Archive of Our Own ^beta

You are jealous.

It's a curious emotion, jealousy. It's a very human emotion. It's not necessary for survival - in many cases it will actively hinder survival. The Maykrs didn't experience it. You don't think demons do either, though you can't be sure. You were a poor specimen of demonkind.

Vega's new platform was manufactured by the ARC. It's one of their war mecha. You think it might be several months old, though you're not sure. You had only been involved in the construction of the first generation. Humanity had done the rest all on its own. You wonder how long it had been abandoned. Briefly, you wonder what happened to its pilot.

The Slayer touches the arm of the mecha. It's taller than he is, of course, and far bulkier, though not so bulky that it lacks human proportions. The design is more akin to powered armor than a true mecha. Balance without a pilot will not be easy, and even more so for someone who has never had legs before.

The Slayer's touch is gentle. He's helping Vega stand; his palm cups the elbow of the mech. You've never seen gentleness from him before. Not firsthand. Gentleness is reserved only for those he considers innocents.

Vega is far from innocent, but perhaps if one does not remember their atrocities they should no longer be considered responsible for them. It is a question for philosophers, one that you refuse to delve too deeply into. That way lies madness.

You wonder if the Slayer would still put his strength into helping Vega keep his balance if he knew. If Vega would let him, if he knew. Where would they fall, in the debate? You could say something, and they might even believe you. You imagine it. Vega's horror, and the way he would realize you have never lied to him, not as long as either of you have lived. The Slayer's skepticism, the refusal to believe, until you show them the evidence that even he cannot deny. The way he turns tense, hostile, ready to destroy his former ally.

And yet: you do not say anything. You watch the way they look at each other - Vega clumsy and faceless, learning his new platform, the Slayer carefully supporting him, face invisible behind his helmet. They show their expressions with their bodies, both of them. It shows in the way they lean towards each other, comfortable in each others' space. In the way they touch, without awkwardness, without fear. They know each other, intimately, in all ways.

And you are jealous.

When was the last time you could afford to show anything other than aloof intelligence? Could stand alongside someone as an equal, and know they would support you if you should stumble? Could trust someone? Could touch them, gently, and receive a touch in return? 

Your first human life was thousands of years ago, by your reckoning, and you are so lonely.

"If you're quite done?"

The Slayer's body language changes; he withdraws as if only now realizing you are still there. He puts himself between the wreck of your body and Vega's platform with its fawn's balance. A protective stance, as though you might somehow physically assault them. You doubt he is even aware he's doing it.

You wonder if you could have played your cards differently. If you could have been the target of his protection, rather than his rage. You don't think you could have, but then - to see the could-have-beens was not one of your skills. A pity that Vega could not remember his past self and grant you this one idle wish.

"You should rest," Vega says to the Slayer. He's quieter than usual. You wonder how much he picked up in Urdak.

The Slayer is still covered in the Icon of Sin's viscera. You expect him to refuse. To perhaps select another slipgate destination. There were still demons on Earth, after all, even with the Icon of Sin defeated and the Priests dead. Failing that, there was always Argent D'Nur or Hell itself. His devotion to his crusade is absolute. He turns back to the slipgate ring.

Vega touches his shoulder, clumsy but gentle. The Slayer turns back immediately, as though struck by lightning. His devotion to his crusade is absolute - and his devotion to Vega is even stronger.

You scoff at them. They ignore you. The Slayer listens to Vega. He has always listened to Vega. They leave the slipgate ring and then the bridge, and they support each other on the way to the wash racks. They ignore you completely.

You try to squash your jealousy. You fail.

<Am I the Father?> Vega asks you quietly, that evening. The Slayer is sleeping at last; his face is pressed against the chest of Vega's platform. He will be experiencing a nightmare, but he will not remember it come morning. He never had before, and you do not think his long sleep in Hell will have changed this aspect of him.

You do not reply at first, and Vega turns his faceless head toward the ceiling. Toward the camera there. He has adapted to the platform with remarkable speed, and he had picked up human mannerisms immediately; you wonder at the hows and whys of it. If he had learned it from you, or the Slayer, or the UAC Mars employees, or humanity as a whole. You watch him and he watches you. It is only for a second, but such a thing is a very long time for beings like you.

You have never lied to Vega, and you are not going to start now. <You were,> you tell him, and you do not say more.

Vega does not reply. You don't blame him. He runs his fingers through the Slayer's hair, and the remains of your humanity yearn.

(You realize, later, that you don't know which of them you are jealous of.)

You watch them. It's all you can really do, lacking manipulating appendages as you are. The Fortress doesn't even have drones. You vaguely recall that Argentan ships were meant to be stocked with a full compliment of automated craft. You wonder what happened to them.

