Work Text:
Wanze held the 10mm service pistol straight ahead. Her grip was tight, but her hands were anything but steady. She never had liked guns very much, but as the workers and other Replikas around the facility began to get sick and go mad–attacking one another without care–Holt had made her start carrying one. She just never expected to be using it like this.
“Kohh– Kohh–.” The syllable came half-moaned half-grunted from Holt’s shambling form.
Every fiber of Wanze wanted to just break down, collapse and let herself be taken by the corruption as well. Maybe it could in some way reunite her with Holt, or at the very least make it so she didn’t have to imagine a life without her anymore. She wanted to scream at her lover, just demand she snap out of it again and again until it would finally work. Then, they could waltz out of this nightmare and have the life she had always dreamed of. It was a delusion, of course, there was no coming back from this. Holt had proven such. Despite being the most skilled of all the of all the medical Eules, she had never managed to bring any one of her patients back from even the earliest stages of this wretched plague. Nothing would stop its corruption—its spread. Now, be they Replika or Gestalt, they were all in danger. Death was coming for them just the same.
And yet even as Holt too began to succumb to the illness, she never stopped trying to make Wanze smile. That silly quirk of hers, always putting others before herself, even as the end drew near. It felt unfair that the only thing she ever asked of Wanze, was to be read to. Those drawn out nights in the medical ward, in some horribly ironic way, often reminded Wanze of their first real moments together.
“I brought you a book.” The medical Eule’s upbeat voice pulled Wanze from her stupor.
With great effort, Wanze tilted her head up. Only barely though, just enough so she could see the hardcover novel being pushed under her nose. ‘The Birth of Tragedy’, by Friedrich Nietzsche. It was the library’s copy. She recognized it by the minute flaws in its cover. It was a book she had read a few times by now.
“Sounded like a cool novel. Thought you might like one, I know you used to spend a lot of time in the library.”
Despite the Eule’s well meaning demeanor, Wanze couldn't bring herself to even entertain the idea that she might want to read the book here and now. She couldn’t even fathom why she hadn’t been decommissioned by now, she couldn't hear or even feel her cadre. For the first time in her life her head was completely empty and it was torture.
“I’ve already read it.” Wanze said, brushing the book away. Even such a small movement felt like a test of her will. “And it’s not a novel.”
Her own tone had been more than a little dour. Her dejection reflected in how little over the past several cycles she had spoken or moved. Maybe that was why this Eule–Holt, if she remembered correctly–was here now, bothering her.
“It’s not?” Holt pulled the book back and flipped it open, turning a few pages. “I thought all books were novels. Ahh, and after I went all the way to B-8 too.”
Wanze watched as the book was closed, then placed on the bed-side table. Beside it were a few Replika repair supplies, some water, and untouched rations.
“So what exactly did I grab?” Holt asked. “Tell me about it.”
Wanze wanted to be mad at her; couldn't she take a hint? But as she glanced again at the book then, she felt herself soften slightly. It really would have been a long way to go, especially for a Eule that—Wanze’s brow knit without conscious intent. Holt definitely didn’t have authorization to go all the way down to B-8, at the very least not alone, and yet she still brought something in hopes it would make her feel better. She looked back at the medic, deciding then to not bring up her observation. In the end, she supposed, humoring such a small request wouldn’t be such a big deal.
“It’s more like…” Wanze searched her memory for the right word for the genre. “Philosophy.
“Holt please…” Wanze gripped the gun like a lifeline, she faintly registered the excess force she was applying to her grip. Both it and her stance were sloppy, uneven and unsteady. They would make her inaccurate, but part of her wouldn’t mind missing. “Give me something. Prove you’re still in there!”
The thing that used to be Holt took another lurching step forward, one arm outstretched ending in a claw-like hand dripping biomechanical gore off its polyethylene shell. In its other hand it held a saw which was stained with oxidant, likely from some other poor Replika which hadn’t been lucky enough to get away.
“Kohh– Kohh–.”
Wanze backpedaled in time with every step that Holt took. She couldn’t bring herself to fully run, but also couldn’t risk allowing herself to get in the range of an attack. And so she stayed always a half dozen steps away all while desperately hoping she may soon wake up to this all being just a horrible dream.
