Snow
By Nathaniel Schrader
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Date: 2011
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Ratchet's legs were pulled in tight to his bosom, eyes wet. He didn't know why he had started to cry, but he couldn't hold it in. It was silent, clocks ticking in carious corners, Clank not home. Ratchet was not well so he had stayed home and, without his Robot, he felt a piece of his defenses missing. An all but impenetrable wall was simply gone, and his mind was unraveling from the stress swimming inside him. The warmth of his sweater and the heat of the apartment contrasted the cool wetness dripping down his cheeks and tickling at his chin.
He wasn't sane.
He wasn't normal.
He was a wreck.
Ratchet repeated these things in his mind over and over with each second, floodwaters of anxiety passing through whatever strength had previously held it back. A part of him was sure the fever was part of this, breaking down his body and soul with waves of illness and lightheaded delusions of mental frailty. His body was trying to rest but his mind would never rest, not ever of its own accord. His insomnia was worse with illness, and Clank was not here to help him relax. He was shopping with Qwark, the eccentric green oaf insisting on sharing his presence with the Robot. The Lombaxe's fists quivered with anger as he held his knees with one hand and Alister's watch with another. He heard a creak from the metal casing as he clenched it, gritting his teeth tightly as tears forced themselves through his locked eyes.
He was terrible.
He was a traitor to a species he never knew.
He killed the last person who had known anything about him.
Ratchet didn't know how Lombaxes worked. He didn't know what drove their lives. He didn't know anything, not at all. What if Alister had acted justly? Was that a Lombaxe's way? He wouldn't find out, not now. A guttural cry sounded from within his worn throat, his head throbbing with pain and dizziness.
"Y-You stupid fuck-ker…" The warped words oozed like jagged blades from his mouth. His anger was spiraling, spinning into a fever pitch until he felt the watch creak again in his burning palm. Thrusting his legs outwards and pulling muscles all in his back, Ratchet wretched the watch backwards. "YOU STUPID FUCKER!" His arm swung forward, hurling the watch across the room. A thunderous crack of shattered glass and broken electronics rung in his ears as a hole was put through the holo-screen across from him, a shower of sparks ejecting from the black surface with a flash of smoke grit. The snap only worsened from the cracks spreading from the hole outwards, a splintered pane of thin projection glass falling to the floor and smashing on the table.
His heart ran on flash frozen blood as he realized what he had done. Ratchet's tears only fell faster, the Lombax falling into a coughing fit on the floor, clutching his chest. His body fell fast with his forehead hitting the glass table with a thud. The pain sent daggers into his brain, his broken sobbing only pushing the sharp blade of agony deeper inwards.
"AAAAAAAHH!" Crying in hysterics without recourse, the Lombax heaved. He choked on his bloody phlegm, caused from all the coughing he had been doing in his sickness. A large chunk of scarred mucus got caught in his throat, the Lombax clutching his neck as a bloody spurt expunged itself from his mouth. The slight cutoff of air made his weight shift, to lean on the table and push it. The wall shuddered and clanged as it rammed up against the entertainment stand with pictures and devices, a few articles of decorations falling onto the sturdy glass tabletop. He thought he might die, as pathetic as that sounded. He knew he wouldn't but the thought was almost a distant goal, a dark reward for this outburst of feelings.
He wasn't a Lombax. He was a lie, walking about, discarded by time. When he killed for the first time in his life, back on Fastoon before he met Clank, he had been vomiting from the stress. Now it was his job. That's all he ever seemed to do. It was destruction every time that called him its keeper. He felt weak at these thoughts, his purpose for life bringing itself into question. All he had wanted was to get off his home planet; at this memory, his coughing intensified. Another spurt of old blood worked its way out of his lungs, the Lombax trying to help himself up. His claws scraped the glass table in disquieting screeches with each clutch.
His hands felt at his sweater, a handmade item of Clank's appreciation. It was green and heavy, tightly ringed together. His anger was burning again, his claws grazing the fabric as he used every ounce of his willpower to resist tearing it off. He didn't deserve love or affection, nothing of the sort. He had already broken the holo-screen, something he could replace easily but not clean up quickly. With a shortness of breath, he pulled his hand away from the neck of his warm sweater, keeping it propped on the table.
He sat in the quiet, uncomfortably leaning against the glass table with its edge in his back. He didn't care about pain, not anymore. He could smell the burnt smell of ruined circuit boards from the holo-screen, the safeties of the device cutting the power to every inch of it. Ratchet's coughs were all but gone as his chest barely moved with each hesitant breath. Time was slower, now, as his emotions left him for dead. He didn't dare to stand or do anything else. He would just sit here, he decided.
