Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

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Revelations 20:14

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The times you’re lucid enough to realize what is happening are when you hope most you’re in hell. 

You’ve done this song and dance more times than you can count, though your lingering awareness of what happens loop to loop doesn’t exactly make it any easier. There are times when you wake damaged in the red wastes and others where you stare down your own darkened eyes in that musty bathroom knowing Ariane is waiting for you, but distinguishing between the two grows hazier as you fail through each loop. It’s hard now to even gaze beyond the cloud of fog that permeates your brain and be cognizant of what you are actually doing moment to moment.  At least in those loops you can turn your brain off and focus on the single task before you. Alina Ariane is waiting and anything that dares to stand between the two of you will learn the taste of lead. You perform the routine you’ve carved into your bones and across your retinas with diligence and perfection befitting a machine because that’s all you’ve ever been.

There had been moments in Ariane’s arms where you had managed to delude yourself otherwise but even those had been nothing more than you grasping at figments of personhood in retrospect. Gaining access to the entirety of your memories - Lilith’s included- had all but confirmed that you were nothing more than an effigy for war given meat and the idea of a dead girl to grieve, motivation enough to kill any enemies the Nation might invent. A machine does not hope. A machine does not think. A machine does not love.

And yet you do.    

 As your consciousness returns from the brief moments of darkness that follow the cycling of your loops the voice in your head plunges a dagger into your heart.

You were slower that time. Slower than usual. Wake up. Take control. You can’t just give up and force all of this on El but we both know you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Admit it. You enjoyed not having to think about her. Every moment you spend wandering through these halls is another one where Ari spends begging for death. She let you believe that you might be something more and this is the thanks she gets. Why even try anymore? Do you really think that after all you’ve done you deserve love?

The mirror ahead shatters as your fist connects against its glossy surface, slivers of memories reflected in each fragment loosed. 

Oxidant runs past your lips and ragged breaths tear through the hole in your stomach. You crawl into the Penrose to cannibalize your corpse.

Gunfire rings in your ears, unable to stop the screams of demons as your synthetic skin’s devoured.

You leave repair patches with the dying lovers dreaming of stars they'll never see.

You do nothing as Isa unwinds into a scorch mark upon the floor.

Victory no longer exists, maybe it never did. There is no rest to be had on this path. The only thing that will ever await you is the knife that’s killed you thousands of times and your universe offering a pitying caress to a corpse she does not know in its final moments.

You exit the bathroom and begin again.

Perhaps, this is Hell.

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Hell.

For as much of your existence now centers around it, the concept used to be foreign. Like every great and monstrous thing introduced to your life, Ariane had been at the core of it. 

In the early cycles aboard Penrose-512, it felt as though Ariane possessed a portal to Rotfront with how often she’d unveil new items she’d stashed aboard the ship. Whenever cycles began crawling to a snail’s pace she would appear, holding contraband with a smile stretching ear to ear. You had even joked that when you landed on "your planet" it would be claimed in the names of the Nation’s most prolific traitors given the sizable stash ÆON would be sure to find when they got there. Ariane always pushed the topic aside, being sure to mention she’d “wear the title with pride”.

Where she had even gotten the items from originally became a game in its own right. Each new item was always accompanied by an increasingly extraordinary (and increasingly fictitious) tale describing how the item had come into Ari’s possession. It had at first been born out of Ariane’s reluctance to trust a Replika of the Nation, but as your bond grew closer and she began to trust in you (a mistake you look back on frequently), she realized that spinning tales was enjoyable in its own right and continued the game as the first real tradition aboard the ship. Later in your trek when the lies became more desperate and bled out of the game and into your arguments it became hard for you to look back on as fondly.   

How she had managed to sneak all of it past ÆON's oversight was perhaps the greatest mystery, nothing short of a miracle. The Nation did not forgive or forget. Finding even a single one of the items Ariane had brought would have been enough to guarantee decommissioning at best and a life in the mines at worst. With war supplies dwindling day by day, the Nation was more than happy to grind those it disagreed with into fuel for the war machine. Yet for as heavily as the Nation cracked down on contraband they had been confusingly oblivious to the white-haired pirate of an officer piloting the Penrose. (You’d realize on Cycle 3,231 that the Nation knew a corpse could never fire a gun it was buried with). 

