Desolate Gail: Redux

by Zeronova

The walls of Troy have been blasted open by Kiske, and Troy is as vulnerable as the Seikishidan, but personal conflicts still exist. End of Arc II. Updates periodically.

16. Arc 1: Having something to die for

-X- Introduction -X-
- Desolate Gail Redux
- Started on: 5-17-2004 / Posted on: 8-30-2004 / Checked on: 3-12-2005
- By: Zeronova
- Chapter 16: Having something to die for

- Text: Third person, Narration
- Text: First person, Thoughts
- Text: Interjection, the Narrator

X- End Introduction -X-

No time to think about the dead, keep going! Keep living! Kiske turned, finding another Gear ready to be cut down. One quick slash, and it fell, its abdomen brimming with flesh slowly turning peeling back into itself and smoldering to ash, eating into black oblivion from the transparent yellowish film of dead skin and decay, the stagnant blood left in it like a stringing architecture running through it. Its hands let go of a scimitar-looking piece of curved metal, on side rusted, the other not, like it had been sitting in a puddle for twenty years, one side under, the other sitting out. He slashed to his right quickly, a barricade of lightning keeping an advancing Gear off of him, as he raced to pick up the scimitar of poor construction. It was truthfully only a single piece of metal, curved by use of force, a thin and jaundiced stake of metal, which with a Gear's strength, is a razor. He took a diving roll over the Gear's dead body, picking it up in his left hand as he did, a sharp twinge shooting through his body from the cut-to-the-bone palm, but gripping it tighter, beads of blood dripping through his clenched fist and down the bottom of it. The Gear's eyes turned in its head, evaluating, changing fighting tactic for a Gear sword of such nature, double handed combat, against an aggressor of five-foot-ten-inches, about one-hundred-and-forty pounds.

It slowly took a circling step, strafing around to Ky, stepping past Jaygus who sat against the wall, unmoving. Ky took a quick glance at him while he could, the Gear being so near, he could watch both at the same time. Unable to tell if the blood on his uniform was his or a Gear's, he couldn't determine if he was dead or knocked out, but he couldn't waste time on him. Can't waste time on Jaygus? He was the one who stitched you up, cleaned the wound, and everything else. For all you know, he saved you when you blacked out in the warehouse, you pussy. Shut up, I don't know if he saved me mid fight or after it was all over, and for all I know, he's dead. For all he knew, you were too. Shut up.

Ky gripped both of the swords harder, right hand holding his prize, left the weapon of his enemy. He stepped around another fallen Gear, lying face up and an electric burn across his chest, as his current adversary did as well, of a different Gear. Between them was about six feet of space, the aggressor of about an eight and a half foot stature, a massive upper body, but spindly legs. Ky took one more step to his left, then planted with it, and surged forward, a surprise attack. The slow demeanor of the Gear hadn't realized Ky's action until he had already knocked the first blow upon him, a vertical slash down its left chest, going through its pectoral and down to its waist, about two inches thick. He brought around his right arm to attack with the Fuuraiken, and as the blade was in mid-air of swing, the Gear swung itself, directly at the blade incoming. The force of the blades danced a symphony of sparks, both from impact and their scurrying among each other's edge, but also for the powers of the sword. The force kept the sword in Kiske's hand for a second before it went flying out, clanging against the wall and then falling to the ground, bouncing on each side like a pin until falling flat. The Gear chuckled a little with the rasping evil voice, then attacked again, Ky dodging. It was too strong to do anything directly, he had to think, to move, to be human to beat it. He jumped backward, dodging the attack, then another. He jumped back once more, seeing his sword to his direct right, but about five feet away. One more horizontal slash of the Gear, him jumping back in sequence, though he stumbled, his foot slipping on the drying blood of a Gear killed early in the battle, which was now topping about thirty minutes.