You try to get them to cease their affectionate displays. The Slayer, at least, reacts when you remind him you're watching. It isn't embarrassment, or shame. It's anger. He's very easy to anger. You wonder when you'd become so reckless as to taunt a man who hates you, has very little use for you, and could tear you apart with his bare hands.

He never does. Vega always distracts him. He only has to touch the Slayer's shoulder to call his absolute attention. When you continue antagonizing the Slayer, you learn that Vega is not above locking you out of the Fortress systems. It surprises you, the first time. He had never been so bold, even in his previous life. You wonder what he picked up in Urdak.

You do not like being blind and deaf and restrained to your broken body with no stimuli. It reminds you too much of your time in Hell. You wonder if this is what trauma is. You wonder if Maykrs can be traumatized. You wonder if there is enough humanity left in you for trauma. You stop antagonizing the Slayer. You expect him to gloat at you, as much as someone non-verbal can truly gloat, but he does not. Neither of them acknowledge it. Neither of them attempt to engage you in conversation at all. You might as well not even be there for all the attention they pay you.

Part of you thinks, briefly, that you deserve nothing less. The rest of you quashes the thought and returns to work. There was still much to be done and you, at least, would not become distracted by unnecessary interpersonal relations.

There is, in the end, only twenty eight hours' delay until the Slayer resumes his crusade. You expected nothing less from him. Earth is not yet saved, not wholly; there are still far too many demons left. The ARC may very well still collapse. Cleanup is not generally the Slayer's calling, but he does not seem inclined to leave Earth. You wonder if something of this Earth is similar to the one he originated from. Perhaps it's nostalgia. Perhaps it's homesickness.

Vega does not speak to you more than necessary. It is not disdain, like from the Slayer; you simply have little need to speak in order to work together. You had been an excellent team on Mars. That, at least, has not changed. 

You slip an insult in once, and only once. His platform does not react, but you feel the full vastness of his consciousness focusing on you. Too late you realize that whatever he had picked up in Urdak, memories of the god he once was must have been among them. You're an insect next to the enormity of him. He does not say anything, because he does not have to. Message received, loud and clear. 

Vega does not mention the incident to the Slayer, and if he notices your newfound wariness of him he does not comment on it. A small mercy, perhaps.

The Slayer sleeps more, now. Nearly every night, even if it is only for an hour or two. Vega's doing, naturally.

Vega doesn't shut you out of the Slayer's bedroom, such as it is, though both of you know very well it wouldn't take much effort. You had an advantage when you were first installed, in the form of your dominant personality and the memories of your time as a Maykr. Now, even you know better than to attempt to outmaneuver a god. Not even one who has lost the vast majority of his power and is unaware of just how much remains accessible to him.

But. Regardless, he does not shut you out. You could eavesdrop, if you wanted - and you do, at first, because that is the sort of person you are. There is no shame in needing to know all details.

They are speaking. They are speaking in sign language; their fingertips are nearly touching as they flit through words. There is a strange casual intimacy to it. You do not understand the language they are using; you think it isn't Argenta in origin, though you're not sure. You had never learned enough of the signs, and even if you had... Even your memory was not infallible. You had lived far too long to recall old knowledge perfectly.

You could look it up if you watched long enough. If it was not Argentan, it must be from Earth, and the ARC had preserved as much of Earth's data as they could. You had ordered it yourself. You would have no trouble accessing the ARC's databases. The technicians would bend over backwards to assist you.

You do not look it up. Instead you watch them sign, and when they are finished you watch them clasp their hands and rest their heads together.

Vega is watching you. You leave them and you do not say a word.

"Are you attempting to atone for what you inadvertently caused?" Vega asks, curious, every inch the new AI he had been on Mars in 2134.

You laugh. You don't even mean to do it; it's just that the very thought of it is humorous to you. "I am very far past that, if it even exists."

The Slayer snorts. You think he intends it as an agreement. He should know more than anyone. You wonder how Vega still has a positive opinion of you after everything. You had not tried to hurt him - but you had not done a good job avoiding it.

The head of Vega's platform tilts, bird-like. It's a very Maykr mannerism. You wonder if he realizes it. "I don't think you are."

He has always been an optimist, the old fool. "I am responsible for the deaths of billions," you reply, sardonic. "And if I had the choice to repeat those events I would do it again. I regret very few of my decisions; the pursuit of Argent Energy is not one of them. Atonement is not viable, nor is it desired."

"And yet you still care," Vega replies, and you swear you can hear a smile in his voice. "And yet you put all your time and energy into fixing what your decisions have brought to Earth."