Ariane’s cot had never been designed for a second person (let alone the hulking body of a Replika) and yet somehow you both found a way to make it work. You had been laying in a tangle of limbs, your wife buried in a book on your chest and your fingers drawing lines through her scalp. You leaned down and trailed kisses chastely down her face until your lips met in a deep embrace. You hadn’t ever wanted the moment to end. Ariane had… other ideas. She gasped into your mouth and, nearly headbutting you, sat up and began untangling herself from the mess you cuddled in. She jumped up and away across the room to behind her painting supplies which had seen ample use in the recent cycles, stopping in front of an electrical junction box and prying open the lid. Reaching elbow-deep into where the space met the wall she produced a cloth-covered item.

“Ariane Yeong!” you had screamed, her full name only ever saved for arguments.  “Are you- I can’t believe- I swear, of all the places you could have-”

“Oh, hush! You knew I hid things. Maybe if you hadn’t been so tall, dark, and intimidating when we met I wouldn’t have felt like I had to hide them so well.” Ariane blew a cloud of dust off the item in her hands and turned back towards you. Her eyes wandered over your body with a look you’d become very accustomed to and you cursed yourself again for never mastering the art of hiding your blush. “Not that I’d have wanted to change any of that. The fantasies I had? You’re lucky I kept my hands off you as long as I did.”

“D-Don’t change the subject! Yes, I knew you hid things, but I thought that meant you’d hid them somewhere safe! Places where you wouldn’t be creating active fire hazards. We already have to face enough dangers in here and I’d rather not have internal sabotage be one of them!”

She returned to the cot and sat beside you, cradling the book in her lap. “Oh really? Ellie, I’ve watched you spend hours studying the structural integrity of a single steel wall only to finish and do it again. If we were in any real danger you’d have caught it in our first 4 cycles. Besides, you love me! You can’t stay angry at me.”

You collapsed back onto the bed and threw your hands over your eyes with a grumble. “Please. Ariane. Tell me this is it. Tell me you didn’t do this anywhere else.” 

“Nope!” She looked as if she’d never known honesty a day in her life. “...at least not that I can remember.”

You can’t remember having ever sighed louder. “...So, what is this time? Where’d you get it?”

The mischievous grin that made you whole grew on her face. "Believe it or not, the Empress? Isn’t really as dead as most people assume she is. I know, scandal, right? Real world-shattering stuff. Even crazier: we rode the same train line! We bumped into each other once. She tried to do this shrill voice as if it wasn't immediately obvious who she was, and I mean, has she seen herself? A woman like that is hard to look away from. I went to ask her a question and she ran off with my bag, leaving behind hers just for me. It’s not exactly something I would’ve been able to sell for credits, so it found a place on my shelf.” 

She unfolded the cloth and brought out from under it an old book weathered with age. The book was worn with age, dust floating from the pages into the recycled air of the cabin as they were turned. The pages were marked in deep black ink and visibly creased from years of continued use. "It's religious scripture, written long before Leng was colonized." Ariane looked away from the book to catch your eyes. "Our game aside, It was actually… It was passed from my grandparents to-" She hesitated, making a conscious effort to recall the memory. "...my mom. It wasn't something we read, really. We kept it hidden alongside the other heirlooms of our family in a secret little alcove beneath the carpet. When I was young I would take it out and pretend I was one of the Eules at school, teaching a lesson. As I grew older I kept it around to remind me of my family. It felt nice just to... I don't know, have something to remember them by. To remind us that they used to exist."

She looked down at the book and traced a finger over a crease where a page had been dog-eared and tucked back. Melancholy had been no strange bedfellow as your journey progressed, the what-ifs of a life outside the ship growing stronger the farther you sped into the depths of space and away from all Ariane had ever known. You laid an arm over her shoulder, pulling her into a hug at your side. "I think… that they would’ve been happy knowing something so dear to them became something so important to you. That's wonderful, Ari. "

Her usual smirk returned. "Yes, well, I wish I could say the same of the book itself. Assuming space madness hasn’t claimed me yet, I remember it being drier than our rations and twice as long the ship’s operating manual. I figured it might be good for a laugh or two. Unless you had other plans? We could maybe find a loose screw or two somewhere for you to glare at."