He fell backwards onto his rear, the Gear snickering in delight as it raised its sword for a vertical slash, maybe a stab, just to impale and kill Kiske. Quick, think, do something. He tried crawling backward, his hands slipping on the goopy blood, panic spreading over him. Come on! The Gear sword! Ky again realized he was gripping it in his left, not accustomed to the feel of it. He always knew the feeling of the Fuuraiken's grip, its weight in his hands, a comforting pressure, but the panic mixed with the unfamiliar sword left his mind blank of its existence. In a quick act of desperation, he grabbed the sword tighter, and then hurled it at his enemy like a javelin. The Gear brought down its sword in a fast ascent, but the sword fell out of its hand with a frightful force, the hands leaving the grip as its nerve chord was severed, the javelin-like throw spearing through its neck, sprouting from its upper neck, bits of blood dripping down the length of the blade, running across and down it. Falling with a massive thud, Ky was quick to get up and retrieve his prized possession, inwardly thanking God for it, holding it dear and tight in his hand once again, a long lost lover being reunited.

His eyes quickly counted how many Gears were left...not many. Maybe seven, two approaching him. That meant...

"Darton!" Ky screamed quickly, sprinting past the two oncoming Gears, seeing the other few in a small semi circle around an unseen focal point. Another step, and then Kiske saw one of the Gears rise up off of its feet, and smash into the wall, part of its body removing a door of a dorm as it cracked and cratered through the wall, falling in a pool of its own blood, the spinal chord snapped and bruised. He sprinted past the Gear choking on its own blood, unable to move or respond, but dying from the impact, the thuds of the two Gears he passed turning and starting to move to catch up, their massive, yet slow stature looming with a shadow over his own feet. He ran harder, evading their small shadow, Darton about thirty feet away. His concentration was broken by an interrupting voice, not Darton's.

"Sir! We're here to rescue you!" it perpetuated, echoing through the headquarters as a soldier slowly descended through the skylight. He was brimming with happiness, seeing the commander, alive and well, he would be known for being part of the squad that saved Ky Kiske. He had a harness around his waist, and a line hooked up to soldiers who stood out of sight, to repel on the inside, boots running along the broken metal and shards of glass, kicking some down, shining and sparkling as they tumbled down to the dead on Floor A. He turned up to see the soldiers, motioning for them to let him down, then turned his gaze back down to Ky, his face changing from excitement to horror.

"Gears!" he screamed almost immediately, the private a new recruit, never seeing any action obviously, the look in his eyes reflecting pure terror, trying to scurry up the rope, the mere sight of the dead Gears around and the few live ones, coupled with the few robes of white that seemed to be specks of dirt among a perfect beach, the drop of humanity in Hell. Ky ignored him, the task at hand in his immediate goal. Screw the U.N., bastards always in the way...just live, just go. Darton's out numbered, he'll die, you gotta help him. I don't care if he's been a real ass, he's still a soldier, a human, I've got to help him...

Running forward, he leaned over himself more than he should (or could, despite the pain), his forward momentum increased, but to a cause. In a quick motion, he threw his entire body backwards while running forwards, his legs shooting out under him and sliding. His feet impacted with the back of one Gear's legs, its knees bending inward and the body toppling backward, where Ky was moments earlier before his slide flung him forwards, through the legs of what should have been an attacking Gear. His slide turned into a tumbling roll after the first Gear went down, the rough pavement scraping and ripping shreds from his blood stained uniform, scrapes running up along his exposed skin. His rolling momentum smashed up against the metal railing, his back thudding square against the poles, and a fiery rush through his body from the gash impacting on the metal. He stood slowly, gasping hard, a blood spot on where he has just hit, it slowly covering his back in a fresh sheet of crimson from the gash.

"I missed you" Darton said, a smirk out of the side of his mouth.

"Shut it" Kiske said, no humor in his resolve, only the instinct to survive and blood lust, driven by exhaustion, finality, and anything else he could muster out of his worn body. The two Gears from behind finally caught up to the pack, the tripped-on compatriot of theirs standing up slowly as well, a piece of bone jutting out from a broken knee, courtesy of Kiske. It leaned down, and punched the bone back in, crudely locking into the other shattered bone in its leg, looking back up with a fiendish growl.

"I got the three on the left." Darton said in a whisper, readying himself for battle, a bit of blood leaking from a cut along his side, that seemed to follow the length of his ribs across, but not quite as bad as the two down-to-the-bone cuts that formed into one by more ripped off skin on his shoulder.

"Four on the right." Said Kiske back.

