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People, animals, and things die.
It’s natural; there’s no shame in it. And once they do, they’re all levelled to mud. The deceased become objects, and objects with no value are discarded. Which is to say everybody becomes redundant in death. Everybody, everything, meets in a junk pile eventually, and that’s all there is to it.
It’s not scary. There’s nothing scary about becoming trash alongside everything else. It is a foregone conclusion in a world of mysteries, obscurities and loose threads. So, really, there is something satisfying in death.
It’s impending, it’s known. Teko is familiar with it. He’s seen it, he’s held it – it isn’t frightening. Death is cold, but there’s a certain type of peacefulness found within chilliness, too.
Teko doesn’t think about his own death often. He’s a crucial piece in this war; much too needed to be disposed of. Or, to reword it in plain terms, Teko can’t afford to die yet, regardless of how inevitable the phenomenon is.
He isn’t scared of dying, or being scrapped, or joining the great equaliser; he’s scared of leaving unfulfilled plans behind.
He can’t die, not yet. Give him a few years, give him until the droids win their independence. The world can take him in any way it likes, only as long as it precedes completing his goals.
And, if he’s allowed to be picky, he’d like to die alone. Permit him the chance to run away and die under a lone tree or something. Somewhere solitary and quiet where others won’t find him. There’s no point in making an ordeal out of it.
Especially since the Founder is so annoying when she worries, the least he can do is die without distraught, prying eyes on him. Not just for his sake, but hers too.
There is nothing less productive than pointless stressing. Even when deceased, Teko has to take some responsibility for the Founder somehow. And he’ll do so by departing from her life as fleetingly as he entered. He’ll ensure she won’t waste any time panicking over something so small and insignificant.
(All of this is under the assumption that he’ll die before her, of course. But that’s a given, isn’t it? The idea that he’d outlive the Founder is preposterous. He’s just being realistic).
Teko’s thinking is interrupted by a sharp gasp, followed by the sound of knees dropping onto arid ground. His vision lands on the Founder, slumped and bolted into the dusty terrain, as her hands part and close in a slow, twitchy manner. She blinks, part dumbfounded, part mournful, and reaches out to touch an immobile, furry something.
It’s a dog, Teko realises – a very, very dead one. Half covered by debris and specks of dirt. It’s matted, stiff, and sprawled out like a stringless puppet. And if its clumpy, partly decayed coat is anything to go by, it’s probably been dead for a long while.
Teko gulps to push down a scoff, but it doesn’t stop his inflection from becoming snappy regardless, “Don’t touch it, it’s filthy.”
She doesn’t listen to him. Of course, she doesn’t. Instead, the Founder presses her palm onto the dog's stomach experimentally, etching light imprints across its fur. Her hand proceeds to its back slowly, before settling on its nape with a soft squeeze.
The Founder’s eyes flicker, and she sniffles. The noise is barely audible through the wind, but it latches onto Teko’s ears regardless. It’s pitiful enough to drive a knife into his chest and twist. He wishes it didn’t ache like that, though; he wishes the Founder didn’t have power over him at all, really.
“Let’s bury him,” The Founder says, as one of her hands navigates to the dog's head and begins to stroke slowly.
There’s an overwhelming amount of kindness in it; she touches the corpse like it’s porcelain – something precious. Something that could break any minute if she pushed even the littlest bit harder.
When, rationally, it’s nothing more than garbage now. A mass of dead cells and corroded organs and veins that lead nowhere. No different from the piles of rubble around it or the dirt beneath their feet.
Teko has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he’s almost certain contempt surfaced on his face regardless.
“Why? There’s no point,” Teko rebukes, “If we keep it like this, the flies will feed on it, and it’ll benefit the ecosystem.”
What he doesn’t say is that he hasn’t seen a fly for months, but that is irrelevant to his stance.
“Please, Teko?” The Founder replies, eyes glinting. Her pupils almost resemble stars, shining like lightrays against gold.
“I want to, regardless of point.”
Her fingers dig into the dog’s head desperately, but there’s still a caring edge in it. Almost like a parent clawing at a headstone. She appears so much smaller on the ground, huddled alongside a dead animal.
It’s child-like, disgustingly innocent. The knife in Teko’s chest twists again, but this time it’s deeper. It feels rawer, it feels red.
He sucks in a dry breath, “You think just like them, don’t you?”
Overly empathetic, too sentimental, motivated by fantasies and fake feel-better stories. On anyone else, it’s annoying and impractical. It goes against everything they know, everything they’ve been fighting for. They aren’t humans, and they never will be. Imitating their platitudes is worthless.
But, on her, well –
The Founder responds almost instantly, tilting her chin, “Huh?”
Teko shakes his head and sighs.
“We’ll bury him,” Teko confirms bluntly, crouching to the Founder’s level. The back of his neck heats up for a reason he can’t place.
