Chapter Text
He died there, that night. He died there, in the crimson snow, alone but not cold. Hot blood had still rushed through his veins until the last moment.
Though his entrails had spilled, he'd only felt the slightest hint of pain right before fading out. The adrenaline wearing off, he'd supposed.
He'd been able to see the soles of his own shoes, despite not moving an inch. That was where his lower half had fallen when his body got cut in two. It'd been a clean cut, too, and he would've found himself fascinated had he not been busy dying.
One of his arms had also gone, the hand still gripping Justice. Hah, what a joke… He'd held onto them even as they'd burned through his skin, determined to give it his all, to give the machine his all. It'd still left him alone, in the end.
So, there he had died, a broken tool in Treachery. Though he had truly hoped this would've been the end, he never could have predicted that he'd rise again, reforged in Violence.
● ● ●
Perhaps it should not have left his side. Though he’d been destined to become a cold, dead corpse, perhaps its last moments would've been more comforting near him. Watching as the last embers of warmth died out. Fighting the instinct to survive, the need to live.
But alas, its programming urged it to seek fuel anywhere it could, as Gabriel could no longer provide. It was his fault it'd had to resort to such drastic measures to win, he'd absolutely lost it. He'd continued to fight with an arm cut off, for crying out loud! Even its red successor had chosen to retreat when things had come to that.
…The thought of a dead Gabriel awakened strange feelings within it. On one hand, it realised that he would have died anyway --he’d said as much himself-- so ending him like that was a mercy. On the other hand, it’d grown quite attached to him. To have something to advance towards, to test its arsenal on. To see him having… so much fun.
Anyhow. V1 had made its way into an unfamiliar area, a maze of mirrors and glass. It smashed through them with ease, ignoring the nonexistent gaze burning a hole through its back. Everything in Hell was dead except for it. There were no more enemies to stalk it.
It could swear it saw blurry flashes of red in some mirror shards, flashes of vibrant red, polished gold and obsidian black. Machines could not hallucinate from grief, but it was beginning to suspect that it could.
Moving onwards, it found itself in a room with dozens of sculptures depicting angels, several of them clearly him. Some of them appeared to be made of flesh, but seemed to lack enough blood to justify wasting energy on ending them. It kind of reminded V1 of the third layer, Gluttony. So much meat, yet so little blood.
After smashing in the face of one Gabriel sculpture, it continued. Why did things have to go like this? Why could they not keep their dance going on forever, their waltz of bloodlust and viscera? Why did it have to end?
Why, why, why… Though it knew pondering these questions was just a waste of fuel, they kept on coming back. Why had he grabbed its ankle with his one remaining hand when it'd turned to leave? Why had he made that pathetic sound when his grip couldn't hold? Why had it left? How could it?
It hadn't been able to stand the thought of it truly being over this time. It'd thought that if it just kept moving onward, he'd eventually come and fight it again. It'd deluded itself into believing such a childish fantasy.
As V1 kept moving onward, the feeling of being watched only grew stronger. This piqued its curiosity, since any creature that could evade it for this long had to be a powerful enemy, and powerful enemies often survived more than one fight. But why drag its end out like this? It'd have to face the inevitable some day anyway.
Endless hallways changed into a vast battlefield, littered with the gigantic corpses of false gods. It'd had a blast going to town on those. A blast, literally. Heh.
Only wind howled, and bloodied ash shifted beneath its feet. The night sky was now dark. No flashes of lightning, no roaring engines and scraping metal, no frames creaking from exertion. No clouds of dust, no smell of gunpowder. The sight was quite boring.
Something within it told it to look back. It defied any logic, any self-imposed rule. Looking back would make it vulnerable to going back. It'd start thinking of what it'd left behind back there, who it'd left behind.
So, it turned to look, and saw a most peculiar sight. It was a shambling corpse with a striking resemblance to… Gabriel, the angel it'd recently killed. What differentiated this corpse from the original Gabriel, however, was that their missing limbs had been remade with pulsating flesh. Tendons were visible between the white plating mimicking armour.
The second most horrid thing was the sounds. Squelching meat, cracking joints, laboured breathing. They didn't sound like him at all. His voice had been what V1 had found the most interesting about him, yet now it was gone. Nowhere to be found.
The corpse’s posture was also worthy of being abhorred. Long gone was his proud and poised stance, for what remained of him now was hunched over, with fleshy shreds of wings dragging behind them. It was a sad sight.
Two blades appeared in the reanimated corpse’s hands, one a familiar gold while the other was an ominous red. Despite looking like they were seconds from dying again, the corpse adjusted the blades, and readied their stance. Did they want a fight? V1 would put his corpse back where it belonged, as much as that pained it.
V1 fired a warning shot. It just barely grazed the enemy's remade arm, leaving behind a gash leaking an inky black. For a brief moment, they stood still. For a brief moment, they calculated, before rushing forth at unnatural speeds. Well, his speeds had never been natural, but… Whatever.
It dodged with ease, unloading its nailgun into the thing as it took a step back. The assault only slightly slowed their approach, and before long, the distance it’d gained had been lost when a red blade clumsily flew by its head. Shit aim, hm?