"Sir!" the soldier echoed behind, neither acknowledging he was there, the cry falling upon deaf ears. They had a job to do, something at hand, more important than a little snot hanging from a wire. Quint took in a deep breath, beads of sweat falling from his face, clinging to his long brown hair in front, falling like crystalline opals to the ground, mixing among Gear and human blood. On the ground, nothing mattered. It was all the same, blood, death, bodies, it was the same. Maybe that's how God felt, when its all said and done, dead and buried, over and complete, they're all the same, then what does that say about different religions?

The Gears paced slowly, evening out to the humans in front of them, thinking, looking, anticipating, receiving orders. They had no realization of the soldier hanging in the sky light to evacuate them, and neither should Kiske or Darton, it would only kill them. The Gears slowly took the spaces up, cornering them, forming an impenetrable semi circle, selecting targets. Their eyes rolled in their heads, taking orders, figuring out what to do, and then executing. A Gear on each side, closest to the railing both ran forward, attacking Quint and Ky at the same time. And, at once, they split up, the battle beginning in its frivolous, unapproachable manner of sheer animalistic combat, far removed from God's word and laws, but to the basis of what makes God's creations what they are.

Ky side stepped the burling Gear, it running past him, turning on its toes a few steps late, its reaction time about three seconds, more than enough for Ky's blade to find soft flesh on its back, the Fuuraiken digging deep into its back. It screamed out in pain, bits of saliva spurted out by the hellish sound, the blade lodged about two inches deep in the soft, yet massively strong muscle, between a knot in the spinal chord. It jumped in place, screaming in pain, the blade emitting thousands upon thousands of volts passing through it, muscles contracting upon themselves so hard they burst with the rotten blood, bones liquefying, and bits of smoke and smoldering flesh falling away from where the blade was. Removing it from the back of the Gear, it fell flat, dead, the convulsing body breathing out its last breath that was choked in by contracting lungs, the tightened body limp now, expanding itself slightly.

Ky took no time, instantly attacking the next Gear, a yell coming from his mouth that equaled the Gears' in ferocity. Both hands were on the grip, despite blood loss and pain, he was driven, an unseen and unknown force guiding his every action and whim that put his exhaustion, his own mind, and adrenaline to rest, something drove him, an unidentifiable urge. He brought his sword down and across, both hands fueling the power, which was glinted off of the Gear's sword, which roused at him. It threw its own sword out for a deflect, which worked terrifically, then buried it shoulder deep into Kiske, hurling him into the railing for a second time, bits of blood splattering through the rails, the drops falling to Floor A. He stood up slowly, a look in his eyes that matched the tone in his voice, pure anger and hatred, that this needs to end, here, now, and he was going to be the one. The boyish anger and pure focus came out, though him being merely a child had helped fuel him in an indirect way that a seasoned veteran couldn't match.

The Gear tried another attack as he stood, which he dodged to the side, the sword pounding through a few rungs of the railing. Ky brought his sword down upon the arm trying to bring its sword back out of the metal, the hand falling limp on the ground, the Gear jumping back, disarmed. It growled, a look of anger in its eyes, coupled with that far away distant glance of lifelessness, and Ky attacked again, sealing again his hatred. He stabbed the Gear, who started a slight run to trample Atlas, the blade finding hold in its upper chest. He slid out the blade quickly as the Gear ran by, haggardly breathing, a bit of blood dribbling from its mouth. It was dying, but it wouldn't stop till it couldn't move, and Kiske knew it. It took one step away from the railing, which it ran into, and was stabbed once more in the gut, the step retracted, falling back upon the railing. Then, Ky kicked it, a rage underneath his foot that he brought to fruition, the Gear toppling off of the side of Floor F, grabbing futilely onto the railing to stop its fall, but its massive weight pulling off the metal, taking chunks of cement with it. The guiding metal wires underneath and inside the cement, bent outward by the cement chunks that came out with it. The Gear hit Floor E, smashing its back across the railing, then spun downward, until it splattered in a crimson circle on the floors below, landing on top of the cement and railing that passed it as it was interrupted on its fall. A small spurt of blood emitted its mouth, its entire body crushed, all of the bones shattered, organs punctured, and dead on Floor A.

Turning back to the other enemies, he continued his battle. Now, back to the beginning, with Darton.

