Chapter Fourteen: Some kind of game

Tyr had lost track of time, but he did not care. Dark thoughts were swirling around inside his head. Too many to sort out. Old memories, newer ones. It was all one big mess of anger and pain. He passed it all out, through his fists, into the punching bag in the gym. It did not seem to work.

Trance had locked herself in the medical room with Milon. There had been no news of how he was doing. Not that Tyr had inquired. He was busy exorcising his demons in the most violent way he could on board a ship full of people he was not allowed to hurt. Or even wanted. Except...

Tyr stopped punching the bag as he noticed he was being watched. Pitch could have been standing there a long time, and Tyr would not have noticed. Most likely, he had not been. He did not seem to be able to keep his mouth shut for very long periods of time.

"What do you want?" Tyr asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Pitch did not answer him, just stared at him with his black eyes. Tyr knew the signs. He was not there to talk; he was looking for a fight. Well, he had come to the right man then.

"Andromeda, privacy mode!" Tyr called and heard the door lock behind Pitch.

No interruptions this time. No one to come to anybody's rescue. This was between the two of them. He could see that Pitch understood perfectly what he had just done, and he smiled darkly at Tyr.

"Miles got shot because of you," Pitch said quietly, "he's going to die, and they won't even let me see him before he goes. He probably picked up the virus here in the first place! You should have just stayed the hell away from him you big freak!"

He was quite clearly blaming Tyr for Milon's impending death, although he had been terminally ill even before the gunshot wound. Tyr could almost smell the black rage inside him, but if Pitch thought he could scare him, he certainly had a lot to learn about Nietzscheans.

"I am trying to help him," Tyr said calmly, "something you did not seem very interested in doing back in your own dimension."

Why was he even trying to reason with this stupid kludge? He was not going to listen. All he wanted was somebody to take his anger out on, and he was too dumb to realise he was picking on the wrong person. A small, bitterly sarcastic laugh escaped Tyr's lips and then he continued in a louder voice:

"I do not know what kind of self-control issues you have, but do me a favour and leave the childish name-calling out of this! You know just as well as I do that I had nothing to do with your friend's disease, just as I had nothing to do with the fact that he was shot! If you want to fight me, for whatever your pathetic little reasons might be, just be a man and say so!"

Pitch lifted both hands and pulled them apart. Black strands stretched between his fingers, like liquid rubber. Tyr had seen this before, and he knew how strong those "ropes" were. He reached for his forcelance on the shelf. If he had not known just how important Pitch was to Milon, he might just have shot him. As it was, he simply holstered the weapon, ready to use it only as a last defence. Besides, he did not need a weapon to defeat this human!

They threw themselves at each other with equal ferocity. Tyr knew that Pitch was a good fighter, for a human, but he could not compete with a Nietzschean in straight forward hand to hand combat. Well, not for very long anyway. Still, he fought fiercely enough to cause Tyr some real pain. He was all too happy to return the favour.

If it was not for that black, sticky stuff that Milon had called "solid darkness", Tyr would have defeated Pitch without the fight turning as serious as it did. But the strands of blackness seemed to get everywhere, hindering him, trying to strangle him. Tyr found out that although they would not break for anything, they could not exist without being attached to Pitch, and they were completely dependent on Pitch's concentration. Each time he tried to use his power to cut off Tyr's air supply, all Tyr had to do was cause him enough pain to drop his concentration and the black snares would dissolve into thin air immediately. But while he was tied, he was also open to similar attacks.

They were both receiving just as much damage as they were dealing, but neither of them were prepared to give up. Tyr's forcelance had been pulled from his holster and flung across the room sometime during the fight, so the option of shooting Pitch was, sadly, gone. Tyr could feel a broken rib paining his every movement, but then again he was fairly certain that Pitch had a broken arm. He tried to grab it, but the black ropes were getting in his way once again. He threw a punch, but Pitch pulled backwards, leaving a good bit of slack on the "rope" that was tightening around Tyr's neck, almost as if it was alive. Out of his reach, Tyr could not make him lose his concentration, and he was already starting to see black spots in front of his eyes. He hurt. But he was not giving up. He was a Nietzschean, and he refused to be defeated like this. As a last, desperate measure, Tyr grabbed a hold of the black "rope" connecting them. He gave it a strong tug, causing Pitch to release even more slack in order not to get pulled too close. This gave Tyr just the chance he had been waiting for. He picked up the slack, quickly making a loop on it, and threw it around Pitch's neck. Pulling hard, he sent Pitch toppling forward, towards Tyr's raised forearm. And its two remaining spikes.