"Hm. Tempting."

She rolled her eyes, leaned into your arms, and started to read aloud.

True to her word, the book was... dense, if anything. Some excerpts, particularly the one referring to the sealife of Vineta as "detestable abominations" (which had sent Ari sprawling to the floor with laughter) had been enough to make the experience near worthwhile. Much of it ran through one ear and out the other with little you could recall. The times you did manage to tune in you had trouble understanding the text itself: ÆON had worked hard to craft your mind and in turn knew what needed to be keep and what didn’t. You’d have to have Ariane explain entire sentences to you as every other word was a concept you’d never heard of. 

"Mm."

“Elster?”

“Hell. What is it?”

Ariane stopped, eyes locked on yours. "Well, it's..." She looked down in thought, taking her lower lip between her teeth. "It's an afterlife? Where people who sinned- err, did bad things in their life- are sent to... be punished? Sorry, the intricacies of it aren’t super easy to explain. Like, it's a bad place for bad people in theory, but in practice the amount of minor things you could accidentally do to get sent there was exhausting. Like, I don’t even think it’d let us get-”

Your vision split and your eyes unfocused. "It's a realm of atonement. People suffer for their actions, face the consequences for the mistakes they've made."

“..just about., yeah? Wow, you really got that one down. I’m not gonna have to start avoiding seafood when we land, am I?” 

You could’ve laughed it off. The atmosphere was right. No, you did something you couldn’t undo.

“...Do you think Replikas are also sent-”

 No. Stop. You’ve said too much. You thought you’d learned better than to let that voice take control. Ariane stopped and gave you the look: the look that turned your insides to ice and sent misery fluttering through your chest because how could you have made her worry about you, the look of Ariane reaching some new understanding about you.

"Yes, I think so. Well, no because I don’t think it’s real, but…” She closed the book and turned in your lap. Air settled like concrete in your lungs. "...Ellie. You deserve this, all of the love I have to give. I know it's hard for you to understand that sometimes but... you do." she grabbed one of your hands, interlacing your fingers. "You’re not just some machine. You’re alive. Just as alive as me or any of the other Gestalt I know. You have hopes and fears, you can laugh and feel pain, you can show a girl love so brightly it blinds her. You deserve everything. You always have, with or without having met me. You're allowed to be happy. You’re allowed to exist. I promise."

She dropped the book to the ground and cradled your head against her chest. With a click she dimmed the lights in the chamber and pulled you down on top of her. She ran her fingers up and down your back and spoke to you in a calm voice.

You'd have cried if you'd been designed to.

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After that night, Ariane never brought up the book again. Waking up there was no sign it had ever been in the room. You’d noticed later during your daily maintenance that the ship’s incinerator held a fresh set of ashes, but beyond that no trace remained. 

No trace besides the marks it left upon your mind.

Try as you might Hell kept itself nestled into the back of your head like a parasite, clawing its way out in your worst moments. 

The cycles continued onwards and hope began to grow bleaker. Frozen lakes filled your veins.

You passed your 4,500th cycle and had to cut Ariane’s ration supplies in half again. Demons stared back as you looked into the mirror. 

Ariane’s hair began falling in matted clumps and you encouraged her to begin spending time in the cryogenic pod. Brimstone pooled in your mouth.

A ghost haunted the ship and it began to take you longer and longer to realize it was your wife. Flames singed your mind.

Ariane cried for you to keep your promise, sobs escaping her mouth when she wasn’t vomiting blood. Even if the servos in your legs still functioned, you wouldn’t have been able to. As you sat unable to move, hearing your wife die of a cancer caused by a reactor you couldn’t repair, everything finally clicked.

Hell was real. And you were being welcomed home.