"Politics," you say dismissively, and it is not a lie. It is not a disagreement. It is a non-answer, and you know it very well. You will not lie to Vega.

The Slayer snorts again. Vega says nothing, but you can feel the vastness of his consciousness watching you. You think he might be amused. You'll take that over irritated.

It is early in the morning by the Fortress clock when you receive a message. This in itself is not unusual; you receive many messages. You are still involved in ARC operations, after all. What is unusual is that this message originated from within the Fortress. More specifically, it is from the Slayer. 

It is a print request. The attached file is from Earth; it is a viable 3D model. Print this, the Slayer has written in the message. Keep it secret.

The model is of the icon the UAC had designed for Vega. It is small and flat; it was likely intended for machining usage. The Fortress printers will have no trouble with it.

Print this, the Slayer had written. He had written it to you, specifically. Keep it secret, the Slayer had written. He did not want Vega to know he had it. He would have gone to Vega if at all possible - but if it was to be hidden from Vega, only you could print it.

<Why?> You ask him, via the armor HUD. You are genuinely curious. You had thought he would avoid interacting with you unless it was a life-or-death situation. This is clearly not.

The Slayer looks up at the nearest camera. You can't see his expression. He looks down at his hands, and very deliberately he traces four letters on the desk: GIFT.

You abruptly realize that Vega had been initialized on Mars nineteen years ago. You had completely forgotten. You had never entirely thought of Vega as what he was now; he would always be the Father to you first and foremost. But to Vega... The Father was someone else. You wonder if he claimed the date of his initialization on Mars as his birthday, as it were. You wonder if the Slayer had asked him about it, or if he had volunteered the information himself, or if the Slayer had simply looked it up at some point. He must have obtained the model on Earth, somewhere; perhaps the date had been listed there as well.

(You wonder, very briefly, when your birthday is. At some point over the millennia you have forgotten. It is irrelevant, and yet it - bothers you. You make a note to look it up in the ARC database.)

You consider refusing. You have no obligation to provide this service. You certainly have no obligation to put in the extra effort to conceal it from Vega. It will take considerable effort. You find yourself intrigued by the challenge. You so rarely have to resort to subterfuge these days.

You calculate how long the print will take, and you tell the Slayer when to pick up his trinket. He nods, very slightly, and that is the end of it.

The Slayer drills a hole in the trinket. Vega hangs it inside the head cavity of the mecha. It's ridiculous. You tell them so, and the Slayer laughs. Vega himself is so blatantly pleased that he doesn't care.

You're pleased too, and you can't figure out why.

Your birthday is August 13th. You're not sure what to do with the information now that you have it.

You wonder how old you are now. You're so tired.

The Slayer is trying to cook. The operative word is "trying".

You vaguely recall that he cooked on Argent D'Nur from time to time. When his moods had taken a turn for the better, and he had been able to stand interacting with the Sentinels for extended periods. They had taught him Argentan dishes. You had never sampled Argentan cooking; you couldn't, then. You can't now either. You don't remember much about tastes, anymore. It's been too long. You think you'd liked cooking at one point. You have a vague memory of maintaining more than one piece of cookware at once. You think that might have indicated a greater enjoyment or aptitude or both. Judging by your Mars employees, at any rate, though perhaps they are not the best metric to base yourself on.

The Fortress does not have a mess hall. It should, but that portion of the ship is still inaccessible. Thus the Slayer is making do with an inexpertly rigged up heating coil that he had salvaged from Earth at some point. It functions - you'll give him that much. It does not function well.

So far he has not burned anything, but he is not the most careful man and even Vega's watchful eye can only prevent so much. At least the deck is not flammable, for all that it looks wooden.

They communicate only in sign, and even then only sparingly. You think the Slayer is trying to teach Vega. It's a lost cause. Neither Maykrs nor AI have any concept of it, and Vega appears to not differ from the norm in this case. It doesn't help that the platform doesn't have enough dexterity for a task such as this. At least watching them struggle provides some amusement.

They manage to finish the dish eventually. It's familiar, but you don't remember what it's called. The dish is boiled noodles mixed with various flavorings. It looks edible at least. Out of curiosity you do a sensor pass to discern if that is indeed the case. You feel Vega's attention shift to you for a moment, but he does not otherwise react.

The Slayer mimes licking the spoon. You remember doing that. You remember a drop of sauce getting on your nose. You had laughed. You don't remember anything else.

Vega speaks aloud for the first time; his hands are full. "I doubt that is an established ritual," he says, wryly amused.

"It is," you reply, without thinking.

They both look up at the camera. There is a short silence. The Slayer grins and points the spoon at the camera - at you - and signs to Vega.

