Chapter Text
Perhaps saints of dust were granted the miracle of the opportunity to see and understand their own work. Perhaps the stars in the air held some kind of power and malevolent will to pick who to spare from, or subject to, their disaster. Perhaps luck was simply feeling daring. Whatever the case, Crimson 1 did not immediately die.
Surviving beyond that first stroke of luck wasn’t his choice. There were others who were grateful for the opportunity, who saw fit to make sure he took his, too. It didn’t matter what he wanted - that was how it was going to be. So that was how it was going to be.
Down to earth. The sky was as far out of reach to its king as it was to anyone else, now - if he was truly still its king. That throne had been stolen, usurped, but no execution came for him. No closure. Only those who had to endure his decisions awaited him. And those who had to die to his decisions. And dust. A kingdom of dust.
Days, weeks, months were scrawled into dust and blown away.
There was a sound.
Dull familiarity, sharp recollection. The sound of his plane. Though distant, it was deafening. Some desperate hallucination? Some foul omen?
The radio had long since been abandoned. No one out there would listen. Still, it was operable, and he was the one who knew how to operate it. The grounded man reached for it now, and yet he waited. He did not hesitate, he waited.
That was his plane overhead, moving with unliving freedom. Its colors were different, but the glittering trail, the way it moved-
The way it moved was the way he flew.
Not “he”, the grounded man. “He”, the one who claimed the crown and right to own the sky.
He spoke loudly into the transceiver, as he always did, as was proper of the pilot he once was. “Why do you have that?”
Silence was expected and naturally received.
“The war is over,” he said, though the plane in the air did not cease its useless twirls.
The radio produced a rough, staticky noise.
“-’ll have to do this myself. What are you doing alive?”
The sound of the voice was barely distinct from background noise, but it was there, for the first time.
“Answer my question.”
Another beat of silence before a response. “Fine. She’s a good plane. Fucking evil, but a good plane.” As if to punctuate that sentence, the plane came to a sudden stop mid-air to change trajectory. “Hoo! See this freak shit? Thought I’d run a test flight somewhere it won't have consequences. What with the cordium. I’m damn surprised to see you still kicking. So, how many of you are there?”
“I never said anything about anyone else.”
“As if you’d choose for yourself to live in your own fuckup. Give me a number and location.”
“What do you want to know that for?”
“To shoot the fuck out of them. Dumbass, to get them picked up and out of here. The war’s over, and it’s not very sporting to kill grounded civilians.” (Why the fuck did he have to specify grounded?) “And this takes the satisfaction out of the last time I was here. This was supposed to be over.”
“The war is over,” he repeated. Of course that wasn’t what the pilot meant, but it was important.
“Yeah. So it is. So, headcount?”
“Seventeen.”
“I don’t know whether to think that’s high or low,” the pilot mused, soaring over the vast, destroyed city. “That including you?”
“No.”
“Good.” He started speaking at a volume appropriate for communicating from a fighter jet. “To any of you around, you’re not gonna get more chances at this. I’ll get you all lifted out of this shithole, on the condition that you hand over your radio operator to me and pretend he was never here.”
A suspect arrangement, but he didn’t have to dwell on it long. “You don't have to coax some kind of betrayal. I’ll go.”
“Oh, really? No questions asked?”
He wasn’t one to do things like this, agree to things like this… but even if these people didn’t matter, were bumbling idiots, were already dead, he had been stuck with them, and he knew them. He himself had nothing to lose by now, anyways, scraping out time in a dead city full of glitter from hell. There was no other choice.
“None,” he affirmed.
“Good. It would be really shitty to learn you’re alive and rotting in the fucking dust and leaving it at that. Although whatever happens from here might be just as shitty. Maybe even shittier. Who the fuck knows. I would have been fine with you just dying.”
“Fuck you.” That was perhaps a form of agreement.
“We’ll figure out a place for pickup, and I’ll be seeing you for the first time. Thrilling, huh?”
Nothing had been thrilling for quite some time and he doubted this would change that.
All the members of this sad troupe made their way to the pickup point.
Despite… him, those around him saw him off. Apparently anyone who had such qualifications as being alive was someone worth saying goodbye to. Some even looked ready to try to rescue him from whatever unknown danger might lie ahead, which was nothing more than idiocy.
