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1
Pain doesn't exist in the afterlife. Schpood learns this firsthand, the exact moment Spyder buries the sharp end of an axe in his skull.
After a joyless few weeks of living the life of the dead— fumbling around with newly sprouted wings, frantically fleeing overly-eager glory-day rebels, alternating between sleeping on Meagon's couch and sleeping on Saparata's— he catches sight of the man he'd had unceremoniously murdered from across one of heaven's tiny floating archipelago islands. Spyder looks worn, tired. He's still wearing the clothes he'd died in, faded bloodstains and all. He's wrestling with an iron axe. He's struggling to strip bamboo from a felled stalk.
On cowardly instinct, Schpood makes a poor attempt to hide, to shift behind a log or something. But he's not fast enough. Spyder sees him, too.
Their gazes lock.
And then Schpood stands there like a moron, rooted in place as Spyder rips the axe free from the stalk, hefts it in both hands, and heads straight for him with fury flashing in the narrowed slant of every one of his eight eyes.
"Spyder," Schpood protests, a shrill and high-pitched and frankly terrified laugh bubbling out of him, one hand held out in useless surrender as he stumbles backwards. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, come on, now— wait, just— wait—!"
Spyder, unsurprisingly, does not wait.
The axe swings up. The axe comes down. It splits the side of his skull in two. And pain doesn't exist in the afterlife, but general biology and physics apparently still do in some capacity, so as the blade embeds itself into Schpood's temporal lobe, his vision goes fuzzy, and his nervous system goes haywire, and he wakes up again in the dirt an hour later completely covered in his own blood.
He pats at the side of his head gingerly. Spyder is nowhere to be seen, but the axe is still there. It's a strange feeling— painless, yes, but not necessarily enjoyable. Schpood grips the handle. Gives it a good yank to pull it loose.
Brains immediately start leaking out onto the ground next to him.
"Bleurgh," he says, intelligently.
Then he passes out again.
2
The next time he comes to, his skull is no longer in pieces, which is nice. Schpood lies there for a while and feels around the area thoroughly, poking and prodding. The wound has healed up completely. There doesn't even seem to be a scar.
Satisfied with the state of his cranium, he picks himself up and looks around. The axe is lying where he'd flung it. There's still bits of gore and gray matter clinging to the blade.
"Gross," says Schpood, weakly.
Spyder hadn't had much on him, when they'd gracelessly bumped into each other. He'd been practically threadbare. And of course you can't die from starvation or exposure in the afterlife— as a matter of fact, and as Schpood has just recently learned, you can't die at all— but there aren't many strip-mines, in heaven. And even basic tools are a pain to replace. So Spyder will likely be coming back for that axe, sooner or later.
Which means Schpood should probably get the hell out of here.
He takes a few steps, then stops.
He thinks, what if he took the axe for himself?
He considers it. He could take it. There's nothing stopping him from taking it, and it would be funny, objectively, to take it. It's Spyder's fault for leaving it, he tells himself— really, Spyder did give it to him. Sort of. In a way. He hurries back, feeling smug, and snatches it up. He wipes the brains and blood off the edge in the grass the best he can, and slips it into his belt.
He's nearly to the floating island's edge when it happens. He doesn't hear the beat of Spyder's wings. Or maybe a part of him does, but mistakes it for the avian fauna of the afterlife. He's freshly dead, after all. He's still growing used to the concept of having wings in general.
What he does hear is the thwack of the crossbow, as the string is pulled back and the bolt is fired.
The sharpened point buries itself between his shoulder blades, slicing straight through his spine. His body jerks like a puppet and then pitches forward, face-first. Spyder's wings beat heavily once, twice, as he slows and drops to the ground behind him; he plants one boot on Schpood's back as he lands, and Schpood is unceremoniously flattened further into the dirt.
"I'll take that," says Spyder, plucking his axe from Schpood's belt, "thank you very fucking much."
"Asshole," mutters Schpood— or tries to mutter, with a mouth full of mud and a half-severed spinal cord. What comes out instead is more of a collection of pathetically garbled incoherent syllables rather than actual words. He doesn't really know what else he'd say even if he could speak. My bad, baby, I thought you were a horrible dastardly traitor who would betray and murder me. Oopsies! Good that you're getting your shots in now, I suppose!
Spyder doesn't seem to be listening, regardless. He's too busy loading another crossbow bolt, and putting it straight through the back of Schpood's head.