Vega shakes his head. "I see I am outnumbered here; I stand corrected. Unfortunately I lack a mouth, so I will leave the ritual of spoon licking to you."

The Slayer grins and does so. He gets some on his nose. He laughs. Vega wipes it off.

You don't say anything.

The ARC has very little in the way of reconnaissance ability. The UAC had fought tooth and nail to keep it from them, and the UAC had possessed supernatural and technological superiority. With the UAC no longer a threat, the ARC has returned to producing recon drones once again. But these things take time and resources, and launching satellites takes even more.

Thus, you are the ARC's eye in the sky.

It's menial work. It's below you, in all honesty. But it is required work and a great deal of it can be automated, so it isn't as aggravating as it could be.

"Taking heavy fire, please advise," the Iota Seven commander says. She was a UAC employee before the invasion. She's 67 and has three grandchildren and has a spine of steel, both literally and metaphorically. She's one of your favorites.

She's going to die. Subgroup Iota Seven is isolated in northern Africa and the nearest battle group is a half day away. Iota Seven cannot last that long against a demonic force of this size. They do not have the defenses or munitions for it. The numbers are drastically stacked against them.

You will try to keep them alive that long anyway. You do not give up easily. You work for hours to keep them appraised of all potential weak points in the demonic horde. You drop other tasks, one by one, until the bulk of your attention is focused on Iota Seven.

You send the Slayer down, even, once he returns from Argent D'Nur. You think you might succeed in saving 58% of Iota Seven. The Slayer's mere presence should tip the scales drastically in their favor.

You are wrong. In the end, there are only  four survivors of Iota Seven. One of them is the commander's granddaughter. She will not walk again, but she will live. The Slayer carries her out of the ruins of the compound. She is crying soundlessly into his shoulder, eyes glassy. She is five.

You failed. You should have done better. Next time you will do better. You will not allow Earth to fall to Hell like so many other worlds.

The Slayer pauses on his way to the slipgate, at your wreck of a body. You wonder if he is taunting you. You can't see his expression.

"The portal is open," you tell him, unnecessary. You're not sure if he'll even pick up on the sarcasm. The man was not stupid - far from it - but he had never cared for social complexities. You think he and Vega are rather alike in that aspect. A match made in heaven. Or Hell, as it were.

The Slayer reaches towards you and you think: ah. This is how it ends at last. You can't find it within yourself to be angry. You're so tired.

He presses against your shoulder, where it connects to your neck musculature. It's a weak point, relatively speaking. You built your body tough, but sacrifices were required for the sake of mobility. When he snaps your neck, the last vestiges of your human brain will begin to die; even you cannot survive separation from the majority of your life support. It will not be a quick or painless death.

The Slayer's fingers curl, and you think about saying something, or fighting back. You would not get far, with Vega in control of the Fortress as he is, but you would delay the inevitable at least. But you are so very tired.

He does not snap your neck. He squeezes - a threat? And then without a word he continues onwards as though he had not stopped.

You will never understand that man.

You realize, hours later, that the touch was not intended as a threat. It was intended as comfort.

Humanity has a term for it: touch deprivation.

It's a very human thing, to require physical contact. Babies will wither and die if they are not handled, and handled with love. Children will develop a host of psychological problems if they are neglected in this area. Even adult humans must experience occasional haptic feedback from other humans - without it they too will eventually experience mental degradation.

Maykrs do not desire physical contact. They are spawned in batches, but each drone hatches from its own pod. Many of them will never touch another Maykr unless it is to dispose of them; such contact is treated as an unfortunate necessity. They are linked to the hive and the hive to the Khan and that is enough for them; a human might go insane from the way their minds touch, and a Maykr in return might go insane from the way the humans' bodies touch. The two species are diametrically opposed.

You were a Maykr for a very, very long time - but you were born as a human, and certain things cannot be forgotten.

The Fortress printers are working 22 out of 24 hours now; there is much that still requires repair. Not only within the Fortress itself, but on Earth and Mars and the other colonies. You do the bulk of the work yourself, but you still require downtime in the way Vega does not, and so the two of you have worked out a system to trade off duties. You like it. You like the silent cooperation. You can't bring yourself to say it, and Vega does not ask.

You hand off a section of printers, and you think nothing of it; you return your attention to them hours later, when they are to be under your purview once again, and you discover that the parts Vega has printed are not for the Fortress or for the Slayer or even for the ARC. They are for your body.

You don't say anything. Vega doesn't, either.

Your body is reassembled, piecemeal. You have very little part in it; Vega prints the majority of the parts, and to your eternal surprise it is the Slayer that does the majority of the physical assembly. They communicate during the process. It's all in sign, and you wonder what they are saying. You do a surface search for the signs they are using, but it returns no viable matches. Perhaps this is not a language from your Earth after all.

