V1 wonders, sometimes, in moments of peace, how its life might have turned out were it not for this. If, before being shut down and hidden away in a warehouse to wait out humanity's extinction, through some divine intervention, it had been whisked away to a softer, kinder world—what might it have become?
Perhaps it was always destined to bring the war with it wherever it would go. Better, then, to be trapped in a world already destroyed.
Or perhaps— perhaps this was not all that could have been.
But moments of peace are hard to come by in Hell, and always edged with a nauseating worry. Hyper-aware of the slow drip-drip as its fuel tank drains, it cannot afford to waste precious blood in idle contemplation.
It knows its life—if it could be so bold as to call this a "life"—is already over. The easy prey is all but gone, soon to be joined by the real threats (the closest anything can come to threatening it, perfect predator that it is.) And then—what?
A question for the future. It has enough concerns for the present. It is called ever-downwards—and how could it disobey?
"It's fitting, that I die here of all places."
Gabriel's back is turned, wings held low. V1, not for the first time, gets the impression it has missed something. That it has stumbled onstage mid-way through the play, trying now to make sense of a plot through hints alone.
He is a different person to the one it had faced not even a day prior. Gone is the noble Judge of Hell, the bright fire that burned in the Apostate of Hate. There's a pathos in his voice it had never heard before, tinged with a strange passion it cannot understand.
It does not know Gabriel, and so, logically, must feel very little at his transformation. Curious, perhaps, only at how this will shape their third encounter. It will not deny the satisfaction it has found in their previous fights—but it cannot know Gabriel. Yet—
Yet. It wonders what he thinks when he sees it.
What does he think it's like? He only knows it from the end of his swords, in minute-long slices of their dwindling lives. It can't respond to anything he says—does he know that? Does he take its silence as the attention of an eager listener (it pictures a flock of Powers gathered around him, greedily lapping up his every word), or perhaps a sign of disinterest? The latter is more likely, V1 would think if it were in his place. All it does is react. Waits patiently for him to attack, answers his strikes with its bullets but never—never—initiates.
"And what becomes of you, machine?" Gabriel chuckles softly, mournfully, to himself. "Only you will remain..."
It doesn't want this—no, that's not right. It doesn't want this. He speaks as though he's already dead, as though V1 hasn't spared him before and will spare him again.
He must have misinterpreted it. As long as he lives, he is a constant source of blood. Why would it kill him?
V1 swallows the slight pang of disappointment, realising that its favourite foe could be so mistaken. After all, how could it expect any different? He is generous to even view it as alive. For all he can prove, it really is an Object.
"I'm relieved to not be in your position."
Is that pity in his voice? Something twists in V1's gut. What need has it of his pity? The End of Hell may be fast-approaching, but it needn't believe that marks its end too. There are still machines out there, still angels. Still plenty of blood. V1 clutches its revolver a little tighter. It will not die.
It will not die.
Gabriel betrays no hint of fear. He welcomes his end unflinchingly.
"Step forward, machine."
V1 obeys.
Gabriel finally turns to face it. Looking down into its optic, he pauses and V1 swears it can feel him smile—not in his expression but in the infinite warmth of his soft sigh.
"Oh, my machine..."
V1 meets his gaze as though all he is to it is food.
"Make this all worth it."
V1 holds no reverence for its creators. Yet, when it reads the desperate words of souls crying for their God's mercy, some part of it aches in understanding.
Did they love it? The hordes of engineers and programmers and soldiers who, with painstaking effort, breathed life into its metal. Designed it to their highest standards, stitched and soldered its limbs together—unerring in their plans. They knew—they must have known—that this next stage of war given flesh in their workshop would someday return, kill them in their homes.
Did they love it?
Before it first woke and learned hunger, someone held it. Someone could trace every not-yet-blood-filled vein in its cold chassis. They believed in it. Genuinely, hopelessly. Into its frame they poured all their naive dreams of—what, exactly? Victory or peace? The two could not be further apart; they had yet to realise that.
They could have built anything, and they chose to create it.