The Gear came running at him, hearing the pound of the other behind going for Ky, waiting not to attack. His left hand gripped tighter on his prized knife, right on the mistake sword. He held the knife in a downward position, his thumb resting on the butt of it, blade towards the ground. He waited until the Gear was one pace from him, until he could see the organs through the rotten flesh, smell its rank, hear its breath and feel it upon him, and then he swung his sword. The tip grazed its flesh barely, not even cutting, but the effects of the sword took full effect. The wind went stagnant, stale, rancid, the air being pulled out of his lungs like a sledgehammer hit his gut, and all of the air being compacted to where the slash was made, and then being jettisoned, the typhoon blowing the Gear's skin noticeably inward, its feet leaving the ground, and twisting as it flew backwards about fifteen feet, where it landed face first. Quint wasted no time in following it up, knowing full and well it was not dead, it was a humanoid Gear, they were resilient and strong, the standard brutes of the Gear army.

The Gear to the fallen one's side moved in for an attack, but was too late as Darton ran by, after the Gear who was starting to push itself off of the floor, standing. It wasn't dead, it was hurt though, yet since it would continue until its body didn't work and every breath left its body, it had to be killed for good. He sprinted as hard as he could, the fifteen feet seeming like a mile, his feet not moving as fast he wanted. Every move he made, swinging his arms, hurt the gash across his side that stretched from his sternum across his body to behind his armpit, across the ribcage, about an inch deep. Nothing serious, just a flesh wound, but it didn't mean it didn't hurt, but he forced it out of his head, can't feel pain in the middle of a fight, especially at the end. Get careless here at the end, and die. What the hell would the point be to die at the end?

He planted his left foot in front of the Gear, and swung his right foot in a deep kick, right into the tissue between the neck and shoulder, enclosed by the clavicle. The tip of his boot went through the skin a little, knocking the Gear back down and back a little. Then, he jumped to the side of it, lining up his sword, and swung downward quickly. The blade cut through the soft flesh of the neck, effectively beheading the Gear, body falling limp. The following gust blew the head over the railing, the body another fifteen feet away. Turning back to where the fight started, he could see three Gears heavily trotting towards him, their weight sanctioned awkwardly between each step, their entire body shifting leg to leg in their hunched run, their massive bodies held up by spindly legs in comparison, but still superbly strong in their own degree, especially since it was a Gear, even normal looking muscles would have strength ten times that of a normal man.

A refined Gear can take any shape, even a bony little girl, and be stronger than any other Gear on the face of the Earth. It all depends on how the DNA is synthesized and introduced to the specimen, how it integrates with the host. Frederick, for example, is said to have gained a ton of muscle mass from his scientist self, but in normal society, wouldn't be that much out of place, despite from a very increased threshold for speed, strength, and pain. The Gears made by Justice are unrefined, made on a production line, so to speak, and not very effectively, which is why they have a production cycle time limit. After a few years, they die from their crude forging, body unable to continue and be controlled, and it eats itself out, the body dying and collapsing. But, a Gear taken and made in a laboratory with the right conditions, done so with precision, will live forever, or close to it. Look at Justice.

"Lemme see what you got" Quint said menacingly, the Gears approaching in a slow, yet deadly manner. He shared Ky's sentiment, that this was almost over, salvation in the sky light, yet these few Gears left, even one left living would kill them both. Despite being tired, cuts and gashes, bruises and blood, this was it. This is where it mattered, because if you didn't live through this, fight through this, nothing mattered, not how much you lived for in the past, because these moments, right at the end of everything, is where you need to give it all, give whatever you have, give what you don't, and fight, fight for yourself, everything you believe in, and fight for your bare basics, the right to live.

One Gear took supremacy beyond the others, increasing its pace a little, inching above the others, wanting to take the first attack. Quint stood in is place, a stance that was about as useful as standing straight up, considering his exhaustion and fatigue plagued his every move, unable to fully stand up and look at them straight, but kept himself, and his heavy, speedy breathing in check, the moment at hand where nothing else but the fight mattered. It attacked with a horizontal swipe, clanging against Darton's sword, a spark emitting as the metals clashed, a bit of the metal along the mistake sword chipping inward, denting where the blades met. The Gear was held fast by the lock though, inching forward, its massive strength on top of the pressing blade, which Quint held with all of his strength, feeble in comparison, his feet slowly sliding backward with each forward step of the Gear. The other two came up besides it readying attacks of their while the human was distracted. Shit, they're gonna flank me. His left hand, despite holding the knife by two fingers, was at the grip of the sword, giving more power, the hilt of the knife barely sitting in his thumb and index finger.

