Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wherever No.9 walked, he always felt the shadow of death looming close behind him.

With each and every struggle the M Squadron were forced to endure, entire lifetimes of his comrades shattered apart at his heels, leaving him alone to pick up the jagged pieces and reconstruct them anew with bruised fingers.

Every time he witnessed it, they lost a fragment of themselves, deepening the cracks that penetrated their sense of self. Only No.9 remained unscratched amongst the scarlet remnants of their souls that scattered across the battlefield.

Such a gift was the envy of his peers. He knew it from the wayward glances he received from No.3, or the derisive comments he was subjected to from No.6. The others treated him with more practiced gentleness, taking care to thank him for his unrelenting efforts to unite their bodies and souls, only to stand by and watch them plunge once more into the fray of battle, their scars still fresh.

No.9 didn’t want their gratitude, nor their contempt. He just wanted to belong. He wanted to taste the iron in his mouth and the pounding in his veins as he gave his all in the bloodied struggle.

He felt it when he found himself suddenly buried under the earth, the grit choking his lungs and the heavy rock pressing hard against his metallic joints until they threatened to break under their weight. It scared him at first, the sensation of fight-or-flight butterflying in his stomach, but there was a compounding thought that frightened him even more as he laid there awaiting for his inevitable rescue.

He wanted to embrace death just as they did.

It was a selfish, dark desire that he always held close to his chest. After all, the entire reason he existed was to protect the other combat models who threw themselves into the flames of war. He was set to serve eternally in the backlines, preparing only for the worst outcomes to play before his eyes. If he died too, he would be responsible for the loss of those loose fragments that still held them together as a group.

He would amount to nothing more than a failure for them. He could never bear such shame, not when they relied on him for such an important duty.

Yet, the shadow of death lingered, stretching farther and deeper as he walked his path. Just the thought of watching his teammates lose their lives and waking once more with that expression, tainted with the sharp pang of loss and despair lingered heavily on his mind.

It was perhaps more than a little strange that in a moment of despondence he began seeking the company of the one who walked the closest to death out of all of them.

“Hey, No.2?”

The squad were currently set up camp in the mountains, awaiting for their exit strategy to be outlined by the appointed strategists of the group, Instructor Black and No.21. The cavern winds blew through No. 9’s white hair, sanding it in black flecks of dirt.

No. 2 was hunched over, set apart a fair way from the others and peering at his wrist with a hint of anxiety. His expression was mostly hidden by the high collar of his jacket and the strip of cloth that fit snugly around his eyes. Despite sharing a similar frame to No. 9, his body seemed to be built a little sturdier, which he supposed was due to him being the new prototype Defender unit. Having a slightly bigger build would prove beneficial in absorbing enemy attacks meant for the weaker models.

No.2’s body was essentially built to withstand pain for the sake of the others in his charge. Unlike No.9, who was a Healer unit built solely to piece others together, he was designed to slowly fall apart.

No.9 detested the very thought.

After a protracted pause, No.2 ripped his gaze away from his wrist, shoving the sleeve of his jacket firmly over his knuckles. “Sorry, No.9. I was distracted.” He offered the Healer an unconvincing smile.

No.9 slowed his pace towards him, reaching but a few meters apart. “It’s your wrist, right? Is it still hurting?”

No.2 had sustained a sprain injury a couple hours earlier, something No.9 was being more than a little careful in monitoring. Particularly as he noticed how much it seemed to vex the Defender unit since their meeting.

“It’s really fine,” No.2 responded warily, his chestnut brown hair tussled slightly from the mountain breeze. “Why are you bothering with me right now anyway, No.9? No.21 was the one who took the brunt of the cave-in . You should be focusing on him right now if anything.”

No.9 suppressed a flinch at the mention of No.21. In all honesty, No.22 was doing a perfectly good job of keeping an eye on his twin as it stood. Beyond maintaining a careful eye on No.21’s injuries, he knew that he wasn’t really required to henpeck him in the same way that No.22 did. Somehow, it just didn’t feel like his place.

And whenever he thought of that bond that those two shared, it only deepened his sense of isolation.

“I’ll check on him later when he’s back from the strategy meeting with the Instructor,” No.9 said with a wafer-thin smile, electing to sit on top of one of the jagged rocks that jutted out from the walls of the cave. He shifted slightly to get himself comfortable, his slim legs dangling freely from the edge of his perch. “It isn’t often we get downtime, you know…”

No.2 was quiet, his head turning slightly to look at his fellow squad mate. He seemed to struggle to find the words before he finally broke the shared silence. “How are you holding up?”