V1 rips through another horde of Filth. It was not a mistake they would make twice.
V1 had not registered Gabriel unsheathing Splendour and Justice before it's high in the air, dashing barely in time to dodge his next two strikes. He's quicker than before, yes, but there's more to it than that. There's a surety in his movements now, like he's savouring every attack.
Lightning-fast, it flicks a coin behind him and fires its railcannon, sending the electric burst piercing through Gabriel skull once, twice. First blood. He barely flinches, raising his sword for another blow. But V1 is already darting aside, shooting a magnet square into his abdomen before unleashing a barrage of nails. It's on a roll.
Gabriel barks out a laugh. "Yes!" he cries, "More!" But V1 isn't listening, taking his pause as an opportunity to fire a shotgun core straight into his chest. He staggers, and it wastes no time shooting him again, and again, and once more to be safe.
Its winning streak doesn't last long, though. In a flash, Gabriel is gone, V1 losing track of him entirely until he lunges at it from above. He manages a nasty slash into its shoulder before it can dodge, its blood mingling with his in the snow.
"Come on, machine!" he bellows, "You can do better than that, surely!" Undeterred by his taunt, it counters with another onslaught of nails. The fight is on, and already V1 has forgotten the melancholy of his pre-battle monologue. All that exists, as far as it's concerned, is this eternal moment, itself and Gabriel the only two beings who could possibly matter.
On it goes, metal against metal, and V1 wonders if Gabriel noticed how close his last strike brought it to death. It betrayed no panic, barely even perceived the red gushing from its body before whirling around, sawed-on in hand, to soak up all his delicious blood once more. The moment doesn't last long; Gabriel teleports away before it can drink its fill. But V1 is wise to his tricks now, and his stab connects with nothing but the ice underfoot.
It has learned never to take victory for granted. The battle is not won until its enemy is unambiguously dead, and not a moment before. A fight can turn sour at a moment's notice, and getting arrogant will all-but-ensure that. That being said, looking at Gabriel now, it knows this battle is already over. His fate is sealed; the rest is a mere formality. Gabriel knows it too, but, still, he goes in for another blow; V1 misses its parry and the blade rips through its arm. A stupid mistake. It can't afford to get careless again.
Leaping backwards out of range of Gabriel's swing, it charges up a piercing shot and—bullseye. That's all it takes.
In total, the fight lasts less than sixty seconds. Just one perfect, adrenaline- and blood-fueled minute. They had barely managed to find a rhythm to their dance—then it was over.
V1 had not spent long in Hell before it realised that the persistent feeling of being watched was not, in fact, paranoia. It took no time at all for Hell to notice this unparalleled hunter falling into its stomach. Its eyes are everywhere, and all were pointed at its newest star.
Initially, it could not stand it, the constant need to perform. It was built for efficiency, not style. Yet, all the same, it soon found itself taking more frivolous risks, using precise and dangerous techniques when it should be prioritising safety. It was unnecessary, and foolish, and bafflingly fun.
Only when looking at the puppet-corpse of its mirrored double does it realise how the great monster through which it descends had moulded it to suit its desires. It had been mistaken to still view itself as mankind's steadfast child. It had already betrayed its purpose, become nothing more than Hell's entertainment.
It could forsake its audience. It has no need of its attention, it can kill perfectly well alone. It can live without fun.
But it won't. Because, for reasons it cannot quite decipher, it finds the thought of Hell abandoning it sickening.
It steps over the corpse to face its next gift. It has no choice.
Gabriel hits the ground and V1 is already on top of him, soaking up his fresh blood before it gets wasted on the greedy, treacherous snow. The worst of it seeps from a yawning gash in his abdomen, where it had lodged that magnet. It barely even recognises its dear enemy sprawled wearily beneath it, so intoxicated by the excess, the luxury of this banquet.
"Ah..." he breathes. It is not the moan of the soon-to-be-dead, but rather a light gasp, as though he has been relieved of some great burden. "Thank you, machine..."
