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we all end up in the same dirt
Nov. 5th, 2024 01:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timetechs[ Dave fucking hates Tarsus IV. Maybe it's stupid to hate an entire planet. Not like he was exactly thrilled when Bro broke the news, time to pack it up and leave everything you've got on Earth behind so we can go to some bumfuck backwater of a planet and be in charge of a bunch of farmers. And forget that fancy scholarship you were aiming for, we're not doing the whole tech thing. Research not allowed, communications extremely fucking limited, no, not even to your long-lost twin who you've been trying to forge some kind of connection with since I didn't feel like it mattered that you had siblings but I'm a weird ass robot dude so beep boop human emotions are beyond me.
So yeah. The trip hadn't started out strong and it only went downhill from there.
It wasn't lethally boring at first. Ha. Lethal. Sure, Dave was light years ahead of his classes and spent most of the time in school doodling ways he'd build a starskimmer from scraps and get off this mudball. But there were other kids and Bro couldn't keep him from hanging with them since it was all educational and shit. And besides, Bro was busy running the place, no room for kid brothers as long as Dave was still doing his daily torture session training and not causing any trouble Bro had to hear about. It was even kinda cool being outside so much, seeing all the strange plant life and wide open spaces that Houston hadn't had in centuries. So yeah, dull bearable. Sucked ass, but Dave was bored, not actively suicidal.
Then the mold happened. Crash course in humanity and his big brother, seeing what a bunch of scared people did when they were on the verge of starving. Spoilers: not fucking pretty.
Dave's been hungry before. All part of Bro's crazy survivalist training. He has half a suspicion it was in preparation for this shitshow, but he's too exhausted to think about it. Besides, there's the other kids to look after. They aren't anywhere used to going hungry the way he is, aren't able to keep going for miles and miles and miles the way Dave is. Thanks, Bro, could've done without the genocide, though.
And now—
Ha. Real fucking lethal. His hands are still wet with blood, 'cause it turns out if you're well trained enough, you can be real fucking effective bringing a knife to a gunfight. The fuckers never saw him coming, all crowded in the cave like they were, cackling to each other like a bunch of Saturday morning cartoon villains. He'd gotten most of them before they could do a damn thing, and then he'd seen what they were laughing about.
A pile of small bodies sprawled out on the rocks, blood flowing like a river from the gunshots (fucking bullets! what kind of jackasses used goddamn projectile weapons in this day and age?) and Dave had taken off, absconded right the fuck out of there with he, himself, and I before Bro's goons could realize he was the dipshit they were looking for.
And now— He's going to choke on dust. Yeah, that's what it is, just dust from the fucking barren fields. Not mold spores from the rotting crops or ashes from the cremation pits. Dust choking his lungs, drifting down to cover the bodies, because yeah, he got the rest of them, and absently, he realizes he still has the knife in his hands.
He lets it drop and barely notices the thud as it hits the ground. His next breath has him hacking and he barely notices that, either.
It's a real foggy day. Or maybe that's just his head, 'cause the blood's drying pretty quick in the sun, turning tacky along his skin, his ragged shirt sticking to him. He got them. He got them, but he was too fucking late, everyone else is— bodies in the cave, and he's leaning over, doesn't know how the fuck he got onto all fours but he is, choking up acid bile because there hasn't been anything in his stomach for days.
When he's done, he slumps back down. Ends up on his side, staring at the dust, the damp pools of mud where the blood's soaked in.
Dust. It's just dust. Whatever. His ribs hurt like a bitch just from breathing. He fucked up. He fucked up so bad and he's breathing it all in, breathing in Emmy and Carol and Lucas and—
His fingers scrabble at the dirt, clawing for the knife. It's not there. Fuck, it's not there, and for the first time, Dave stops. Just stops and stares out at the rotting field and says fuck it. He's done. He's so fucking done.
Time passes. For the first time in his life he has no clue how much. But it doesn't matter. He's done.
He's done. ]
So yeah. The trip hadn't started out strong and it only went downhill from there.
It wasn't lethally boring at first. Ha. Lethal. Sure, Dave was light years ahead of his classes and spent most of the time in school doodling ways he'd build a starskimmer from scraps and get off this mudball. But there were other kids and Bro couldn't keep him from hanging with them since it was all educational and shit. And besides, Bro was busy running the place, no room for kid brothers as long as Dave was still doing his daily torture session training and not causing any trouble Bro had to hear about. It was even kinda cool being outside so much, seeing all the strange plant life and wide open spaces that Houston hadn't had in centuries. So yeah, dull bearable. Sucked ass, but Dave was bored, not actively suicidal.
Then the mold happened. Crash course in humanity and his big brother, seeing what a bunch of scared people did when they were on the verge of starving. Spoilers: not fucking pretty.
Dave's been hungry before. All part of Bro's crazy survivalist training. He has half a suspicion it was in preparation for this shitshow, but he's too exhausted to think about it. Besides, there's the other kids to look after. They aren't anywhere used to going hungry the way he is, aren't able to keep going for miles and miles and miles the way Dave is. Thanks, Bro, could've done without the genocide, though.
And now—
Ha. Real fucking lethal. His hands are still wet with blood, 'cause it turns out if you're well trained enough, you can be real fucking effective bringing a knife to a gunfight. The fuckers never saw him coming, all crowded in the cave like they were, cackling to each other like a bunch of Saturday morning cartoon villains. He'd gotten most of them before they could do a damn thing, and then he'd seen what they were laughing about.
A pile of small bodies sprawled out on the rocks, blood flowing like a river from the gunshots (fucking bullets! what kind of jackasses used goddamn projectile weapons in this day and age?) and Dave had taken off, absconded right the fuck out of there with he, himself, and I before Bro's goons could realize he was the dipshit they were looking for.
And now— He's going to choke on dust. Yeah, that's what it is, just dust from the fucking barren fields. Not mold spores from the rotting crops or ashes from the cremation pits. Dust choking his lungs, drifting down to cover the bodies, because yeah, he got the rest of them, and absently, he realizes he still has the knife in his hands.
He lets it drop and barely notices the thud as it hits the ground. His next breath has him hacking and he barely notices that, either.
It's a real foggy day. Or maybe that's just his head, 'cause the blood's drying pretty quick in the sun, turning tacky along his skin, his ragged shirt sticking to him. He got them. He got them, but he was too fucking late, everyone else is— bodies in the cave, and he's leaning over, doesn't know how the fuck he got onto all fours but he is, choking up acid bile because there hasn't been anything in his stomach for days.
When he's done, he slumps back down. Ends up on his side, staring at the dust, the damp pools of mud where the blood's soaked in.
Dust. It's just dust. Whatever. His ribs hurt like a bitch just from breathing. He fucked up. He fucked up so bad and he's breathing it all in, breathing in Emmy and Carol and Lucas and—
His fingers scrabble at the dirt, clawing for the knife. It's not there. Fuck, it's not there, and for the first time, Dave stops. Just stops and stares out at the rotting field and says fuck it. He's done. He's so fucking done.
Time passes. For the first time in his life he has no clue how much. But it doesn't matter. He's done.
He's done. ]