3
"I've told you," says Meagon, for the umpeenth time, sitting wearily behind her desk with her head in her hands, "heaven has no leader."
The way she says it sounds rehearsed. Sort of the same way that Schpood had been saying glory to Imperia, towards the end of his vice-presidency. And while he can understand that it must be very annoying to have every single dead person in the cosmos flocking to one's door for a solution to every single minor dispute, this dispute in particular happens to be a matter of urgency.
"He murdered me, Meagon!" he says, gesturing wildly to stress the murder part. "Homicide, twice over! Possibly even premeditated!"
"Schpood, you're already dead."
"And?! There's no collective punishment for bloodthirsty criminals in this place, is that what you're saying? Congratulations, your soul has been ripped from the mortal coil, now feel free to live out the rest of your devious afterlife in whatever nefarious manner you please?"
Meagon rubs at her temples. "What do you want me to do? I don't control him. I don't control anyone. Like I've been telling you: there is no leader in heaven."
"You're good with people," Schpood presses. "Couldn't you at least reprimand him? Verbally?"
"And say what? Bad Spyder, stop killing the guy who killed you?"
"Yes! Yes, exactly that, yes!"
She stares at him for a long moment. She exhales sharply through her nose. "Okay," she relents— and then, hastily, before he can jump to his feet and crow, "hang on a minute, don't celebrate yet. You don't know what I'm about to say."
"I'll take anything," says Schpood, feeling like he might vibrate out of his undead skin, "any help, anything at all—"
"You've been couch-surfing, right? And I've heard you're staying with Saps now?"
"I'm— well, yes, but it's not couch-surfing, I'm just between places—"
"Good. Then I don't have to introduce you." She waves a hand, sensing some of his confusion, and says, "Heaven might not have a leader, but we do have a mediator."
"Wh— Saparata?"
"He's great at facilitating. He's refereed four basketball games and presided over two divorce settlements."
"I don't need a divorce lawyer! I need a fucking witness protection program!"
Meagon continues on as if she hadn't heard him. "Spyder's been living out on the western edge. I'll send you the coordinates he gave me when he first mapped out a place to settle. Go and see him. Saps can assist."
Schpood gapes at her, uncharacteristically lost for words. "Go and see him?! Have you not been listening to a single word I've said? He'll kill me!"
"Maybe," Meagon says, shrugging. "But come on, Schpood, be realistic. You'll live."
…
Schpood had hoped that perhaps his gracious temporary roommate would have more sympathy for the unjust nature of his plight against death and dying. But heaven, as he's already learned thrice-over, is full of disappointments.
"Maybe he just needs to get it out of his system," offers Saps. "Maybe, like…let him land a few more hits on you, see if it helps."
Some mediator you are, Schpood thinks, feeling nasty, but he manages to hold his tongue. At the very least, the man will be his singular ally in this two-person siege. Or— better yet— a meat shield to safeguard against Spyder's barbarism.
"Don't get me wrong," Saps adds, shaking out the map that Meagon had handed over and tracing the route to Spyder's place with the tip of a finger. "I think it's great that you're taking the initiative here. You gotta meet conflict like this head-on, you know? You can't spend your entire afterlife hoping you never run into the guy."
"You just want me off your couch," says Schpood, glumly.
"Uh, yeah. Also true. Dude, it's been weeks."
Because heaven is an unseemly jumble of floating piles of dirt, there's no easy singular way to get to Spyder's that doesn't require aviation, and so Schpood is forced once again to take to the skies. Saparata drops gracefully off the side of the main island and comes up soaring; Schpood, on the other hand, is still a clumsy flier, which is another mildly infuriating element of his post-mortem life. He beats his wings off-kilter, wobbling unsteadily a few feet off the ground until he manages to get a rhythm going. By the time he's fully airborne Saps has already made it to the next island over, and Schpood has to double-time it to catch up, flapping frantically after him, spitting out a steady stream of curses under his breath.
They fly for a good half hour in blissful silence— and Schpood is surprised by himself, not wanting to yap. He typically likes to let his mouth run as much as possible before someone either physically extracts themselves from his presence or starts considering drastic measures in order to shut him up. But the further their wings take them, the less enticing conversation becomes. He's busy with his own thoughts, anyhow. He keeps wondering how Spyder will do it this go-around: whether he'll gut him like a snake, or take his head off entirely. He wouldn't put a slow dismemberment past him, either. A minute shudder runs through him, even without the threat of pain.
"Hey, Schpood!"