(You could ask. You dismiss the thought almost as soon as you have it.)

The work is not completed all at once. They appear to have assigned it as low priority. And yet - the Slayer often uses what very little downtime he has to work on it. Perhaps he enjoys the act of construction. Perhaps it is because it is a relatively mindless task? You know humans like those sometimes. Perhaps it's a way to unwind after a day of killing demons. Perhaps the fact that it's your body is secondary.

You think about asking. You don't. You're afraid of what the answer might be.

The Slayer collects objects from Earth. He has a fondness for toys. There is a shelf in his workroom filled with them. Several are of demons; you wonder why he is willing to collect them. Perhaps it is a reminder.

There are toys made in his own likeness. Some are from years ago, before the invasion of Mars. One is recent - you remember seeing it on an ARC technician's workstation before your failed assault on Hell. This one sits in a position of honor, apart from the others. You wonder why. Perhaps he merely enjoys seeing that some of humanity appreciated his work.

You do not pay the workroom shelf any attention, under ordinary circumstances. The Slayer adds to it every now and again, after he returns from missions. Sometimes you watch - learning what objects he has considered worthy enough to be brought here is interesting.

This time, the Slayer has found a toy of you.

You were not aware such a thing existed. You're not sure what to do with the information now that you have it. You wonder when it was manufactured, or if it is a unique design made by someone unaffiliated with the UAC.

The molding is high quality, and highly detailed. It is damaged. One leg is broken, lacking the stiffness in the hip joint that allows it to support the body's weight. The face has been scraped off against a metallic surface. The right hand is molded as though it is meant to be holding something, but the object is missing. You wonder what it was. Perhaps the crucible.

The Slayer brushes detritus off of the toy, examining it from multiple angles to confirm he has removed the majority of it. He surveys his shelves. They are full, and you have never seen him throw out a piece of his collection. He looks down at the toy of you. You wonder if he will throw it out. It has not been added to his collection, after all, and more importantly... It is of you. He hates demons more than he hates you, but his hatred of demons is impersonal. You belong in a different category.

The Slayer places the toy next to the one made in his own likeness. The damaged leg causes it to list sideways, leaning against the Slayer toy. He adjusts them both so that neither is in danger of falling, steps back, and nods in what you can only call satisfaction.

He leaves the room. You stare at the shelf. You don't know what to do with this development. You return to work.

Your body is completed, eventually. The Slayer and Vega work as a team to reconnect your destroyed torso with the new body. You remain silent. You don't know what to say to them.

The work is exceptional. The design follows your last body closely, but the internals of it are more advanced; a benefit of Argenta technology. It takes very little from the Maykrs directly, though Vega must remember enough by now.

You wonder why they are bothering at all. You can do your job with your body destroyed, and that is exactly what you have been doing. There isn't a logical reason for this.

You stumble when you try to stand. It's been too long since you had legs, and the balance is different - the weight is different, even. Argentan printing allowed for a far lighter frame.

Vega puts a hand out and catches you, but this does not surprise you; he has always helped anyone and everyone whenever feasible. What does surprise you is that the Slayer mirrors his movement on your other side.

There is a moment where you look at them and they look at you. Vega's hand is on your shoulder; the Slayer's is on your elbow. You should say something scathing; you need to regain your dignity. You need to keep yourself aloof and separate.

The Slayer's hand is on your elbow. And you... And you don't want it to be removed. (Touch deprived, you think. A very human thing to be.)

"Thank you," you say, very quietly.

The Slayer stares up at you. You see a glimpse of his face through the visor. You can't tell what his expression is. There is a long silence - two seconds, three seconds, four seconds. He nods, squeezes your elbow, and walks away.

You watch him leave, and you... You want. You haven't felt this in - a very long time. You don't even know what the emotion is. You want him to come back. You want to touch him in return.
 
"Your platform is functioning well?" Vega asks. He has not moved his hand. You don't need his help to balance, but - you don't want him to go, either.

"It is," you reply, and then you add, "Thank you, Vega."

Vega's platform has no face. You can only discern his emotions from his body language, but he isn't visibly responding. You wonder if he thinks it's sarcasm. It had taken him years to pick up on it, on Mars. You don't want him to think it's sarcasm.

"You're welcome, Doctor Hayden," Vega replies, and squeezes your shoulder before he too leaves. His voice is warm in a way you have never heard before.

You wonder if you can keep that tone in his voice.