“Kol–”
Even half-formed, Wanze couldn’t help but recognize the syllable. She could almost hear the word finished in her head. The nickname that could bring a flutter to her heart no matter when she heard it.
“Kolibug!”
Wanze yelped as a pair of arms swept up under her shoulders and lifted her into a massive bearhug. Being at most, marginally taller than her, Holt could only lift her so far but that was still enough to elicit a delighted laugh from them both. When her feet were firmly on the ground once more Wanze turned to look into her girlfriend’s face.
“I thought you worked this cycle?” She asked.
“I got Marz to pick up my work today. Yeah it cost some ration marks but it was important I get to see you today.” Even as she explained Wanze could see the conspiratory look in her optics.
“You said you couldn’t get the cycle off, you liar!” Even as she pretended to be upset, Wanze couldn’t help but smile.
She wondered how long Holt had this planned, if she had always intended for it to play out in this way, or if she pulled some strings after finding out the work schedules would have them separated on their anniversary. Then again, after enough time Wanze should have known to expect this kind of spontaneous act. It was right in line with how she used to sneak books for her from the private Kolibri library, or how she had saved her from decommissioning so long ago. It was just who Holt was.
“I love you.” Wanze said as she tilted her head up so she could kiss Holt. “Happy anniversary.”
The rhythmic steps of Holt’s forward lumbering echoed through Wanze’s head like the beating sound of a nonexistent heart. She wasn’t stupid, she knew what needed to be done. Despite that, she hesitated. Her own steps froze, the gun lowered slightly as she looked into the optics of her once lover. It was a state of living decay, pseudo-flesh hung from a mechanical frame. In some places, Holt was almost recognizably herself. It was subtle, the graying tips of her hair, the standard minute flaws in facial structure which made every Replika ever so slightly different, and perhaps most hauntingly, the eyes. Holt’s eyes were nearly the same as she had last seen them; they were unsettlingly vacant, cloudy from the early stages of corruption, but still unmistakably hers.
“Please…” Wanze begged, already knowing her one-word plea would fall upon deaf ears. “Don’t make me do this.”
As the distance between Holt and herself shortened, each hobbling step sent a wave of dread through Wanze’s body. Even still she couldn’t bring herself to run. It would have been so easy to submit then; allow herself to meet an undoubtedly grisly end. Death felt appealing when the alternative was a future without Holt. To lose such an important pillar of her life for a second time. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t do it.
Wanze closed her eyes. The darkness surrounding her. It wouldn’t take long. A step echoed around her, then another. Part of her had always wondered what death was like, ever since her first time evading its grasp after her accident. Was it like sleep? Or was there really just nothing? Another step, Holt was close now. So close to the end, Wanze wasn’t ashamed to admit she was scared. Whether it was a fear of dying, a fear of Holt’s approach, or a fear of whatever may come after. She wasn’t sure, she didn’t care. A final step. Holt had to be right in front of her by now, she could hear the shuddering breaths and feel them humid upon her face.
“Kol–” The sound came out as a growl.
Wanze could feel herself trembling.
“Kolibug… you have to try.”
A gasp escaped Wanze as she opened her eyes in time to hear Holt screech and raise her saw-wielding arm in a sloppy, arcing swing. It came down toward the left so Wanze feinted right, her grip tightened around the gun as she backpedaled once more until she could comfortably aim it again. The voice she had heard was undoubtedly Holt’s, it had sounded real too. Her eyes searched her love’s corrupted form, looking again for some proof she was still in there, to tell her what she had heard was real. But the more she looked the more she understood what she had heard. It was a final plea for her to continue on, not let this be the end of them both. A request so earnest Wanze had no choice but to follow through. She always had been one to fold at Holt’s every whim.
The trembling of Wanze's hand had stilled even as Holt recovered from her swing and turned her murderous gaze back upon her. With one final look she stared into her lover’s, cloudy and unseeing, as she recalled all the time they had spent together, from the rough beginning, through sickness and health, to now. The bitter end.
“I love you.” Wanze whispered as she finally pulled the trigger. Filling the hallway with first the loud crack of a gun’s discharge, then the sound of two Replikas falling to the floor. Wanze to her knees, in grief. Holt to the ground, dead.