In a fluid motion, simultaneous with his left foot sliding back, he let the tip of the blade down, the Gear losing balance, its own blade sliding off of the left side. As he did, his left hand also left the grip of the sword, rustling loose in his unsure right hand, but quickly re-acquired. As the Gear's burly frame stumbled forward, the knife stabbed through its upper arm, twisting among the mangled flesh as it dug deep, the sword falling to the ground as the muscles ceased to function along the length of the arm. Bits of blood dripped down to the fingers where they separated and flowed off of each finger in succession. Darton jumped backward, the knife exiting the Gear's arm as he dodged a vertical swipe from another Gear, the sword loping through half of the disabled arm of its companion. Using the momentum, it attacked again, the right-arm disabled Gear receiving new orders, assessing the situation, switching to using his own body as a weapon. It attacked with another vertical slash, deflected, a horizontal one, ducked under, then a quick punch, a somewhat slick maneuver, Quint already thinking another sword attack was coming, the punch landing square on his left shoulder. He could feel each fingers, the underlying bones, the jutting out and sanded down to a mallet flatness, with all of the power behind it, and his collarbone snapping, shoulder dislocating as well. He fell backward, his left hand dropping his prized knife, eyes closed in pain, but knowing where it was, mind set on it and the Gears. The knife! No, the Gears! Damnit!

The approaching Gear's footsteps he heard, the soft flesh of its arm raising up, making a grinding noise against the exposed ribcage underneath, ready to squash him. His right arm, holding the sword, was still relatively unhurt, his left side now broken and cut along the length of the underarm. But, his right arm was heavy, heavier than anything he had ever felt, the muscles flooded with atrophy and ripped, no water in them to cool and have them function right, his own skin clammy, though removed of moisture. He was tired, more than he had ever been, but he couldn't die. Get your ass up! Opening his eyes, watery at the bottom edges from the pain, he saw the looming Gear, its left hand in the air, the disabled one wanting the kill, in a vile one-for-one deal. Its fist came down into a patch of cement, cratering it under the strength, cracks expanding out, shooting to and from the focal point. Darton rolled to his right, the other Gear there.

Shit! He swung his sword as best he could, his back on the ground, the blunt edge smashing into its lower leg, the ankle cracking. No wind was followed by the slash, the blunt side being unaffected by its unholy gifts, but the leg, rotten and holding up the entire weight of the enhanced upper body, cracked underneath itself, the Gear falling to one knee. It still held its weapon firm, and stabbed down into the ground, Darton rolling again, evading it. It plunged through the cement a few inches, by sheer strength of the creation, yet it was blunt, and a rather simplistic piece of metal, hardly sharpened, if any. When he rolled to the other side, the other two Gears were there, both trying to attack him. He fended off one blow, but they both came at once, feeling a blade dig itself into his lower right leg.

"Gyah!" he screamed, a bit of blood from his jaw spurting out in his pain, from a Gear before who landed the blow on his face. The blade stuck itself through the fleshy area above his knee, at a slight angle, denting along the bone he could feel, twinges of increased pain shooting again. Enraged and enthralled by the pain shooting through him, but also serving as a method to get faster, move better, do more, he slashed at the Gear who had stabbed him. His sword missed it by two feet, but the accompanying blast didn't. It shot back fifteen feet, whirling as it met the ground, the unforgiving cement ripping flesh from its bones, blood and sinew trailing as it rolled, finally stopping some thirty five feet away, its momentum stopped by another body of a fallen Gear. There was now a Gear to his left and to his right, two left. Though, he was still on his back, and that wasn't a very good position.

The one on his right walked on one leg, the other hanging limply and broken, unable to be stood on because of a statistical weakness in its balance. On his left, the Gear was virtually untouched, one-hundred-percent. He watched both intently, waiting for an attack, but they only walked around him, waiting for him to move. Obviously, programming updated itself, his sword analyzed and now renounced and taken into account in their battle programming, not a good thing for Quint. If he tried to get up, he'd be vulnerable, they'd attack, but he was also in a bad position lying down, but he had the sword, though it wasn't whole proof security. A blaze of blue caught the side of his eye for a moment, the lightning illuminating the corpses of both Gear and man in the invading young sunlight.