What would have happened if Qwark hadn't been a terrible person prior? What would have happened if he hadn't met Clank? He'd be dead by most accounts, considering Drek's role. But, now that he was forced to dwell upon it, he couldn't remember a week that didn't involve the lumbering green ego manic since his return from Dreadzone. Qwark was stuck to him like a rivet and he wasn't one hundred percent sure as to why that was. He knew that the captain loved fame, stealing it from Ratchet and Clank whenever he could, but that wasn't the only reason, he was sure of by now. Had that been the case and Qwark really was morally vile, he wouldn't have given Ratchet and Clank one of his penthouse apparent hovering above Meridian City. They were the only inhabitants on a ring of eight suspended apartments, all giant in size with their own docking pads and yards, floating high above the busy city in silence. Qwark pulled strings for them, got them things that they were interested in, insisted on it being for the sake of 'having the honor that is Captain Copernicus Qwark bequeathing such goods.' No… There was something else. Qwark was lonely, Ratchet came to understand. He had that feeling for a while. No parents, literally no other friends; Qwark was lonelier than Ratchet had been living on his own. His life was a giant advertisement and show of robust masculinity and heroic tropes; the man was expected to be hollow. Ratchet was aware of Qwark's need to have friends, but he always treated Ratchet and Clank as best he could given the overall look upon social situations. Qwark would usually invite the two to come see him, to make it seem like a big show of ego stroking, but both Ratchet and Clank had realized that Qwark was nervous in big celebrations. There had only been a few times where Qwark was on his own these days, the Lombax and Robot following him around for the most part. With their presence, Qwark's speeches seemed much more moral, though somewhat more egotistical. They were… just better, more refined and less trashy. Instead of blaming others he'd blame himself, though making up an elaborate tale of whimsy and adventure in the process. Instead of going in circles he'd use tales of his adventures with Ratchet and Clank to create an absolutely irrelevant connection, though making it relevant in the course of a few words.
Qwark was a friend. The phrase was uncanny for Ratchet to imagine. He had been his hero, his worst enemy, and now his friend. He had proved his merit and his ability to be counted on, at least to a majority of times. Ratchet twiddled his finger along the table, scraping it on the smooth top. Another spark echoed from inside the holo-screen as he sniffed hard at his clogged sinuses. His eyes were heavy and brain heavier as he tried to stand, wobbling painfully with his knees in buckling defiance. Barely upright, the Lombax stepped around the table carefully, avoiding the shards of projection screen on the carpet. Aimlessly, he peered into the device, spying Alister's watch. Without care of personal safety he reached into it, grasping the watch's chain. He dragged it and a caught digital relay, a wired transponder dangling from the gaping mortal wound of the screen. The watch in hand, he stared at it with a sort of acceptance. As long as he had this, it would give him a reason to be better than he was. It was a fevered thought, and he had a feeling it didn't make sense, but he didn't care right now- he simply didn't have the energy.
Ratchet coughed, turning to look outside the window across from him. The snow was heavy, falling in torrents of swirling white. A trickle of warmth slid down his brow, his hand going to touch it in reaction. He pulled a smeared drop of blood away from his head; he guessed he had hit the edge of that table pretty hard, or maybe a shard from the screen had hit him. Hell- for all he knew, he had clawed himself open. That was the most likely. He wasn't sure how to explain this mess, but this… hadn't been the first time his anger had unhinged.
His ear shifted as he heard a door being opened, Qwark's loud voice filling the house already. They were home and he was covered in snot, blood and tears. Ratchet couldn't speak to say hello or explain himself. In this moment he wanted to do nothing else but vanish, to simply cease to be. He heard the crinkling of plastic bags, the heavy steps of a man three times his size, the tiny clinks and clanks of a little Robot. He heard it and waited for hatred to swarm him, for his friends to realize what a mistake they had made in meeting him.
Qwark appeared first, his arms laced with a dozen bags.
"Ratchet? We're ho-!… me?" His head was turned, sight focused on the broken screen. His eyes shifted to Ratchet, just slightly startled at first. Ratchet didn't move, just breathing heavily.
"Qwark, is everything alright?" Clank's voice came from behind. He came into view, holding a big paper bag. He saw Ratchet first, only glancing at the screen for a second. His face slowly grew into terror, dropping the heavy bag on the floor with a thump. Ratchet just stared, eyes welling up again. He couldn't speak to explain, he didn't have any explanation worth it.
The bags slid from Qwark's arms onto the floor in floor shaking crashes, Clank starting ahead without him. The Robot pulled Ratchet's hand down, the Lombax collapsing to the floor on his knees before finding himself compressed senseless between metal and a green latex suit. He didn't speak, nor were any questions asked of Lombax, not while he choked on splintered sobs and gasps with the pocket watch locked in his hand.