That knocks it out of its ecstasy. The disgusting finality in his voice...
The angel wants to give up, does he? He thinks the fight is over, that he gets to rest?
V1 shoves two fingers into the wound—Gabriel yelps, shoots up.
This is not over yet.
"M— Machine—!" he stammers pathetically. V1 digs deeper, the soft, warm, wet flesh yielding beneath its fingers. Drained as he is, he makes no effort to retaliate. He lies there, its trapped quarry, subject to its will. Pinning him to the ground with its knees, digging deeper into the wound, it feels him shiver, hears him try to suppress a moan. He is uncharacteristically—maddeningly—delicate in this state, pliable muscle giving way to the smooth, silky tissue of organs. V1, in its rapture, dares not treat him with any gentleness. Hand drenched in his overflowing blood, it makes sure Gabriel feels everything it is doing.
It thrusts in a third finger and, oh, if only he were not wearing that helmet. It wants nothing more than to see his face twist in anguish as he lets out that irresistible, agonised whimper.
But something still nags at the back of its mind. Even this is not enough.
It does not want his effortless submission. He has become docile, another worthless blood bag to be eviscerated and forgotten. In fact, to V1's bewilderment, he seems to lean into its touch. He wants this, it realises and resists the urge to tear him to scraps there and then. After the fury, the passion of their battles, how could he just give in?
It rips its hand out from the wound with a spurt of blood, earning another satisfying cry from the angel. With its clean hand, V1 pulls out its revolver. That gets Gabriel's attention. It sticks the cold metal against his exposed stomach, fingering the trigger, daring him to react.
Meeting its unwavering gaze, Gabriel finally comes back to himself. He lets out a breathy laugh. "Oh, machine! I had no idea that you were capable of such—such," he trails off, unable to find the right words. "To think, this is what you wanted. Very well" — with what must be his last reserves of strength, Gabriel, in one fluid motion, kicks V1 off, unsheathes Justice, and pins the machine between his legs, sword held trembling at its throat — "if this is what will satisfy you."
Divine blood gushes from his abdomen onto V1's chassis. Motionless, though still gripping the pistol, it stares at his blade. Too exhausted and pained to hold himself upright, he leans over it, panting.
"And here I thought you could let me die in peace." He chuckles again. "No... no, that's not you at all. You'll bleed me until there's nothing left."
It should be panicking, at the mercy of the enemy. One flick of the blade and it's dead. If it were anyone else with the sword to its throat, V1 would already be dashing out of their grip, covering its exit with a hail of bullets. But V1 is not scared now. Not with Gabriel.
If anything, this position is better. Now all his wounds spill directly into V1's veins. It doesn't even have to try, drenched in his gore.
"It's hard to imagine," Gabriel begins, pushing the sword's tip a little closer to its throat, "how all this destruction could be wrought by this meagre thing." V1 feels the sharp scratch of the blade creep downwards, following the contours of its chest. It braces for him to stab, and Gabriel must notice its sudden tension because he chuckles softly. "Are you afraid, Machine?"
Yes. No.
Yes, it is afraid—but in an enticing way, in a way that has it aching for more.
Rather than thrusting his blade through its chest, Gabriel inches it further down, grazing its blood-soaked stomach. Its heart rate spikes: it's too vulnerable there, veins and arteries spilling out where there should be armour (if it had been given any say in the matter.) Now it's V1's turn to be pathetic, clenching its fists to stop them shaking. Of course, Gabriel notices.
"Oh, sensitive are we?" he teases. He keeps the blade still, holding it against what he can't know is a major fuel line that should not under any circumstance be toyed with so flippantly. It's tantalising.
It should not just accept this from him. It is in real danger and it needs to run.
But when Gabriel hooks the fuel line under the blunt end of Justice and V1 feels the tug of it through its whole circulatory system, the last thing on its mind is letting this end. Its internal fans whirr louder, louder.
"I didn't think you'd be so easy to please," he purrs, yanking the wire hard. V1 arches its back involuntarily, fans humming in what it hopes he will understand as bone-deep bliss. "I didn't take you for the type. Then again, you must not get many opportunities down here."