Ky, who started with three, one only had one left, the one whose back he cut open, and then the one who ripped the railing off. His third, and last Gear was a smaller one, more nimble, though not by much. It stabbed consecutively, recanting its own arm, then stabbing again, Ky swinging his own sword in an arc to blow off each of the attacks. He found himself having to evade more, tiring him down, his legs ready to just crumple and him fall, but he wouldn't let them. Backing Ky to a wall, it stabbed again, Kiske jumping to the side, and the blade glinting off of the cement, the Gear temporarily stunned by the shock. It ended up being the Gear's death, as a long slash across its body, followed by a quick stab through its upper chest left the Gear twitching on the floor, pooling the globs out of the open wounds, like old milk left our for days being poured out.

"Quint!" he said, his eyes capturing the last image of the dying Gear, switching to the reddish uniform, brown also from the stale blood all over it, few spots of white left, the green trim immediately telling him it was Quint. Two Gears stood above him, each on parallel sides of him, slowly circling. As one got to his right side, the other was at his left, one at top, one at bottom, circling him. Darton's eyes shot back and forth, tracking one Gear, then the other, his right hand gripping the sword tightly, keeping his knife in the corner of his eyes as it sat lifeless on the floor. He looked like a cornered timid animal, his head shooting back and forth eventfully, scared an unsure, but ready to attack if he needed.

One Gear circled to his feet, the other above his head, continuing turning. A blue light filtered around the frame of the Gear at his feet, under its arms, between its leg, haloing around its head, then it shot forward, like it was being pushed forward by a small pin on its back, the entire body snapping backward as its front end shot forward, the body then toppling on top of itself as it smashed into the ground. Darton rolled to one side, the carcass smashing down, a cindered hole where its spinal chord should have been. He looked back, Kiske running up, sword in a stabbing position, tip pointed straight at him. A brief second of happiness, salvation, even thankfulness, then pain, utter pain. He had forgot about the other Gear for that brief second, and it cost him.

He felt his body being picked up, a pain spreading from across his left shoulder, already broken, but a new pain. His body convulsed, the sword dropping from his hands, echoing its metallic cry as it hit the ground, bounced and rolled off of the edge, hitting more floors on its way down before it compounded with Floor A, a distant memory of an echo, all sound and sight blocked out from the pain. The Gear held him up by his shoulder, one massive hand lifting him like a doll. It had analyzed and knew the broken shoulder, and gripped tighter, the massive hand's strength shattering the bone even more, fragments of it floating among the sinew and blood gooping underneath his purple skin. He felt being shook side to side, then weightlessness.

The monstrosity threw him off to the side, the railing passing underneath him, seeing Floor F in the side of his eyes before it disappeared.

"Darton!" Ky said, his sprint continuing, watching the body disappear over the edge. He screamed again with anger, attacking the Gear who had its eyes transfixed over the railing where it threw the meaningless human. Ky smashed into it with his shoulder, knocking it back a little, then slashed across its chest, cutting through sternum and ribcage alike. The Gear stood still for a second, the flesh around the cut turning black and curdling backward, burning itself from the point of intrusion of the blade along till the end. Its breath escaped, then it slowly fell backward.

A few deep breaths from Kiske, blinking, thinking, the adrenaline in his blood unsure of what to do. That was the last Gear, but...what, what now? Darton. He dropped the Fuuraiken by instinct and ran to the edge of the railing, both hands gripping the cold steel. You'll say "Why did he drop his sword? Isn't that his prize above all else?" Yes, but you've got to remember the Gears are dead, and that he was looking for Darton, coupled with exhaustion, I doubt his body could pick it up after that.

His eyes looked down, seeing a small set of fingers, latched across the edge of Floor F. Where he was thrown was more of forward and across the railing, near where the previous Gear had fallen and ripped out the railing. His right hand grasped around one of the exposed metal cables, the rest of its brethren still encased in cement. They were there to guide and pour cement around, an added support, and a guide for the building process.

"Darton!" Ky said, a hoarse voice and exhausted fatigue helping him fall to the ground where the solitary hand held on. He peered his head out further, seeing the body hanging onto the pole. His head was looking down, his hair covering over his face, as it normally did, the ominous feelings behind it not seen or shown, but that is how he generally preferred it. On hearing his name, he looked up slowly, his brown eyes piercing through the matted hair and sweat glazed face, pale and dazed. "Give me your hand, I'll pull you up!" Kiske pleaded, extending his arm, bits of pain shooting from his back.