“Where should we dig the hole?”
The Founder smiles, all delicate-like, and it makes his stomach flutter. Teko is sure he’ll spend the rest of his life stepping around her feelings as if navigating a garden of wildflowers. He’s weak and foolish beyond belief. What a stupid, stupid man he is.
–*–*–
After trekking for what felt like hours, the Founder finally decides on a suitable resting place – a tiny hill with sparse grass patches.
It’s a seedy little spot, but if Teko’s being honest, they wouldn’t be able to find anything better even if they crossed the globe. The Earth is certainly not maintaining any of its lush locations as it once did. And it hasn’t for a very long time.
All the world is now is dry ground, hollow waterways and plucked trees. It’s all bones and no greenery; the largest proof of humanity’s greed, their ravenousness, and their need to take, take, take.
Humans tend to rip and maim until they hit calcium; no, they rip until there’s nothing left at all. Teko supposes they can’t help it. That must be the case. No other species would habitually destroy their planet over and over again if they could prevent it.
Humanity’s unrelenting hunger for destruction must be hard-baked into their DNA; it must be inescapable from a molecular level. It’s the only explanation. And if not for nature, then it must be stupidity.
(Although, if Teko’s experience with humans is anything to go by, that wouldn’t be so surprising, either).
The Founder places the dog down with a gentle thump, and her knees sink into the dirt. She turns to look up at Teko, and he swears he can see twinkles littering her face like freckles. Teko ignores his throat tightening.
“I don’t mind doing all the dirty work,” The Founder states, making a small grabby motion with her right hand, “It’ll be my apology for dragging you here with me.”
She beams, and her fingers begin gouging the land in light scratches. Teko raises his voice when replying.
“Stop being ridiculous.”
Teko meets her on the ground, falling much, much less gracefully than her. He lands on his knees first, followed by his hands second; it’s a two-set crash package that heats his gut in the most shameful manner possible.
What Teko says next comes out through cinched teeth, winded and gaspy, “I’ll help… scooch.”
The Founder snorts, then laughs. And it tickles Teko’s eardrums to the point where he wants to pull them out. She moves to make space for him, and Teko takes to it like a kicked feline, hands still wobbly.
His face feels hot, pain is still shooting up his arms, and his stomach is rolling in embarrassment. But none of it compares to the sensitive, feverish warmth that’s pecking his ribs. It’s humiliating to the extent that he wants to pluck each of his ribbones out and rinse them clean. Pinch the heat by the bud and extinguish it until it solders.
It’s useless, he’s useless. He can’t stop the warmth from circulating through his body as if it belonged there. He just has to sit with it; ignore it bubbling at the seams and surfacing on his cheeks.
How he’s so frail despite his role is something Teko will never understand. But, he supposes, the Founder isn’t so different. She wears it much more naturally than he does, though. She looks good when pinkness rises to her face; she sounds good when she giggles, too.
Her strength veils her naivety, similarly to how Teko’s fragility is shielded by intellect. Even so, it doesn’t stop him from feeling weak. A combat droid that can’t fight? Teko isn’t blind to the irony.
It takes a while for them to hit soft soil through the hardened ground. But once they do, pulling dirt out in large clumps becomes effortless. Teko’s arms relax, and his mind deflates into his fingers. All he needs to do is dig. Carve a hole. Use his hands.
The Founder fills the silence, “Teko…”
Teko feels the Founder’s eyes drift onto him, but he doesn’t dare meet them. He grasps a fistful of earth with a sigh.
“What is it?”
“Thank you for doing this with me,” The Founder says.
Their shoulders brush fleetingly, and Teko almost shivers.
He responds flatly, resuming to shovel, “It’s faster if we do it together.”
“I know, but –” The Founder bites her lip, but only for a moment, “I know this means nothing to you, so I appreciate your help regardless.”
She proceeds, her voice ornamental and sincere, “I don’t say it enough, but I’m grateful I can count on you no matter what. You’re the most reliable person I know.”
Teko becomes suddenly aware of the dirt plastered down his legs. However, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Even when he rubs his legs together, and he feels each dirt speck slide across his skin, it stirs a feeling of fondness instead – something a little nostalgic and poised.
It’s odd. He’s never done this before. This is dirty, pointless work and yet.
“Don’t make it a bigger deal than it actually is,” Teko replies, eyelashes flitting, “I’m optimising our time spent here, that’s all there is to it.”
The Founder laughs at that with a note of surety, and Teko hums shyly in response. Is he really that predictable? Teko’s chest thumps at the thought; it twists into a knot that tingles more than it aches.
–*–*–
Eventually, the hole becomes just large enough to fit the dog. And it’s the Founder who lowers his body into the makeshift grave. It isn’t ceremonious, or evocative, or even melancholy. It’s excessively mundane, just like all the other burials they’ve dug in the past.