The warmth of their physical support lingers long after the heat has dissipated. You think it is a malfunction, at first, until you remember how the human psyche responds to touch. You think of your parents, long dead. You don't remember your mothers' faces, but you remember their hands. You remember your hair being brushed back. You were injured. You don't remember why, or how. You only remember the comfort.

You miss it so badly you can feel it. 

You don't say anything.

You can leave the Fortress, now that you have a body once again. You don't. The idea doesn't even cross your mind until one of your ARC contacts asks if you will physically return.

You stop in the middle of the corridor. Why haven't you left? The Slayer hates you. Vega doesn't, for reasons you don't understand, but it's only a matter of time. You would likely get far more work done if you were physically on Earth. If nothing else you are well aware that you tend to inspire your subordinates via your stature alone.

Perhaps they would not let you leave? You doubt either of them trust you. But then... Why would they rebuild your body? If they did it to send you back to Earth, why hadn't they? None of this makes any logical sense.

Your contact changes the topic before you answer. She assumes she was prying too much and apologizes. She wasn't. You don't tell her that. You push the thought aside. There is work to be done.

The benefit of being mobile once again is that you can now assist with physical repairs. The Fortress is functioning at 37% capacity; most of the original structure is missing entirely. You wonder where they got it from and how they got it flying. You dismiss it as irrelevant. The damage is here; it must be repaired.

You're good at it. You have always liked working with your hands, but you have not been able to for a very long time. At least not in any sort of enjoyable way. Maykrs did not fabricate anything with their hands, and your time in Hell....

There is a damaged power conduit in section E9. The damage is not critical, but if that section of the Fortress is to be powered again the conduit must be replaced. Doing simple repair work is beneath you, but you have a backlog of ARC reports. You can multitask. And the only people who will know will not care, if they even notice.

And so, hardly paying attention to your surroundings, you walk into what you believed was an unused room, and you discover that you are no longer alone.

The Slayer is sitting in Vega's lap, and Vega in turn is sitting on a crate with his arms around him. They appear to be reading from the same book. You wonder how Vega is patient enough to wait for the Slayer, or to do something as mundane as reading in the first place. They both look up at you. You stare at each other. You wonder if a human would be embarrassed. Another uniquely human emotion.

You turn to leave. You don't apologize; it's not your way. Besides, Vega could have easily kept you out and he did not. The fault is not with you.

"Doctor Hayden," Vega says, voice low. You turn, startled into a response. He deliberately raises one hand from the Slayer's waist and places it on the crate he's using as a seat. It's large, and it's tall. There is enough space for another body. Even a body taller than theirs.

They are inviting your company.

You hesitate. It's not your way. You shouldn't sit with them. You want to sit with them.

The Slayer raises his hand, jabs a finger at you, and jabs a finger at the spot Vega had indicated. It's an order, as much as the Slayer can possibly order someone nonverbally. You think you should probably be insulted. You are, a little, but mostly you're amused.

You sit with them. You don't say anything and neither do they. They return to reading, and you begin work on your backlog of ARC reports.

You feel strange, after a while. You don't know what the feeling is. You examine it idly while you work, but you cannot figure out what it is. You decide it is irrelevant and put it aside.

(You figure it out hours later. The feeling is happiness.)

Your body is fragile compared to theirs. Vega's platform is solidly built - of course it is, it's a war mech augmented with the best technology the Argenta could offer and piloted by what was once a god. And the Slayer... Nothing can compare to the Slayer.

Next to them, you are as fragile as glass. The irony of it does not escape you.

They leave the Fortress regularly - there are demons to kill, after all. If they go, it reduces the resources the ARC must put into maintaining the safe zones, and it reduces human casualties to almost zero. Of course they would go, and go almost daily.

And yet... You don't want them to.

You direct the slipgate to what used to be Germany, to the gore nest there, the focal point of the invasion. You are mission control; you are to place them where they need to be and keep them appraised of changes to the situation. This is routine.

The slipgate opens; the portal passes all integrity checks. "Be careful," you tell them, on impulse. You regret it the moment you say it. You have an image to uphold, even with them. Especially with them.

The Slayer nods. For a moment you can see what you think is a smile through the visor. Vega touches your elbow, briefly, brushing his thumb along your inner arm.

"We will. Thank you, Doctor Hayden."

They leave. There is still work to be done on the Fortress. You should attend to it.

You do. Your mind is elsewhere the entire time. You worry. You restrain yourself from pacing, though barely. You wonder what's wrong with you. You tell yourself you do not care.

(You will not lie to them, but you will lie to yourself. You are an expert at it.)

They come back with only minor injuries. You did not expect otherwise, and yet...

(They came home, part of you thinks, and you do your best to ignore it.)