"...No." he responded, looking back down as he mumbled it.

"What!" Ky yelled back, lying completely flat, trying to reach out to his hand. Darton's left hand hung idly by his side, his right his only lifeline.

"...Go away." Darton said without resolve, a tone of morbid solidness in it.

"You trying to die!" Ky yelled, pushing out further with his arm, fingers fleeting across the ruffled fingerless glove of Darton's. Silence was his response. "The hell's a-matter with you?" he struggled to say, a bit of his alternate self coming out in his words, desperate pleas.

"Kiske, I can't feel myself, I can't even feel the pain. It hurts, but it also doesn't. It's scary, how it feels so good, so numb, yet burning, in pain, like I can't stand it, yet I love it." he said, looking back up. His voice was low and timid, very solid and concrete, yet at the same time, reaching out in every syllable. "Through all the shit, through everything, you're going to try and save me? I could as easily be an accounted K.I.A., and you can't save me anyway. What's wrong with you?" Kiske couldn't answer, he had no answer, only re-asking for Quint's hand.

"You're not going to die on me! Not after this entire time, not now! We're at the end, the Gears here are dead, salvation right there! Leave the Seikishidan, live your life, do whatever you want, but don't die!" he pleaded, the death catching up with him, all of the nameless, faceless soldiers flashing before him. "You said to me on the elevator how would I know the difference in soldiers, how can I remember the sacrifices they made? You're Quint Darton, you may be an ass, but you're a soldier all the same, and you're not going to die to be remembered on a list of the dead." Ky said, in a like whisper, still reaching with his own arm, the pain in his back now far away and distant, his shoulder blades aching as he reached, but why he reached and for what more important than some bullshit pain.

"It's my time to die, for all your Godly crap, you know about that. You're going against what is meant," he said vehemently, the low whisper changing from a static desperation to anger now.

"Are you trying to die, here in front of me, after all this shit! No, I won't allow it! Give me your damn hand!" Ky said, anger furrowing across his brow and in his voice. "You can go to Troy, or where ever you said you were going to when you got out of here. Saying you'll get out, you quit, live a different life, I don't care, just don't die. Don't let yourself die. Hanging there, you have the choice of life or death, letting go or trying to reach, and it won't be death, not here, not now."

"Always doing the right thing to be a leader. For a boy, you sure have enough of the chivalry thing" he said, a stifled chuckle turning to a hoarse cough of exhaustion, lending an idea of more than just injuries, but a plaguing injury, infected possibly.

"Yes, I'm a leader. As a leader, I don't leave my men behind. You're a human, I don't care if you're a soldier, it's worth saving. You're worth saving. Give me your hand." he said angrily, forcefully. Darton looked up, his eyes determined. He nodded slightly, then let go. His fingers inched off, one by one, then he started to fall. "No!" Ky leaped forward, grabbing onto Darton's hand as he fell, his body weight jumping Kiske further forward.

"Let me go" he said venomously.

"Why are you wanting to die!" Ky said, his arm pulling the entire weight of Darton, but not moving, not coming up. He could feel his body sliding downward, his belt cracking along the cement, chipping against it and slowly sliding forward. He reached with his left hand, grabbing onto anything he could, trying to pull himself back futilely.

"I've not led a life worthy of praise, I've done nothing that was worth anything. This, here, fighting for survival and helping you, the others, to survive, was the best thing I've ever done, if that's fathomable to you. I feel better about myself, now knowing that I did something to save someone else. I've never done that ever before, I've been selfish, only thinking about myself, but here, fighting, I wasn't fighting for myself, I was fighting for the ones who died, for Jaygus, for myself, for you. Our lives, not just mine, but our. Dying now, wouldn't be bad, I would feel more complete than a day ago, when I woke up and the alarms went off." he said, coughing between words, his voice haggard and calloused.

"You're not going to die! You fought for all of us, and that's not something to die for!"