Of course, everyone had to be at the runway regardless. They might as well while away time seeing off the first who would be out of here, surely gawking at whatever plane and heroic pilot touched down to do it.
This wasn’t about them.
The pilot approached with the loud whining of wind and turbines. Someone else was holding the radio, newly equipped with a hasty rundown of how to use it. It wasn't much help in communicating with this pilot, who didn’t talk loud enough despite being in a damn plane, but it would be useful when the promised someone elses showed up.
Would a helicopter be more practical for something like this? Absolutely. But he doubted that pilot knew how to fly anything but a plane. He might struggle with a car.
But that plane did arrive. It wasn’t the last machine, but something ordinary and sane, and capable of holding someone other than its pilot.
There wasn’t much to say or do. This wasn't a ceremony. He ignored any last goodbyes offered.
The pilot grabbed his wrist. He didn’t have the strength to break out of it anymore, though he tried.
His arm was raised into the air as if it was a ceremony.
“This man,” the pilot said. “You’re all surely wondering why I singled him out. I’m sure he hasn’t told you, so I’ll be the one to let you know. He’s the one who dropped the bomb.”
No further commentary was made or allowed. He was pulled into the jet and the glass came down and someone other than himself was taking the craft into the air. And the people behind him were left with that, and he would never see them again, because they weren’t important, although he was important to them because he ruined their lives.
He spent quite a while out there with them, but their names weren't worth mentioning at this point. There was nothing left but pilot and passenger.
“How long has it been?”
“Eh, fuck if I know. I haven’t tracked.”
“Hmph.” He didn’t know, either, although he shouldn’t have expected a real answer.
“Fuck, cargo missions are boring,” the pilot muttered. “Here, listen here, cargo. You’re not gonna talk, alright? Nada. Not unless it’s just you and me. None of my crew know you by face, so keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine.”
“What brand of kidnapping is this?”
“I went to the pet store and got myself a dog.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re dead,” the pilot said. “I could reveal you’re not dead and probably get some reward, or at least not risk some legal shitshow. Or I could do something better than that. Better for me, at least. The idea is to put you in a box. You won’t be enthused with it.”
So he was ripping him out of Presidia to go god-knew-where and be his secret prisoner. Of course there was always something wrong with this pilot, but on top of being a nightmare, this was fucking weird.
“From one hellhole to another, right? I promise not to fuck you with cordium.” He was silent in the way that suggested he was considering saying more, but he ultimately decided against it.
“Why?”
“Uhh, that’s complicated. I mean, it’s simple, but not really. You can probably figure it out yourself… actually, you might be the least likely to figure it out. Whatever. I’m not telling you.”
“Fucking hell.”
Hours of whining wind.
Hours of whining wind.
“Sorry.”
He scoffed.
“Yeah yeah. I was being an asshole earlier. Maybe- I mean definitely you deserve it, but it really wasn’t necessary to out you as the one who bombed the shit out of everyone. I just did it because.”
“Because,” he echoed. “How brilliant.”
“As if you wouldn’t have done the same.”
“And I could tell you it’s because I hate you.”
“Is that so?”
He didn’t know what that even meant.
“Pal, we’re both just assholes,” the pilot said. “But we’re each other’s a- actually, that sounds wrong. This might go over your head, but if we’ve got to keep going, we’d ought to sort shit. So we don't lose our minds in this stagnated post-game story.”
Of course he saw it all as games and stories. The passenger could at least comprehend that twisted world-view.
“We can’t fight. We can’t do much of anything anymore. But we’re alive. I’m putting you in a box so we’re both still here, because this is about us. If I know anything, it’s that this is all about you and me, and that anything less wouldn’t be satisfying for either of us.”
Self-centered prick.
“Fucking hell, what happed to you? Why am I the one monologuing? This isn’t right. Don’t tell me living in Presidia for a while shut you up.”
He said nothing.
“Okay, well I guess technically you didn't tell me, so good going. But fuck you.”
“Felt like saying that?”
“Yeah. Fuck you. Anyways, I’m falling asleep over here, so if we crash and die, fuck yeah. If not, fuck yeah.”
“Would you just shut up?”
“Sure, sure. It's my usual anyway.”