Saps has fallen back a bit to match Schpood's ungainly pace. He's pointing down towards one of the wooded outcroppings below: oak and pine, a rough-hewn cabin puffing out white smoke from a brick-laid chimney.
"Land on the far side!" calls Saps over the whistle of the wind. "Don't wanna spook him!"
"Oh, Ish forbid we spook him," mutters Schpood. But he follows suit and starts a wide descent, all the same.
They fold up their wings and make landfall behind the tree-line, then pick their way down a bumpy cobblestone path towards the little cabin. It's significantly uglier up close than it'd been from a birds-eye-view: uneven shingles, strips of cloth shoring up cracked windows. Hollowed-out bamboo chimes hang above the creaking porch, a miserable attempt at homey decor.
"Maybe he's not home," says Schpood, feeling cautiously optimistic.
"Only one way to know for sure," answers Saps, and without further ado, marches the both of them up the porch stairs to rap his knuckles over the shabby front door.
It swings open almost at once, destroying all of Schpood's immediate hopes and dreams of having flown all this way for nothing. Spyder's expression is steeled, his eyes empty. Schpood folds his arms over his chest and tries not to look like he's about to shit himself.
"Spyder," says Saps, downright cheerfully. "What's up, man?"
Spyder doesn't say a word. He looks at Saps. Then he looks at Schpood. Then, still without speaking, he shuts the door in their faces.
"Huh," says Saps, after an awkward pause. "Well, at least he doesn't seem as upset as—"
The door opens again. This time, Spyder has a rifle in his hands— and without a moment's hesitation, he pulls the bolt back, lifts the stock to his shoulder, and brings it up to aim.
"What— woah, Spyder, okay, what the fuck!" Because he's both an idiot and a sweetheart with no real concern for self-preservation, Saparata's first instinct is apparently to step directly in front of Schpood and grab the barrel of the gun. Which is technically meaningless, considering the fact that none of them can die— but it's still a nice gesture, and generously fulfills the potential meat shield item on Schpood's ally-specific docket. "Are you serious?!"
"Saps," says Spyder, still leveling the gun, "move."
"Dude, no!"
"I can always shoot through you."
"Put it down," says Saps, who sounds genuinely alarmed, like he believes Spyder might actually pull the trigger. "Come on, man. It's me."
Spyder blinks a little at that, and seems to soften. But then his gaze drifts over Saps' shoulder, where Schpood is doing his best not to cower, and his whole face changes, dark and angry.
"I told you," Schpood hisses, gripping Saps' shoulders with both hands. "I said it, I warned you— he's gone mad, he's entirely unhinged, he's going to spend the rest of eternity putting meat-hooks in me."
"He doesn't mean that," Saps tells Spyder apologetically, his fingers still resting over the gun barrel. "Look, we can work this out. Be reasonable. We just wanna talk."
Every one of Spyder's eight eyes shift to the side, then back again; his mouth twists, like he's tasted something bitter. Finally he exhales, rolls one shoulder, lowers his sights, and says, "All right. Fine."
Saps brightens. "Yeah?"
"Sure," says Spyder, "why not. Just…come inside."
There's something about the way he says it. An odd undercurrent to his voice, hard-edged and not-quite-right. The hair stands up on the back of Schpood's neck, but Saps is smiling at him, squeezing his arm. "See?" says Saps, happily pulling him along through the open door. "Nothing to worry about. Just goes to show you how a little diplomacy can go a long—"
Twang.
Saps stops dead in his tracks. His eyes drop just in time to see the tripwire at his ankles pull taught, and snap. He looks up at Spyder, his shoulders drooping, utterly dejected.
"Really?" he says.
"You shouldn't have brought him," says Spyder, propping the rifle casually over his shoulder.
The force of the explosion blows backwards, out from the doorway. Saparata catches the worst of the initial force, the shrapnel. He's thrown farther, high over Schpood's head, and his death is almost instant, just a sickening crunch as he hits the base of one of the oak trees out front. Schpood isn't as lucky. He takes the billowing inferno of fire that follows the blast straight to the face. By the time he's finished hurtling through the air, his body skidding to a stop halfway down the cobbled pathway, the world has gone dark and foggy. He can't open his eyes all the way; his eyelids have fused half-shut. His clothes are on fire. His skin is blistering, bubbling, a bizarrely painless shedding of what had been, up until recently, healthy tissue. Someone is screaming— strangled, wordless nonsense. It takes him a moment to realize that it's probably him.
