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“You know, nights like these are always the best. When you can see everything for miles, all the stars and planets dancing in the skies... ‘ts my favorite part about Angelia.”
“Yeah, yeah. You say that every time there’s a clear night.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
“Sure as hell makes you sound like a broken record.”
“Well then, you better not get tired of my voice.”
The first man laughs, the second grumbles. He doesn’t have the strength to answer “I could never.”
But he certainly thinks it.
Robert Taube holds a flask full of moonshine in one hand and dogtags in the other, chain wrapped tight around his fist as the metal digs into his palm. The alcohol burns with each heavy swig he takes, but it’s a sensation he’s learned to love.
Angel City was cold and damp, the rooftops were still slick from the earlier rain, and the streets were empty of loiterers. But the skies had cleared. Yeah, they had cleared up nicely...
MacAllan is sat next to him, on top one of these slanted rooftops- specifically the one above his bar- but his own hands are empty of alcohol. He’d never been a big drinker, always worried about reaction times and dropping guard. Sometimes Barker bitterly wondered if he had ever been a person before becoming a soldier, or if he was always so uptight even before the IMC.
But that would be hypocritical, considering the gun he keeps stashed beneath his pillow every night.
The pink cherry blossoms of the city’s native trees decorate the wind as it blows against their backs. It makes Barker shiver, the jacket around him and the liquor in his system barely fighting off the bite. Mac hardly seems to mind it, instead humming as he gazes out into the distant city.
“What do you think?” He breaks the silence, like he always tends to, eyes focused on the pillars of distant skyscrapers looming far off in the distance.
“Hmm?”
MacAllan waves a hand in front of him, then pointedly gestures to the giant billboard with his face on it. “About all this. The IMC is hunting you down, you know. And you’re sitting right under their noses.”
Drunk is implied, but not outright said.
Barker looks at the- frankly horrid looking- image of his own smiling face, caked with defiance and rebellion, with a nice sum of money listed below in bright red text. “Hell, I’d turn myself in for that much.” He jokes, but it doesn’t really sound like one.
MacAllan frowns. He’s been doing that a lot, lately, as he tails Barker around this corrupted city. “You oughta be more careful. God knows what they’re gonna do with you if they catch you.”
He holds back on making another not-quite-joke about his best guess being a firing squad. Mac never liked ‘em, the killjoy. Instead he smiles with an amused huff. “So long as I’m supplying these people good whiskey, I’m as good as gone to the IMC.”
“Don’t even get me started on the alcohol.” Mac shakes his head, glaring at the little flask held in Barker’s calloused hands. “You need to quit that shit. It’s not good for you.”
“Yeah? Well neither is killing yourself just to blow up a goddamn gas station.” Barker bitterly mutters, fist clenching around the old, worn down chains in his hand. His breathing is heavy and uneven suddenly, and the moonshine in his stomach makes him feel like he’s gonna throw up. But that might’ve just been the spiteful words spilling from his mouth.
James sighs. “Rob, I-“
“No, no.” Barker cuts him off, too drunk to give a damn anymore. “I don’t wanna listen to your shit, Mac.”
The night is quiet, Barker's breaths start to resemble something awfully close to sobs. He grips his flask tighter, and drowns himself in another burning shot. James watches him with sad eyes.
“You know it had to be done...”
“Shut the fuck up.” Robert gasps with a weak hiss. He can’t stand to look at the bastard. The way his face is down-turned with sorrow, bright eyes clouded with pity.
He misses how they used to look at him. He misses how James used to think of him. But that was his own fault, wasn’t it?
Robert’s legs dangle over the edge of the rooftop, the flask hangs between his fingers loosely. He can’t tell if he wants to blame it or himself for the man he’s become.
“I cared about you. You know that, right?” James whispers.
Barker wants to scoff. “Doesn’t feel like that,” he thinks resentfully, and then hates himself even more for lying. He sighs instead, shutting his eyes as the cold night air brushes against his back. He can almost imagine it's James’ gentle touch, if he delusions himself with enough alcohol.
“Then why’d you leave?” He whispers right back.
The tags burn in his palms.
They aren’t his.
A comet blurs past Angelia’s sky. He knows it’s a remnant of a planet long gone.
There was never any second man on that rooftop.
“Why’d you leave me?” Robert shuts his eyes, tears finally shedding from his red rimmed eyes. “You glory-seeking bastard. We could’ve found a way.”
He wants... Fuck, Barker needs to get off this rooftop. He can’t bring himself to look at the painfully empty spot next to him, where James had just been moments ago. The moonshine in his hand whispers tauntingly, and in a spur of the moment bout of fear he chucks the flask off the roof and stands on shaking legs, backing away.
Distantly he can hear the metal clang against something far off, but nothing else comes from the impulsive throw. His breathing is ragged, he can feel himself shaking.
“Fuck, Mac...” He runs a hand through his greasy hair, looking wide eyed out into the dark abyss of Angel City below. The dogtags jingle like bells in his hand, and he raises them to gaze at their printed text.
MacAllan, James
I.M.C. Executive Officer
15.4.25.19.19.5.25
AB+
Time was a blur, ever since Demeter. How long has it been? Since James ran off and sacrificed himself for the good of the Frontier? Since Barker found these tags lying on his bedside table, waiting for him, after?
Mac was the one in possession of Demeter’s plans. Mac was the expert on the planet’s weak points. He knew, didn’t he? That there really was no other option. He’d planned it, and like the selfless idiot he was, determined he was the only one that could go through with it.
He’d known he was leaving Barker behind. Planned on it. How was he any less of a suicidal asshole than Robert?
He raises his hand, rearing it back as if to throw the damn metal in the same way he had his flask, but it falls back to his side just as quickly with a tired sigh. “You’re an ass, you know that?” He mutters, staring down at the tags, which seemingly stare right back. Barker shakes his head, then unravels the chain and settles it around his neck, where it always sits these days.
“Guess it’s why I loved you.”
Barker leaves the rooftop the same way he came up. Alone.