Using the whiplash, V1 got close enough to empty its shotgun into the thing's chest, before retreating again. This was a simple way to stall for time, to learn how the enemy ticked.
…In a flash, they disappeared. Knowing how Gabriel had worked, V1 looked behind itself, dodging just in time to avoid a blood-red blade straight to its torso. Cheap trick. It fired a railcannon into their chest in revenge, barely making a dent. Well, the dent it'd made was repaired almost instantly.
They exchanged blows for several minutes, with both of them slowly growing sick of it. For V1, it'd learned pretty much all there seemed to be for this thing's tactics, but for them? It couldn't guess. They appeared to only get more annoyed at it, their blows and throws growing more frequent yet less accurate. Anger. He'd been like this during their second fight, so much sloppier than usual.
V1 listened closely. Instead of insults and taunts, all they let out now was quiet growls and groans of discomfort, with the occasional pained whimper whenever it struck back. Such a peculiar thing.
● ● ●
He couldn't feel his body. He saw flashes of himself moving forward, clashing with the only other thing alive. He could hear ragged breaths and gunshots, but nothing else, not even the wind.
He couldn't… control his body. Why was he moving, if he wasn't the one in control? He tried pushing away the blur clouding his vision, to no avail, as if it’d been glued in place.
He was tired. How come he couldn't go back to that pleasant unconsciousness, nonexistence? This had to be one of those strange dreams that occurred before death, so why?
Was this his life flashing before his eyes? That was likely, or so it appeared to him. He'd had… how many clashes with the machine? At least one, maybe two. Something kicked him in the back of the head and said that the answer was obviously three.
A bullet pierced his remaining arm, burning hot pain weaving itself into every nerve and fiber of his being. For a brief moment, he saw clearly, and noticed his opponent drawing a nailgun. He just wanted to sleep forever.
Unfortunately, his legs (strange, when had he grown some?) still refused to listen to his commands. They dashed out of the way, only a few nails managing to brush past him, creating wounds that barely bled. They didn't even hurt. Where was the spark of elation, the warmth in his gut?
He watched as his body swiftly retaliated, sending out the red blade. Perhaps his vision was malfunctioning a little, as he'd never had a red blade in his life. Death worked in mysterious ways.
The blade nicked the opponent's --the machine’s-- arm, though only barely. He found himself glad, somehow, despite his initial dislike of the machine. Only he was allowed to kill it, and the thing in control of his body wasn't him.
Before the controller of his body could react, a rocket launched him into a wall, leaving behind an indentation in the shape of him. His body pried itself free, though soon slumped onto the ground. He could feel the controller's grip momentarily loosen.
Splendor was there. She was there, just within reach. Perhaps he could… give the machine a chance to deal the final blow, to put him back in the ground again. Right where he belonged.
His body shuddered as he attempted to wrest back control, his breath coming out in but pained gasps. The burning agony that radiated from where these false limbs connected to his body wouldn't cease. He could feel the roots burying in deeper, splitting and multiplying. Branching out.
No, he was thinking too broadly. Taking back control of the whole body would obviously be too much effort, and the controller would obviously resist that the most. Thus, he focused on his real arm, the left one. Luckily for him, Splendor was close to it.
The blade burned his palm, but it hurt far less than whatever was happening to him. She was far kinder than she ought to be.
He gripped her firmly as he drove the blade through his other palm, the hand that didn't belong to him. He pinned it --and by extension, himself-- to the wall, doing his best to pay no mind to how the flesh sizzled when in contact with Splendor. It wouldn't matter.
His body trembled, and he did too. He'd hoped he would've stayed dead the first time, but apparently angels had to be killed twice, as… Second time's the charm? No, that wasn't how the saying went at all. Did that mean he'd return again?
The click of a gun dragged him out of his thoughts. It was the machine, approaching him with its weapon drawn, naturally wary. The undead weren't known for their kindness.
It refused to aim for his head. Instead, its gun was aimed at his heart, his soon-to-be cold, dead heart. Why was it hesitating?
With his free hand, he grabbed the muzzle of the gun. Though it was still hot and thus burned his palm, his grip held as he directed the weapon up, to aim directly at his head. He needed it to not miss. He didn't want it to miss, he didn't want to come back again. He needed to be dead.
“...Please?”
His voice came out far too raspy and weak for his liking, but… It didn't matter, did it? He'd be gone soon. It'd be over for good. Soon, it wouldn't hurt so bad anymore. He'd be happy, it'd be happy, they'd-
Its finger wasn't even on the trigger. It had no intention to shoot, hm? This was completely unlike the machine he'd known, the one that would've shot him without hesitation, the one that valued efficiency and perfection above all else. The one that didn't care.
“P-please?”
He repeated his plea, desperation growing with every passing second. Why was it not shooting? He could feel his control gradually slipping, this was no time to hesitate.
“What the… What the hell are you hesitating for..?”
Every word was like a cheese grater to his vocal chords. Still, he had to talk. He still had his voice.
It pulled the gun away, before whacking him with the butt of it. The impact didn't hurt any worse than his condition did, even if it made his head spin, blurring his vision.
“Shoot me, you idiot. That's what… guns are for, right?”
Instead, it whacked him again, and this time it stuck. His vision faded to darkness as his body went limp, and he was dead at last.