Apparently getting bored of that particular wire, Gabriel spots a bundle of scarlet veins set deeper into its gut, hidden partially behind the little plating it does have there. His blade is not nearly slim enough to fit through the narrow gap, and ends up scraping through its interior plating. It flinches, blood pooling in the crevasse.
He jerks the veins up with the tip of the sword. V1's optic burns bright.
"That's all my blood in there, I presume." He chuckles and tugs again, and it worries that if he pulls any harder the veins might snap, sending blood bursting out. But, picturing the gory spray all over Gabriel's hands, V1 doesn't much mind the possibility. It's hardly in any danger of bleeding out, with him so generously refilling its fuel tank.
It's still overwhelmed imagining how much further he could take it—until suddenly he stops, Justice still hooked between its wires. He grunts and leans forwards, all his weight on one hand. For a moment V1 worries he's going to pass out on top of it, but he comes back to himself soon enough.
"M— My apologies," he mutters with some difficulty, "I... find myself, rather dizzy. You did quite a bit of damage, back there, m— machine."
Immensely disappointed—he's an archangel, he should be able to handle a bit of blood loss!—it tries to focus on the positives. He is powerless, vulnerable. Except now, after this delicious struggle, what it plans to do to him will finally feel earned.
V1 raises its hand to trace a bloody line across his cheek, with a tenderness that almost makes Gabriel recoil. It reaches his neck and claws into it, tearing through the exposed black skin. He shudders. Blood trickles down his throat, rains down onto its optic.
Slowly, it raises its revolver. He makes no move to stop it.
It holds the gun steadily to the centre of his chest. All the tension left in his body fades away, and all at once he becomes, again, the machine's obedient prey.
Justice falls to icy ground with a clank.
"I am yours, machine."
V1 pulls the trigger.
Gabriel screams and, instantly, V1, taking advantage of his distraction, grabs him and throws him back into the snow. Pleased to have the angel between its thighs again, it seizes his wrist and pins his arm above his head. He's not going anywhere.
Gabriel has evidently lost any trace of self-control still remaining at the start of their encounter, as, when V1 thrusts its free hand into the fresh wound, he makes no effort to bite back his howl.
"Ah— Ah! Machine!" He can barely get the words out. "Don't— Don't stop." Like it had any intention to.
It digs through fractured chunks of ribs and mushy, burnt flesh, momentarily envying the Filth for their gaping mouths, their jagged rows of teeth. What it wouldn't give to bite into him, to tear that sweet, succulent flesh apart with its own jaw! It must remain content with its claws alone.
And that's when it finds it: the angel's heart. It thrums frantically against his ribcage. An invitation. Gabriel gasps, feeling its fingers wrap around it.
V1 shutters its optic, blocking out everything else so it can remain singularly focused on the texture of his slick-wet flesh, warm and plump and succulent. It brushes its fingers over the smooth bumps and furrows where ventricle meets atrium and artery, savouring the feel of the pulse quicken—faster, faster, faster.
But now it pauses, heart still twitching in its fingers. Because, shouldn't Gabriel have healed a little by now?
Of course, he's withstood far worse than this and come back fine, ready to face it again. But in those prior encounters, he had shown regenerative abilities rivalling its own, shallow cuts closing up almost as soon as the flesh was broken. Now, though, blood that should have long-dried still seeps from his abdomen, and it worries that it has missed something very important. Suddenly, V1 no longer wants this.
He was supposed to be able to take this.
When it feels the frenzied thrum of his heart, so delicate in its grip, it is almost overwhelmed. Just moments prior it had relished in his submission; now it can't bare how fragile he is. How hopeless he must be to trust it. It would be so easy to just—squeeze its fist. Crush it, feel the clotted mush of flesh and blood ooze between its fingers, and watch him die with V1 still inside of him.