"You know the worst part?" asks Spyder, who has become a murky shadow-figure with a disembodied voice drifting above him somewhere. "The worst part is, it doesn't even hurt. No matter what I do to you. You ripped my fucking heart out and I can't even make you feel it."
Inky black smoke pours into the slivers of sky wheeling overhead. The flames at his collar lick up his jaw, burning down to the bone. The vague silhouette that is Spyder looms closer, then drops to one knee, squatting at his side. Schpood lifts a scalded shaking hand out towards him. Stop loitering, you muppet, he wants to say. And also, as his face slowly peels away from his skull: Did I really mean that much to you?
"Here's another question," says Spyder. "Just a hypothetical, easy: what's the most painful way to go?"
Oh, I don't know, Schpood thinks. Maybe burning to death while your ex-something-or-other monologues at you?
Spyder's breath is soft against Schpood's charred-off ear. "I'll give you a hint," he says. "You know this one. You were the brains of that little operation, weren't you? You might not have been the executioner, but you were at least the judge and the jury. So tell me. What could possibly be worse than what I've just done to you?"
The answer he's looking for is either unprompted death by approximately twenty-five swords or complete and utter betrayal at the hands of the man you swore your allegiance to. If Schpood's lips weren't already melted off, he might have taken a guess.
Instead he just lies there, mute and on fire, and then dies, badly.
4
They were supposed to have gone together.
Before everything went to shit, that was more or less the plan: aid and abet, make amends, die together. Serve what penance they could manage to scrape together and go out swinging. But then Solev had cracked down, and Bismarck had bled out behind bars, and Schpood had surrendered himself to the gut-punch reflex of survival by any means.
It had worked for a time. Paranoia had kept him alive for far longer than he'd had the honest right to remain living.
It had taken Spyder in return.
But what had Spyder expected, honestly? An Imperial propagandist, embedded with a rebel unit? Getting intimately familiar with the disgraced vice president? Not that it had ever seemed suspicious when Spyder was close. When Spyder was curled up next to him for a few nervous fugitive hours of shut-eye, combing Schpood's rapidly-thinning hair back from his forehead with his fingertips— when he was whispering softly in the dark about what life might look like on the other side of revolution— none of it had seemed suspicious. Not in the slightest.
Not until one of their recently-liberated allies had pulled Schpood aside and muttered, half under their breath: Careful. Watch yourself with that one.
What do you mean, Schpood had said.
What have you heard? the escapee had answered.
Spyder's crimes against the free people of Imperia were already public knowledge. Spyder had confessed most of his sins straight to Schpood himself. But one reminder of a regrettable past was all it took. The seed, planted. Maybe it's a testament to the weakness at the core of their strange and tentative bond. Or maybe Schpood had already been looking for an excuse to cut him loose. The reason doesn't matter when the outcome is the same, regardless: Schpood had sat down and scheduled Spyder's death between a jailbreak and a supply run. Schpood had hand-picked the unit and given the word. They had lured Spyder into that cave and hacked him to bits, and Schpood had stood there and watched.
He'd hoped to see something in Spyder's face as it had happened, some admission of guilt, proof that he'd done right by the rebellion. As it turned out, he'd seen nothing of the kind. Just surprise, and then fear, and pain— pain, and then then nothing at all.
But that was all right. This sort of thing— the execution of suspected traitors and such— was the naturally unseemly underbelly of any glorious revolution. Resistance was an everyday gamble, a give and take. Tough calls had to be made. He was the one to make them, even if they were based on unfounded rumors and secondhand intelligence.
He'd tried not to think too much about Spyder, after the fact. Not until he woke up in heaven, and Meagon had said, Hey, aren't you the fascist pig I've been hearing so much about?
As it turned out, while he had been storming the capital and tearing down walls, the population of heaven had been learning all manner of colorful names for him. The rebel pretender was one of them. Solev's replacement was another. Turncoat, double-crosser. In life, Spyder had been good at puff pieces. In death, he was even better at take-downs, and the moment he'd stepped through the pearly gates, he'd doubled down and gone straight to work. It had taken Schpood days to squash the rumors and set the story straight. It was not how he would have chosen to spend his first week of the rest of eternity, if he'd had a say in the matter.
But, again. That was all right. This sort of thing— the smearing of names and such— was the naturally unseemly underbelly of any melodramatic break-up. At the time, Schpood had figured, well, I suppose he's got to get those big feelings out somehow. He'd reckoned there wasn't much else Spyder could do to settle the score, other than throw useless slander at the wall and hope it stuck.