The pair of them covers the body in dirt. And, once again, the act is quiet beyond the scooping of soil. The wind departed hours ago, and there is no fauna left to rustle.
So, all Teko can focus on is the sound of the Founder’s punctured breathing between shovels. Her pants are light, a tad vulnerable – almost feeble.
It isn’t often that the Founder displays even a shard of sensitivity. She’s strong in every sense; that much is definitely true. But, Teko can’t help but imagine that, past the walls, there’s just a little girl who sits inside her that cries over dead dogs and a history he’s forbidden from knowing.
It bleeds through her sometimes. Through the way her facial features shift, through her fidgety hands. She doesn’t mask perfectly, and sometimes it slips entirely. However, is it not his job as her second-in-command to push the mask back up?
Teko doesn’t pry, nor does he pretend to understand. He cares by looking away; by refusing to beat on the door of her cat box.
But he can’t pretend he doesn’t see it, either. The child within her who is perpetually mourning and reaching out to anything warm in an attempt to remember their shape, to retain a heartbeat or two. She just can’t help but grab at living things. Things with throbbing bodies that emit heat and pulses and whatever else that causes them to breathe.
It’s pathetic, really. The Founder should be leading droids without the glint of humanity sparkling in her brain’s backdrop. But it’s nothing Teko can’t handle in her place. He’ll do all the gruelling, mean work if it means keeping her mission straight-laced.
She can hold her fantastical, foolish ideals about humans as long as they don’t impede the resistance. Teko has no qualms about being cruel.
And, it’s only fair, he supposes. In exchange for guidance, strength and protection, she can have her own source of gentle indulgence that she’s barred from actualising.
She can keep it. She can cherish it. She can clutch it by the rims until the filaments in her fingers break. And Teko will do his best to preserve her right to own it.
(Despite how absurd it really is).
The Founder sighs exaggeratedly while her knuckle catches beads of sweat emerging on her forehead, “Ah, I’m glad!”
The grave is as miserable as he initially envisioned. It’s a lumpy, hodge-podge mess of unearthed soil and blades of grass. He can’t even say the burial site was a product of love, either. Well, arguably, it’s half-loved.
“Are you happy now?” Teko replies, drier than intended.
The Founder stretches her shoulders and leans back, her weight is pushed into her palms with a soft smile, “I am. I’m happy he’ll be able to rest now.”
Relief pokes around Teko’s stomach like needles, and it causes him to clear his throat. Not for that dead dog, though. He couldn’t care less. But this has never been about that dog, has it?
“Should we offer a prayer?” The Founder asks, hope emanating from her voice.
Teko grimaces and shrugs, “Why do you even bother asking me?”
“For the same reason I asked you to help me bury this dog, I guess,” The Founder continues, “I enjoy your company, I like to do things with you, Teko.”
Teko blinks, taken aback. He tugs his collar sheepishly.
“You are nonsensical,” Teko responds, his vision fixed on the ground, “I won’t pray with you, it won’t change anything.”
Teko follows truths and tangibles. Things he can see, touch and smell. Not imaginary ideas concocted by equally stupid people. Which is strange, because the Founder isn’t dumb. Why she grips human customs so vehemently is something he will never, never understand.
“That’s okay,” The Founder straightens her back, pulling herself into a cross-legged position.
She looks at him with only affection, “Will you give me a minute then?”
She clasps her hands together, and she begins silently rehearsing her trivial incantations. Her face contorts into tight, little lines that teeter on being cute. If she concentrated any harder, her head would pop.
Teko’s mind races. She’s covered in dirt and grime, and she kinda smells like dead dog, but all Teko can see is light. The Founder is too nice for her own good. She’s a walking beacon, a Sun treading Earth.
He can’t bear to look at her too long because a throbbing sensation follows in his heart. It’s all artificial and programmed into him, but it never stops feeling real. One of his hands finds itself grasping his chest – clinging to a thump, thump, thump.
That’s just the type of person the Founder is, Teko thinks. She’s a tender soul before her glowing charisma. Honing a gooey and chaste centre that’s too sweet to dig into.
The Founder’s eyes flutter open, and Teko veers his sight elsewhere, cheeks tinted peach. She stands up, brushes her knees, and outstretches a hand to Teko. Her smile is dazzling.
“Let’s go home.”
The words, ‘that war base isn’t our home’, hover over his lips – but he bites back the urge to let that sentiment spill. Instead, he takes her hand with a huff and lets himself be lifted off the floor.
Neither of them has a home. But, if Teko really had to theorise what his ‘home’ was, it would be as simple as ‘next to her’. Maybe. Probably. He hadn’t thought about it before.
And, if not, they’d most likely just build a home together – something untouched by human hands; something big and beautiful and peaceful.
Maybe. Probably. Teko hopes so, anyway.