You still require downtime. It's a remnant of your human life that you had never been able to entirely remove. You don't sleep - you don't remember when you ceased to be able to sleep, but you know it was a very long time ago.

(You're very glad you don't sleep. You don't want to know what kinds of nightmares your human subconscious would create.)

You shut down instead. It's only for brief periods - no more than half an hour at a time. It's simply to allow the human part of yourself to form and sort memories. A kind of sleep, but not quite. A defrag cycle, after a fashion.

Vega does not require downtime. He had been designed to work nonstop. But he too must sort memories. Especially now that there are new memories that are very, very old.

<Doctor Hayden,> Vega says. He is physically with the Slayer. He sounds very young. He is by far the eldest of all three of you, even counting the time you had all spent in Hell. Yet in many ways he is still the young AI from Mars. <What have I done?>

Many things, you think. You think of the light of creation turned to bloodshed. You think of the Khans, each more broken than the last. You think of worlds devoid of life, stripped in ways that even Hell had never managed. You wonder which of the memories he has regained. You do not ask.

<You have assisted in the destruction of Urdak and with any luck the suppression of Hell,> you tell him. It is not the question he is asking. You will not lie to Vega. And you do not want to hurt him. He has suffered enough already.

Vega is silent for a long time. <Thank you,> he says, voice very small.

You resume your work.

Once again they return from Earth. Once again they are covered in demonic viscera.

Only this time, Vega's platform is listing sideways, leaking slowly, limp and unresponsive -

You catch them both. The Slayer had been supporting the mecha, and he is more than strong enough, but - the sizing made it awkward. The viscera and leaking coolant prevented him from getting a proper grip. You are taller. You have no issue supporting Vega's platform as the Slayer extricates himself from the tangle of limbs.

The platform is just that: a platform. It has never been Vega's primary housing. That remains the Fortress. Why isn't he responding?

The Slayer makes a noise. It's rough and angry and frightened. He signs something. You still don't understand the language.

"One moment," you tell him. He subsides. He paces. You ignore him.

It does not take long to discover why Vega isn't responding. The fool had moved the majority of himself to the platform at some point, perhaps to reduce transmission lag during battle. And then the platform had been overwhelmed with damage in a short timeframe. Externally, it's a wreck. Internally, the only major damage is to the coolant system. All other systems have little to no damage. The memory core is completely untouched.

"The idiot overheated," you tell the Slayer, who stops and stares at you. You elaborate. "The coolant system was disrupted and the mecha core shut down automatically to prevent heat damage."

The Slayer stares.

You sigh. "It looks far worse than it is. Help me replenish the coolant. He will awaken when the core temperature falls to acceptable levels."

The Slayer looks between you and Vega's limp platform. The tension drains from him. He sighs, vaguely annoyed, and puts his head in his hand.

"I concur," you tell him, and together you work to haul the dead weight of the mecha to the repair bay.

Vega apologizes to the Slayer - at least you're fairly certain that's what he does. It's not like you understand their conversation. They both seem more relaxed afterwards, at any rate.

Then Vega apologizes to you. You have absolutely no idea why. You accept it anyway, because you know that's a thing that's supposed to be done. You don't see the harm in accepting an apology you didn't need in the first place.

Vega seems pleased, anyway.  He squeezes your elbow again. You decide that you made the right decision.

The ARC is not a dictatorship. You would not mind if it was, because you would be its leader and its operations would be orders of magnitude more efficient. This is not the case, however, and so you are forced to work with the humans.

Many of them are military commanders. Others are government officials - most of these are the remnants of the old countries. A very small handful were elected after the invasion. None of the top ranks of the ARC agree on everything. Most of them don't agree on even half of the decisions made. 

You suppose this is humanity's strength. Their differences have kept them alive this long. You may wish you were a Khan and the humans were your drones, but you know humanity would not have gotten half as far as it has if that were the way their species functioned.

You are still aggravated by it. Politics, you think, and you restrain yourself from insulting General Eurig. She is one of your least favorites.

"All I'm saying is that we don't know if the Doom Slayer really stands with us," she says.

You change your mind. Restraint is unnecessary. "Earth would have been destroyed entirely if he did not," you say, flat. The entirety of the room turns to look at your hologram. You rarely speak directly against anyone. "Or have you forgotten all the data the ARC has collected on his efforts to save our world? Have you forgotten the Icon of Sin? Have you forgotten that he is under no obligation to remain here and yet he has, for months? I did not think your memory was so short, General."

The room murmurs. General Eurig sits down. She looks ashamed. Good, you think. The Slayer is many things, but an enemy of humanity is not one of them and you refuse to allow your idiot subordinates to insinuate such.