He hadn't anticipated being burned alive.
Or shot through the spine.
Or bludgeoned to death with the sharp end of an axe.
When he finally wakes up, he finds himself back on Saparata's couch. He comes to without an ounce of dignity, bolting upright and sucking in a haggard breath. There are smudges of white ash and flaked-off skin all over Saps' upholstery. Schpood is covered in a thin woolen blanket. The remnants of his burned clothes are clinging to him, little more than shredded scraps of singed fabric.
"So," says Saps, who is sitting comfortably across from him with his hands folded together and dried blood all down his front, "that went, uh, not good."
"I told you so," rasps Schpood. His throat is still smoke-seared, bloodied and raw, and his voice comes out in a thin whiny pitch. "I told you—"
"Dude, what did you do to him?"
"What did I do!? He just set off a trap in his own home that incinerated us both!"
"Yeah, but, like— holy shit, that's a hell of a grudge." Saps leans forward. His button-black eyes are round, and serious. "Were you two…you know. An item?"
"I suppose," says Schpood, meaning yes, if you count two months of heavy flirting, three weeks of safehouse spooning, and the best four minutes of my life.
"And how did he die, again?"
"I killed him."
"I— okay, smartass, thank you, I know that. I mean, how did you do it, exactly?"
Schpood sniffs, picking haughtily at the specks of ash on his blanket. "I don't see how that's important."
"Schpood, come on."
"Don't you turn this on me! He's been running around, shooting his mouth off about how I was the next Solev—"
"Were you?"
"No! Look, did I have him executed? Absolutely. But it was quick! More or less. And painless— practically painless—"
"Schpood," says Saps, the perfect angelic picture of disappointment.
"Don't look at me like that! It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Did you apologize?"
"I didn't have a choice! I was protecting the resistance!"
"That's cool. Did you apologize?"
He doesn't, Schpood realizes, actually have to sit here and take this. "It's been lovely," he announces, sweeping to his feet, hastily pulling the blanket along with him when it starts to slip. "But I really ought to be going. Let's not do this again, ever."
"You live here," Saps reminds him.
"Yes, well, although your generosity has been appreciated, you've made it clear that I've overstayed my welcome—"
"Wow. Seriously?"
"—so! Best of luck with the leftover human remains on your couch, but—"
"Just say you're sorry, man."
"—I'm off! Thank you! Goodbye!"
It's not the most dignified exit of all time. He can feel the bewildered eyes of every resident of heaven on him as he makes his awkward half-naked blanket-around-waist scurry of shame from Saps' place back to Meagon's. But seeing as he just slowly burned to a crisp in the front yard of his old situationship, he can take a little heat.
It's not exactly a new low.
…
He's mining, the next time they meet.
Meagon has a list of raw material she needs. She's been kind enough to borrow him one of her nicer pickaxes just to get him out of her house, where he's been moping around doing a piss-poor job of pretending he isn't hiding. And it's been three drab, humdrum-heaven days since his last death, which means his guard is very nearly all the way down when it happens: he cracks away a chunk of deepslate, opens up his tunnel to another shaft opposite, and sees the glint of green eyes— eight in total— widening angrily under an iron helm and a tuft of blond hair.
"For fuck's sake," begins Schpood, but that's as far as he gets before Spyder starts ferociously whacking at the crumbling stone still separating them, trying to clear enough rubble to get through. "Piss off, leave me alone! I'm just digging! Am I not even allowed that?"
"Guess not," says Spyder through gritted teeth, tearing away another section of rock.
"Don't be grumpy with me, you goose!"
"Don't call me grumpy, you fuck!"
Spyder lifts his pickaxe over his head and brings it back down again with enough force to shatter bone. The rest of the deepslate gives way and collapses, rubble rolling in at Schpood's boots; when the dust clears, Spyder is advancing, without hesitation, towards him.
"No, no, no!" Schpood shouts, scrambling back frantically, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on his ass. In the panic, his tools tumble out of reach. "Enough with the killing and the stabbing and the killing! Enough! What do you even want?"
"What do I want," echoes Spyder, continuing towards him unrelenting, the iron pickaxe glinting in the torchlight. His voice is flat. Then abruptly furious, as he repeats, "What do I want?!"
