as Spoke wanted to scream and cry at Jamato, his throat was still sore and swollen from being constricted, and the only thing ever escaping was a husky, dried voice, barely even audible.
"Again with you defending yourself. I wonder how people actually believed you'd be a better person. But I suppose the people who know you the most leave you. That's why all the people who stayed stayed—they didn't know that about you."
"I-I'm not trying to defend myself-" Spoke was cut off with a bout of coughing, due to his body not having kept up with trying to breathe just yet.
"You cause so much suffering, you know that, Spoke? You do nothing about that, either. You only continue hurting others. And what do you even get from that? Everyone who you've betrayed will never forgive you. They'll abandon you just like how you abandoned and betrayed them, and you'll act all surprised."
"No.. ngh… they… do-" Spoke paused to cough violently, "they do–they did forgive me, I swear-"
"Do you believe that? Do you seriously believe that? They only do that because you're so fucking dependant, Spoke. A minute without their approval would send you crying. And they just don't want the hassle. So they say 'I forgive you'. But I assure you, Spoke; no one has.
"You pretend to care for them, protect them but all you do is make up reasons for them to be scared. You're a liar. And that's all you do. You're useless. Wait, no—worse than that. At least useless is a word that can be used for things-"
Spoke coughed violently again.
"I-'m not use-useless, I swear, I-I do good stuff! People- people say that!"
"Those people are wrong, Spoke, because they don't see you for who you really are. The people who claim to love and forgive you, never forgave you—they only forgave your image. If they knew the real you, you wouldn't have anyone.
"In fact, now, you don't have anyone apart from me, because I'm here to lay it out for you. You're so sick. And when people come to know about that, they'll hate you almost as much as you hate yourself. Those kind of people, Spoke? They deserve to die–"
Another set of laboured coughs.
"WILL YOU SHUT UP?!" Jamato hissed.
"I-I'm sorr-sorry, I can't do anything ab-about it-"
"You can die. You can die. Wouldn't it be so much better to just die? You killed rose - she trusted you, and you killed her. Becky loved her, and you killed her. Quackenstein loved her, and you killed her. You killed so many people who had so many people who loved them.
"However, you, Spoke, would have no one to miss you—because no one loved you in the first place. We mourn those like Rose, but we'll never mourn people like you."
"How-how does that fix anyth- thing??"
"You'll be gone. We'll be at peace. Wouldn't that be amazing? Think of how much people will be happy that you're gone. Think of all the peace now that you're gone. If you claim to care about people so much, then killing yourself would be the ultimate service, wouldn't it?"
"I-"
Jamato pulled out the same netherite sword he used to stab Mapicc. It still had some of that dark red blood staining it.
"I'm giving you the option, Spoke. Heck, at least the netherite would be easier than something like a wooden sword. I'm being generous enough to give you tools," he huffed, extending it out to Spoke, who had slowly sat up as Jamato monologued. "Take it."
Spoke slowly extended his arm. He could die. He really could.
Do it now. Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it.Do it. Do it
"Who says.. I need to follow you?!" he rasped, trying to get out as much energy as possible. Instead of impaling himself with the purple-black metal, which he wanted to do so badly, he launched forward to stab Jamato instead.
…He unfortunately forgot he was still recovering from the physical trauma he'd just faced.
In a swift motion, Jamato grasped the two bloodied hands which gripped the sword and twisted it towards Spoke.
What the-
He screamed. A scream of hollow pain and agony escaped from his swollen, bruised throat as the warm netherite stabbed through his armour, through his skin, through his flesh, through his heart and back out the other way.
It was all really numb at first. Like he could hardly process it. He gazed down and saw his pure white blood spill on the sides, mainly blocked by the sword's pressure in the wound.
And then came the fiery pain.
The pain of raw nerves exposed, flesh where it's not supposed to be, and the dizziness from everything slowly crept up on him like a wave.
Without any more energy to stand, his knees simply buckled and collapsed. Into Jamato's arms.
He felt himself being laid down gently, face flush against the familiar fur coat of Jamato. 'Felt', because it was so exhausting to open his eyes.
"You did it. I'm proud."
"Shfht.. uhhd…" was all he could manage, his voice seemingly not working anymore. Oh, right, it was hard to breathe.
…He was dying anyway, so he let himself cry,
He sobbed with whatever was left in him. How stupid, his last words only being pitiful cries. He felt a warm hand carding through his hair.
"It's alright, Spoke. It's ending. Don't you worry."
That made Spoke cry even harder. Oh god, it was ending. Did–did he want it to end? For so long, he's pushed it away, but did he really?
He didn't feel that satisfaction he dreamt of…
He just wished-
It all faded into nothing before he could hold another thought.