The fight was over. The two long, sharp boneblades pierced through Pitch's ribcage and collarbone, respectively. Tyr had not intentionally stabbed any major organs, he knew he was well clear of the heart. At most he had caused a punctured lung. However, it was enough to make Pitch sink to his knees, coughing blood. The black ropes were gone. Pitch was staring at Tyr; his eyes wide open in shock. What, had he expected Tyr to go easy on him? Did he think this was some kind of game?

Tyr pulled his arm back, getting quite a satisfying scream from Pitch as the boneblades were torn from his body. He was still looking up at Tyr like he could not believe he had lost. Or maybe he thought he was dying.

Tyr remembered Milon, the last time he was on the Andromeda, begging him not to hurt Pitch. He was his best friend. Like a brother. That was what he had said. Tyr sighed and called out:

"Andromeda! Release locks. Trance, medical attention needed in the training room."

He looked down on Pitch who was pressing his hands to his chest, still staring at Tyr. Not so cocky now, was he? Still, Tyr did not feel at all as satisfied with this victory as he had thought he would. There was something so desperate about Pitch behind the facade of coldness that he was so intent on upholding. As much as Tyr hated to admit it, he could relate to that.

Only now, Tyr realised that he might well need some medical attention himself. He was hurting. Nothing major, nothing that would not heal quickly. A broken rib, a couple of teeth that would need replacing at the back of his jaw. Bruises. He sank down onto the floor, waiting for the help to arrive. Only, it would not, would it? Trance had locked herself in with Milon. Tyr looked at Pitch, who was now staring down at the floor, at the small pool of dark blood that was forming. His breathing was wheezy. Definitely a punctured lung. And he was very, very pale. Maybe Tyr had overestimated his strength. Just because those mechanical implants in his arms made him able to punch just as hard as Tyr, it did not mean that he could take the same amount of abuse. And it did not mean that just because his injuries would not have been life threatening had they been done to Tyr, they were not life threatening to him... Damn.

"Andromeda!" Tyr called.

There was no answer. Something was wrong. He called out for the AI again, but no response came.

"We're fucked, aren't we?"

Pitch coughed and more blood splattered onto the floor.

"Maybe you are," Tyr said simply.

He did not feel angry anymore. Pitch was so much less annoying like this. Not screaming and shouting even though he was badly hurt. Not getting all melodramatic and accusing Tyr of killing him. Yes, much better. Pitch looked like he was going to fall over any second. Without thinking, Tyr put his hand out to steady him.

"Getting a bit dark now..." Pitch whispered, "Do me a favour... If Miles makes it through... and I don't... can you just tell him that... I'm sorry..."

"Sorry for what?" Tyr asked.

"Everything... just tell him I'm sorry, 'kay?"

Tyr sighed. He longed for the days of the relatively black and white mercenary work. Good or bad. Kill or not. This whole fuzzy half-enemy-but-not-really stuff was so tiring. Still, he could not really tell Milon that he had just sat idly by and watched his "brother" die, could he?

"Get up, we are going to medical..." Tyr said, hooking his arm around Pitch in an attempt to pull him op off the floor.

Pitch groaned in pain but did not offer any protests. Together they started walking towards the door. It did not open.

"Andromeda! Open the door!" Tyr called.

Again, no answer. And the door did not open.

"Well, you tried."

Pitch gave him a weak smile. Strange how it seemed as if he had finally lost his animosity towards Tyr. And that was after he almost killed him.

"Yes. Sit down. Rest."

He lowered Pitch back onto the floor and tried to get a grip on the door. It was impossible, and even if he had managed it, he doubted that he would have been able to force the doors open with his broken rib. Maybe Pitch was right. Maybe they were fucked.