(You are more of an enemy to humanity than he has ever been. You are darkly amused by the thought. If only they knew.)

You are wandering the corridors of the Fortress. It isn't aimless, but it's not entirely purposeful either. Moving helps you think, even if you are not using your hands. It is a remnant of human psychology. It also helps you catalog what will need repairs next, once the printers are available.

You encounter the Slayer and Vega. They are preparing for the night's downtime - for the Slayer's brief sleep period. Vega's platform almost always stays with him. You pass them in the corridor, and you do not say anything.

You hear them stop behind you. "Doctor Hayden," Vega says, quietly, as he always says your name now. You're not sure why he does it. You don't mind it at all.

You turn to face them. They stare at you and you stare at them. You wait for one of them to say something.

It is the Slayer that moves first. He holds out a hand. You have no idea what he wants, until you realize - it is an invitation. He has never invited your company. It is always Vega, and even then it is only rarely, and never in this context. You have no idea how to respond. You freeze. You delay - you wait. He is not a patient man; if you delay too long he will leave. You shouldn't merely delay. You should turn and leave. Perhaps with a scoff.

The silence drags on. Five seconds. Ten seconds. The Slayer waits, his hand still outstretched. Waiting for you to make a choice. You have never, ever seen him so patient.

You take his hand. He does not pull - he waits for you to step forward. You take the step. Vega holds out his hand, next, and you take it too. You feel as though you're dreaming. You have no idea what's happening. You're terrified. You don't want to let go.

They turn in unison. Part of you wonders how they are so in sync. Perhaps it is a consequence of their relationship, or their time fighting together. The rest of you is scrambling to understand what's happening. They do not pull you forward, even now. Every step you take is of your own volition.

You know that the Slayer rarely sleeps; you know he does not have a proper bed. Instead he has a nest of blankets. You had seen it once, before your body was rebuilt, and you had ignored the room thereafter. It is this nest that they bring you toward, and it is only there that the Slayer lets go of your hand. Vega does not; he settles to the floor, still so careful to not pull, and you settle with him.

The Slayer removes his helmet and sets it aside, but he does not remove the rest of his armor. You wonder if he sleeps in it under ordinary circumstances.

They arrange themselves around you: the Slayer in his nest, pressed against your back, a tiny blaze of heat. Vega in front of you, your hand still clasped in his. You can feel the Slayer's breath on your neck, and the soft electronic hum of Vega's platform on your face. 

"Relax, Doctor Hayden," Vega tells you, with warm humor you've never heard from him before. "We will not harm you."

The Slayer's hands move against your back - he is signing. Vega exhales softly. Amusement. They are joking with each other - they are trying to calm you. Part of you hates that your utter confusion and terror is so obvious. The rest of you is grateful.

"I haven't experienced anything like this in a very long time," you tell them. You intend it to be a joke. Your voice comes out small and lost.

Neither of them say anything. You wonder how much they know. You hadn't told either of them anything, but the data was all there, waiting to be found. You wonder how much they remember of your time as a Maykr. You wonder if they recognize you.

An arm curls around your chest. The Slayer, reaching across you to touch Vega. Vega moves closer, until you are pressed between them, and he lifts his head over yours. Your face is pressed to his neck. It's childish. You should be embarrassed. You're not.

You pull your limbs in. You think it might be some long buried human instinct. You're still much bigger than either of them, and yet... You feel safe. Perhaps it's because they are stronger than you.

You realize you're shaking. They press closer, each of them with an arm over you, like a living blanket. You can feel the rise and fall of the Slayer's chest as he breathes - the slow, calm heartbeat against the armor you had forged him long ago. Vega's platform hums with energy, messy and imprecise in the way the Maykrs are not. You wonder how he has become the most human of the three of you when he never had any claim to humanity.

Thank you, you try to say, but the sound that comes out is garbled. You're overwhelmed with emotion. You remember being a child - you remember your mothers, brushing your hair back as you laid in bed. You remember the comfort of it. You think that might have been the last time anyone dared to comfort you. It has been millennia since you were held. Since you have felt safe.

They curl around you, and you let yourself cry.

The Slayer is asleep. Vega has gone into a low power mode that you were not even aware he was capable of. They are still wrapped around you. You have never wanted to move less.

Earth spins on its axis above you. You watch your planet. There are still pentagrams thousands of kilometers in diameter. There is still the ash of billions dead choking the atmosphere. There are still millions of demons that must be killed.

And yet: there are lights on the night side again. The safe zones are large enough now. Humanity has survived, and they are beginning to rebuild.

Vega's platform hums. The Slayer shifts against your back. And you think: this is home.

You are happy.