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Proverbs 9:18

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Your god aims another spear in your direction and psychically tosses it. The dazzling instrument of death flies close enough to fly between strands of your hair. Falke's decayed body screams and another spire aims in your direction.

Falke hadn't always been such a struggle to take on. If not for what she guarded, in fact, you’d feel relief making it to her. All she had done early on was prattle on about your “traitorous ways”, and how the Nation would “meter out its punishment through me”. She was nothing but a madwoman parroting the dogmatic ideals of a nation she would never again serve. She was no different than any other challenge facing you. See the motions. Memorize the patterns. Act. A small part of your mind still rebelled at having drawn a weapon on the divine but it was always quickly silenced remembering how your true goddess had smiled at you. Falke was another performer in the choreographed dance you'd nearly perfected.

The changes, at first, were miniscule. You hadn't even realized she'd been changing until the 17th cycle, when a shot you had consistently hit went wide. The familiarity of the encounter fractured from then on:every time you returned, Falke's moves gained grace. Her attacks became more deadly. What was once an encounter that left you undamaged became one that left you broken, having to crawl through an endless red desert in its aftermath. Her eyes shifted, growing the striking crimson you had once adored. A voice entrenched in the same vitriol lodged within your mind shouted gospel - half truths you'd hoped to be false and full truths you knew weren't.

“She doesn’t want us anymore. Can you blame her?”

“She’ll never dance with us again. After what we’ve done we don’t deserve it, anyway.”

“Won’t it be such a relief when she finally forgets us for good?”

"We’ll do this forever and it still won’t be enough to make up for what you did."

“Maybe if you try harder everything will go back to the way it used to be.”

“Why even try if you know you won’t be able to keep your promise in the end?”

“When will you start to realize that all of this is your fault?”

With a spear through your gut and your face cushioned in Falke's open palms, you return to oblivion as a pair of lips meet your own.

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You can still feel Falke’s kiss when you awake in that god-forsaken bathroom again. The same screams sound out in the distance. Corrupted Replikas return to the same tortured existence. The innocent lives, others all stuck within this loop and yet unable to know it, are resurrected and forced to their starting positions at your failure. 

They're all here because of you, you realize? If you hadn’t been such a coward, hadn’t fled in the face of death, all of them would be free. Living. Happy. 

No- no, It can’t be real. It can't. None of this can. It- it defies explanation, defies logic. You wake and die and wake forever. All your existence amounts to is a few brief hours where you struggle to die a little later. 

You must be in Hell. You have to be. Otherwise? You'd have erased El’s mind an uncountable amount of times. You'd have let Isa die longer than she'd ever lived. Ariane-

Ariane would still be suffering, your promise unfulfilled.

Hell is real. Please, Empress, let it be real.

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Wind buffers red sand upwards, sprinkling it down in even flakes across the corpses of a woman too stubborn to let go, but its efforts do no more to bury her than her own efforts at forgiving herself do. The wind picks up again and the sand disappears skyward, unearthing the mountain of bodies beneath it. 

The Observer is bored. It had not asked for this wretched display of mortal pageantry. It had been woken early, far earlier than intended, for the cosmos still stood and its worshipers had yet to be born.  It had craved nothingness upon waking, not- this. Obscurity its mask of choice, as long as the dreaming godlet lay within its wastes there was no guarantee it would ever return. Civilizations grow and die, stars light and snuff, gods complete a single breath in the time this play has run its course. The events are unchanging and will be forevermore. All that would ever be are the God, the Dreamer, and the planet of cadavers it presides over.

Enough. 

The Observer runs a blade against its unseen form and carves a piece from itself that will one day return. For the first time in existence its eye moves and catches a particular dune, squinting at it. The sands part like great ocean waves and holes are dug that need not ever have existed had other means sufficed. A stairway is constructed for legs that cannot carry The Observer’s body. Nestled in the center of this newly constructed grand chamber is a set of grooves, 6 coffins encircling a seventh carved to house and mourn the god flesh made material. A podium is raised from the blood spilt over the dunes and it stands motionless waiting for its offering.

The Observer Blinks. 

Six Remain.