"Not something to die for? All of those other soldiers died for it, died for you, died for my life to continue. My life should be the same way, I see that now. Dying for a reason, a cause, is not a death that is bad. But, you'll die too if you help me, what then? Their lives a waste, a fucking waste." he coughed out. Kiske knew it too, his belt sliding again, the cement putting small cracks through it, the metal being scraped into, his body slowly sliding off of the edge, his feet clinging to the cement he could. He couldn't pull Darton up, he would go down with him.

"Help me!" he yelled to the soldier hanging from the skylight, who seemed dazed by the situation, the happenings. He sat lifeless, watching. Goddamnit! Someone, help! God, help! "That's not true! Pull yourself up!" Ky told himself that it would work, but knowing the truth, wanting not to believe it.

"Let me go." he said again, more forcefully, vitality reflected in his voice.

"Have faith, hope! Don't die!" Ky screamed, slipping off more, bits of rubble knocking off of the railing, toppling down and over. Ky watched the pebbles out of the side of his eye, seeing Darton be those pebbles. Darton slowly snickered, seeing the fearful conviction in the eyes of the five-year-younger boy trying to hold him up.

"Let me go!" he yelled now. Ky shook his head, bits of sweat falling down, trying with all of his strength to pull, nothing happening. Darton then took matters into his own hands, slowly lifting his left arm, despite the broken collarbone, dislocated arm, it all was distant to him. He had to do it, it had to be done, nothing could be changed. He balled his left hand to a fist, eyes clenched in pain and waiting, and punched Ky's wrist.

"Don't!" Ky screamed, a bit of tears forming in his eyes, a mixture of pain, exhaustion, and Darton's choice. He punched again, Ky losing his grip, trying harder not to let go. Then, the third punch, Ky felt the punch hit into his wrist, the bones suddenly popping, not breaking or spraining, but hurting enough as to wear his reflexes softened his hand, and Darton slipped out of it. "No!" he yelled, watching Darton slowly fade down in slow motion. His face was not scared, not afraid of how he was falling backward, and his eyes closed in reverence. He fell faster, and faster each second, the second that seemed like an eternity fast forwarding, his body being enveloped in the darkness of the lower floors, sunlight not piercing down to them. He was gone. Ky lie there in silence for a minute, his hand still extended to where Darton's hand was seconds before, blinking a few times, his lungs unable to breath in and the echoing thump of his body hit below sealing his fate, the breath unable to enter his lungs.

He blinked, not able to understand, comprehend...tears falling like opalline reminders of his humanity, and everything sacrificed and worth the world, why everything happened as it has, a sullen memento. He slowly backed up away from the edge, still unable to breath, gasping hoarsely. He stood up slowly, took a step backward, another, and then fell backwards, his back sliding down to the ground, where he sat for a second, unable to speak or move. The weight of the world, on Atlas' shoulders became too much to bear, the world falling down, crushing him underneath, unable to stand, unable to move, the world itself the point of his own destruction, his own collapse. Muscles giving out, he failed himself, failed the world, coming crashing down upon his frail self he held up by his own shoulders, but was unable to hold it.

"Darton..." he whispered to himself in an inaudible plea. He's dead, he died for what...me? He died, he knew he was going to, I couldn't save him, if I held on tighter, if I just pulled harder, how could I...he chose death, it's not my fault...is it? I don't know, I can't think, God, not even you could for see this, how could he...how could you let him...how? How? Why? Ky brought his arms up to his face, both hands cupping over his face like a shield, the dark solitude to himself, and silently cried, for the deaths that were lost in the Seikishidan, for the Gears killed, for those killed by Gears, for the world in ruin, and for himself, crying for all alike for all reasons and creeds, there was nothing that could have changed that. A perpetuated feeling rose through him, billowing to every crack and character flaw. How? Why?

-X- Author's Notes –X-
- Zeronova's Notes:
- Yeesh, this is about 7 thousand words. Kind of long, but this is the official end of Arc I! Yay! But, we also have the death of Quint Darton, sadly. I hope I hit the tension, the feeling of loss and anxiety, how the world catches up with you once everything is over, how it all piles up on top, and bears down upon him. I didn't want it to come off shounen-ai, but just think of the situation in reality, how would it feel, how would it happen? Anyway, that was it, end of Arc I. Stay tuned for more DG in the future, it ain't ending here! Thanks to all of the reviews and help I've had to get to this point, and it isn't stopping, keep tuned next Monday.
-X- End Author's Notes –X-