He closes his fingers around the linen collar of Schpood's shirt, yanks him up off the ground until there's only inches between them. He drives the tip of the pickaxe through his throat, just left of center. It goes in easy, angled down— and again, no pain, but weirdly, he still feels it slice directly through flesh and sinew before his collarbone crunches and splinters into pieces.
Spyder holds him close. He watches as Schpood spasms and chokes, blood dripping down the wooden handle. His eyes are blazing. His face is white with rage. "I want my fucking life back," he hisses.
Which is fair.
Still, there's nothing Schpood can do about that now. Pointless to say, though, so he just goes limp and lets Spyder dump him back on the ground. The next blow of the pickaxe sinks into his upper shoulder, shallow and partially askew. Then it cracks against his right hip. Spyder's aim is off, he thinks, while he's waiting to die. He's getting sloppy.
The torch gutters as the pickaxe meets his jaw. His head snaps around with the impact, and he gets a glimpse of Spyder's shadow flickering over the mineshaft walls, blood splattered over stone. Schpood's ears are ringing, but past it there's a different noise. A raw and guttural burst of sound, like a muffled sob.
"It was good," says Spyder. His voice is trembling, shot through with it. "We were good. I was happy. I thought you were, too."
"We were at war," gurgles Schpood through a mouthful of blood.
"So what?" Spyder takes a shaky breath and leans heavily on the axe-handle, wiping at his eyes with a red-soaked sleeve. "I trusted you. I wouldn't have hurt you. I would never have hurt you."
"That's hindsight for you," says Schpood.
But something in him has cracked, and it isn't just his lower mandible.
Spyder had trusted him. Spyder would never have hurt him. Had he known that? Had he ever actually really known that, for sure? The abrupt awareness of it hits harder than the pickaxe had, a gut-punch to every soft part of him that's left. Spyder had trusted him. Spyder would never have hurt him. He blinks, lying there reeling and thoroughly concussed, and the world swims, all mixed up with a myriad of memories. His first interview, Spyder's foot bumping his ankle under the table and the quick, nervous smile that followed. Spyder's name on a list of escaped defectors on his desk, how relief had swallowed him whole even then. Spyder tucked under Schpood's arm the night before the cave, listening to Schpood go on and on about his plans to storm the capitol, a fight he already knew Spyder wouldn't live to see.
Do you think we'll make it, Schpood had asked, and Spyder had made a noise, noncommittal. Are you afraid to die, Schpood had asked, curious, and Spyder had laughed.
Not if you're with me, he'd said.
Schpood suddenly feels as though he's been clobbered in the skull a second time. He hadn't been looking for an excuse to cut loose. He'd just panicked. He'd tangled himself up in a mess of liability and then chewed his own foot off rather than risk being caught— because it would have ruined him, surely, if Spyder had ever turned. It would have taken him for everything he had. If Spyder had betrayed him, if Spyder had gone running back to Solev and Imperia, he wouldn't have survived it. All that stupid and unwarranted affection. All that love with nowhere else to go.
Spyder had trusted him. Spyder would never have hurt him. "I didn't know," he says, or tries to say, but it's too late for that. The pickaxe has come down one last time, and he's already well-past dead.
5
He wakes up at the mineshaft entrance.
Spyder has dragged him there and left him. He can see the bloodied footprints, leading away. Schpood hops up, feeling exhilarated, practically giddy. He double-checks that the gaping holes in his body have sewn themselves together again, and promptly starts down the path after him— but because Ish hates him, not five minutes later it starts to rain. And his helpful bloody trail washes clean away.
He throws a short and private tantrum, then tries to think. Where would Spyder go? Funny, this. Days upon weeks of hoping and praying never to run into him, and now he's chasing him down. With sopping wet wings, it's more difficult to fly, but he backtracks to every place Spyder's ever taken his life: the archipelago chain, the ugly little cabin. There's no sign of him amidst the bamboo stalks, half-flattened in the wind. The cabin is cold and quiet, still partially-destroyed. The front door has been left in smithereens.
Lightning cracks through the sky, narrowly missing him in favor of striking a nearby pine tree. Schpood yelps as the wind picks up, tumbling head over wings. The storm doesn't seem to be abating. He's going to have to take shelter and wait until it's passed, or he'll be adding electrocution to his rapidly-expanding list of Dumb Ways To Die.
Defeated and soaked through, he flaps wetly back towards the center islands. There's a unsightly monolith on the outskirts of the cluster the that he's always ignored, a looming unattractive boxy thing. Not seeing a better option, he banks and wheels down towards it, just to have a place to fluff out his feathers.