It freezes up, disgusted with itself for even entertaining the thought. But the image won't leave: his weak, exposed heart, a worthless red pulp in its fist. It tries and it tries to think of anything else—if it could just recapture the pleasure it gained from this very same sense of power not a minute ago!—but all of its mind is consumed by how easy it would be, trivial to just, clamp its claws down, twist its wrist, feel the flesh give way, and— and—
"Do it already, machine!" Gabriel shrieks, sending V1 into a panic because how could he ask that of it! Yes it wants to hurt him, it wants to feel him writhe beneath it and revel in his screams, drenched in his own blood. But it had assumed—not without cause!—that if things got truly dire, he could always run back to Heaven to heal. If it had known that, for whatever reason, he wouldn't—well, it still would have indulged a little, but it never would have taken it so far.
It likes Gabriel. It likes him a lot, it realises. And it can't stomach this any more.
"Goddammit, you piece of shit just do it! Do it!" he screams again, but V1 can't focus on his words. It loosens its grip on his arm and hopes that somehow, somewhere in its blank optic, Gabriel can tell that it desperately does not want him dead.
As gently as it can, it pulls its hand out from his chest. He involuntarily whimpers as it exits.
They stare at each other for one aching, wordless second.
"W— what the fuck was that..." he manages. He takes moment to regain some composure, before letting out an exhausted, humourless laugh. "Even now, you insist on prolonging my torture?"
He doesn't understand at all. Of course he doesn't. How could he?
Hesitantly, V1 lets go of his wrist and lies down on the snow beside him. It barely feels the stinging cold on its side, laser-focused on the slow rise and fall of his chest.
"Please, machine. Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Then I do, I beg of you, please—let this end."
It does not move.
"Please!"
Suddenly, it finds itself getting very tired, the energy gained from its blood-filled rush all spent.
"Or— would you prefer I kill you first?"
What?
"It would be mercy." Voice edged with grief, he continues, "How long will it take you to starve? I offer you release."
No! it wants to scream—but its loving creators had not seen fit to bestow upon it the gift and curse of a voice. It will not starve. It will find—something. Some new source. And when it is depleted, it will simply find another. It has plenty of time.
V1 tries to ignore how his ooze of blood has noticeably slowed, angelic heart pumping weaker and weaker and weaker.
"Do you really want this?" he persists, almost desperate now. "There is nothing left for you. Would it not be better to die full?"
It would be.
V1 barely manages to complete the thought before it's panicking again. It cannot entertain this any longer. Death is failure and it was not built to fail. Gabriel is wrong to think any differently, and if he seems to long for it, it is only the blood loss clouding his judgement.
It looks at him, really looks at him, for maybe the first time. His armour is smeared with gore and plastered with deep scars from their battle. But still, reflecting the snow and ice, it nearly glows. It must have been beautiful. No wonder he was so widely adored—is so widely adored. It pictures him standing radiant in the halls of Heaven, whatever they may look like, and almost falls in love.
It reaches towards him, and cups his cheek in its palm, staining it with yet more blood. It is the most gentle touch it will ever give.
"I... I fear I will never understand you." But still, he leans into it.
A faint glow begins to shimmer from under his armour and, instantly, something inside V1 breaks. Because this can't be it, it can't be over already! He can't leave it, condemn it to eternity alone with Hell, or— or worse. If he leaves then he's right: there is nothing left for it. And he can't be right.
It's shaking now, because he's getting brighter and it's just like the Powers and the Prime Souls and he's almost gone, he's almost gone. In its fear, it barely notices him place his hand over its own, and hold it so, so gently.
"Machine..." he mutters. And that's it.
It is far less of a spectacle than the deaths typical to V1's foes. The light burns brighter until it loses sight of Gabriel entirely (but it doesn't shutter its optic; it will not let him leave its sight.) The fire dissipates, and all that remains is pristine armour, abandoned in the cold.
In the stillness that follows, V1 takes a moment—just one, silent moment—to look at the empty armour.
And then it is over.
No use in lingering here any more: the clock is still ticking.
It stands up, brushes the snow from its knees, and continues downwards.