"Hey! Down here!"
One of Meagon's people has caught sight of him from below. Their voice is nearly drowned out by the patter of rain, the hood of their rain slicker blown back from their forehead; they start waving both arms overhead like a aircraft marshal as Schpood struggles to descend, buffeted about like a bug in a bathtub. When he's safely grounded they tug him under the overhang of the blocky building, and grin.
"Nasty weather," they say, conversationally. "Need a dry corner?"
"Just for a moment."
"No worries. Stay as long as you'd like."
Schpood peeks out at the sky. The clouds are heavy and dark and he can't spy an end to them on the horizon. Just his luck, he thinks, irritably. And why are there storms in heaven, anyhow? Is it not enough to be thrust into a diabolically idyllic world with no end in sight? To be shunted out from reality and forced into this happy-go-lucky corner of the universe without pain, or suffering, or death, or anything that gives purpose to life?
He stuffs his arms into his jacket and huddles into himself, trying to shake the sour mood. He's just cross because the weather had ruined his plans. Because for one singular moment, he'd understood himself and known exactly what to do about it— and now he's stuck here, sheltering under the most hideous building he's ever seen with some nobody for what could be hours. Whatever. Maybe heaven is a crash course in patience.
"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asks the nobody as they watch the rain come down.
"I'm on guard duty."
"Duty? Guarding what?"
The guard gives him a strange look, then pats the stone foundation of their shelter. "Uh, this place?" they say, like it's obvious. "What about you?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"Anyone I know?"
"Maybe." Schpood rocks on his heels, already jittery with the need to move. "Blond, pissy. Four arms, too many eyes?"
"Oh, you must mean Spyder," says the guard, brightening. "Yeah, he came by right before the storm rolled in. I assumed he left when the rain picked up. Might still be up there, though."
"What—" Schpood stares. "Up where?"
"On the platform," says the guard, and points above both their heads.
Straight away, Schpood ducks out from under the overhang and squints, trying to see past the downpour. It's difficult to make the figure out, but Spyder's silhouette is unmistakable. His heart does a pathetic little flip. "Why is he— he's just sitting there."
The guard pokes their head out alongside him to get a quick look, then nods, unconcerned. "Yup, that's the usual schtick. He's a regular. We've got a few of them, you know, still mooning over the machine. People with regrets. Spyder comes by every week, so we're pretty used to him. He just hangs around for a few hours and then goes home."
"…Is he supposed to be up there?"
"Technically, no. I used to try and chase him off, but he's harmless. I'm mostly here to protect the place from looters, anyway. Meagon wants to try and keep it intact. As a historic site." The guard gives a half-smile. "Too bad you never got to see it in action."
"What did it do?"
"Resurrection. Revival. Biblical stuff. You'd stand on the center— kinda where Spyder's at right now— and if you were lucky, it'd buy you back a few days."
Schpood feels his jaw drop like a fucking cartoon character. "Project Phoenix?! You're saying it worked, you really brought people back?"
"Yeah, every now and then. But like I said, it never lasted. And from what I've heard, it was kind of a painful process."
"Well," says Schpood uncomfortably, "so's dying, I suppose."
"Hah! You got me there." The guard stretches, yawning a little. "I'd better get ready for the changeover. Shift's almost finished."
Schpood glances back up at the top of the machine. Spyder hasn't moved an inch, sitting there cross-legged, shoulders slumped, his back to them. Rain continues to flood down in dismal gray sheets but it doesn't seem to bother him, his clothes drenched, his straw-yellow hair plastered to his skull. "Hey," says Schpood before the guard wanders off, "would you mind very much if I went up there myself?"
"Doesn't matter to me. Just don't take anything, okay?"
The stairs up to the platform are missing chunks of stone, as if blown clean away. Parts of the pillars are blackened, too. It must have combusted. Maybe more than once, if the leftover pockmarks are anything to go by. Schpood climbs slowly, careful not to slip. At the barren top, there's little protection from the wind; he has to brace himself and tuck inwards, to keep his wings from catching air and bowling him over.
"Spyder," says Schpood.
One of Spyder's pointed ears twitches. He doesn't look up, but he also doesn't swivel around with a lit fuse ready to blow, so that's progress. "You're alive again," he says, without much feeling. "That was fast."
Schpood edges a little closer. "Oh, puncture wounds are easy— you could've at least maimed me a little."
"Yeah," says Spyder.
"Take my head off next time, if you want some peace and quiet."
"Yeah," says Spyder, "okay."
He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't move, either. Thunder rolls in the distance, sweeping through blustery skies, and Schpood fidgets, then comes the rest of the way over. "You haven't tried drowning me yet," he says, trying to egg him on. "Maybe that will do it."
"Maybe," says Spyder. He sounds tired.
"Don't you want to take a crack at it?"
"I don't know."
"All right, come on," says Schpood, who is growing increasingly distressed with every one-syllable word Spyder gives him. There's a strange feeling in his chest, a tugging, like someone has snagged a fishhook behind his sternum. He doesn't like this version of Spyder, this sad pale shade. He prefers him every other way he's known him. Even fuming, even vindictive and violent and actively plotting his death. "That's enough of that. Come on. Come down from this awful thing."
“I guess I just didn’t see it coming,” says Spyder, faintly, almost more like he’s talking to himself than talking to Schpood. “That’s the part that still gets me. That I was ready for anything, except for what you did to me. But I should've known— I mean, that’s how you get your kicks, right? Pulling a fast one, doing whatever people least expect. Committing treason. Shacking up with me.”
"Hey, that's not—"
"And it didn't mean anything," Spyder goes on, rainwater dripping from his chin. "My death, you didn't even let it mean anything. It was just another item on your list. Over and done with, thanks for playing."
"Come down from here, Spyder. The stupid machine doesn't work anymore."
"I know," says Spyder. "I was there when it broke. I was supposed to be next, I was standing right here in this spot, waiting. But they say you don't come back with all your memories. So it really wouldn't have mattered, anyway. I might not have even remembered you."
Schpood hesitates a moment, then sits down. Spyder glances over at him. There's a blankness to his face, an aimlessness, like he doesn't know what to do next. But Schpood is coming to understand that heaven can be like that, if you let it. Empty and vast, just open space to drift without meaning.
"I didn't…" Schpood starts. Then he braces himself and says, tightly, "I made a mistake."
"Some mistake," says Spyder.
"I'm—" He bites the inside of his cheek, bouncing his knee. Ugh, he thinks. Still, it has to be said. "Sorry."
"Are you?"
"Am I the sort of person who apologizes very often?"
Spyder's mouth twitches up. A sodden lock of fine blond hair has fallen over his eyes, and Schpood lifts a slow careful hand, and tucks the stray strands back behind a pointed ear— then takes the tip of that same ear between his thumb and forefinger and tugs, fondly.
"Do you want to kill me again?" he asks, so quietly that it's almost a whisper.
Spyder blinks fast. "Yeah," he whispers back, after a moment, "I kinda do."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Right now?"
"I mean…maybe just one more time."
It's not even angry, this go-about. It's almost sweet. Spyder climbs into his lap. Climbs on top of him, lays him down, slips his hands around his throat and squeezes. Spyder takes the breath out of him, and Schpood lies back and stares up at him and lets him do it. His vision darkens and tunnels, black and spotty at the edges, and for a singular, wonderful moment, all he can see is Spyder. Just Spyder, above him. Just Spyder and then nothing— and the world around them, this hideously perfect forever-world, ceases to exist. At least for a little while.
+1
When he comes to, this time, the storm has passed. The rain has stopped. Spyder is lying next to him in the bright-skied aftermath, two of his arms tucked under his head, watching the clouds roll by.
"You're still here?" says Schpood.
"You're still sorry?" says Spyder.
Schpood smiles and shifts onto his side, propping up his chin with the heel of his hand. He's so weirdly happy that he feels physically light, like he might float up and away without any help from the wings glued to his back, and he wants a confusing number of things all at once, mainly to kiss Spyder until they're both dizzy. But there'll be time for that. There'll be plenty of time. Their days are no longer numbered. There's no one coming to take them away. And they can't hurt each other anymore, at least not in a way that won't eventually heal.
The sun breaks out from behind the receding clouds and warms the stone beneath them. Light dapples over Spyder's face, his closed eyes, his cheeks and lips and chin. Heaven wasn't so beautiful before, Schpood thinks. Or maybe it was, and it always has been, and it's just taken him a while to figure it all out.
"What am I supposed to do," says Spyder, softly. Schpood hears the part left unsaid: What am I supposed to do now, with the rest of eternity?
"I've no idea," he answers, and reaches out and takes Spyder's hand. "I think we ought to find out together. Don't you?"