“Huh?” No.9’s legs stopped their idle swinging, turning rigid as he glanced over at No.2. “Me?” The creases in his face deepened into a frown. “I’m fine. I didn’t sustain any physical injuries from the cave-in so-“

“That’s not what I mean.” No.2 interrupted him, his expression unreadable. “You’re quieter than usual. it’s like you’re holding back something.” He suddenly shifted a little closer to No.9, a motion that didn’t go unnoticed by the Healer. “It’s disconcerting.”

No.9 worried his bottom lip with his teeth, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with just how direct No.2 was being with his interrogation. What was he supposed to say? That he was feeling jealous that the others always died and he never did? That he was learning to resent the cycle of death and revival that the war demanded they perform on repeat?

That he really didn’t come to speak to No.2 because of the injury on his hand, but for something more inexplicable than even he could understand?

“I guess…I’m just a little tired today,” he finally admitted with a shaky breath. “We barely receive any support from Command, and the cumulative fatalities in the group are on the increase. It’s just…hard to keep going sometimes when there’s no end in sight, you know?”

No.2 watched him from under the shroud of black cloth, his face marbled like stone. “That’s what you want?” He asked softly, his gloved hand rubbing his affected wrist absentmindedly once more. “You want it to end?”

“Yes-no, I-!” No.9 made a disgruntled noise as his hand tangled in his hair in agitation. “Of course, I’m proud of what we’re doing here. We’re fighting for the sake of mankind. There’s no greater honour than that. But it’s starting to feel like we’re stuck on repeat. We set out on a mission, someone gets hurt or worse, and I repair them. Then, we go on another mission, and it happens again.” His hand slipped from his hair to his face, cradling it away from the other android’s disarming expression. “Everyone’s doing their best. And I’m just…doing the same thing over and over. Nothing ever changes. And it just makes me feel…useless,” he finished, mumbling into his palm.

Suddenly, he felt a brush along his back, a motion that made him jump slightly from the sensation. Wide-eyed, he looked from his hands to see No.2 reaching over and patting his back in an awkward fashion, his lips turning into an uncomfortable grimace.

Was No.2…comforting him?

“All we can do…is keep going,” No.2 mumbled, his palm warm through the fabric of No.9’s jacket. “For as long as it takes. And to make the most of the times when we can stop and recollect ourselves. Thinking about it any deeper than that is pointless. And…” He raised his free hand to show the white cloth that still braced around his wrist. “You’re not useless.”

No.9 struggled to unlock his jaw from the frozen gape that cemented his features, but soon found his body begin to relax into the gesture, the tension seeping out of his body at the touch. “Yeah. You’re right, No.2.” He gave him a reassuring smile, his cheeks strangely warm. “Thanks.”

No.2 nodded, retracting his hand from the small of his back before scuffing himself off the rock. “We should regroup with the others. It looks like that Resistance guy is about to regale us with something thrilling.”

No.9 watched as his companion began to walk back toward camp, his black leather coat rippling behind . Words came unbidden through No.9’s lips as he called towards the retreating Defender. “I mean it. I think you’re the first one to ask, you know. How I was.” His pulse fluttered in his chest. “I’m glad you did.”

No.2 turned back, the collar of his coat hiding his lower face from him in the moment. But he could hear the warmth that melted through his cool exterior. “Anytime.”

With that, he walked on, planting boot-sized tracks into the gravelled dirt in his wake.

No.9 followed him not long after, taking care not to step over the footprints that No.2 left behind. He didn’t know why, but he had a strong urge not to disturb them.

The cycle of life and death was too much to stomach at times, but like No.2 said, all they could do was keep walking forward.

With hope for a better tomorrow.

No.2’s blade was dull. Once honed with the sole purpose of shedding the blood of his comrades, it now slung uselessly at his back, traitorously white and unscored.

Time had marched onwards whilst he kept company with the M Squadron, and the pebbles of sand had reached the bottom of the hourglass. He was late. Yet, with the constant beeping reminder from the device strapped to his wrist, he was maintained in a sense of permanent limbo.

When he was with No.9, he seemed to forget what he was made for.

When he was alone, all he could ever remember was that he was failing at what he was meant to be.

A friend and a foe.

A Defender and an Executioner.

A soldier with a heart of carbon, now full with something more than just pure nuclear energy. Something indescribable and yearning.

He didn’t really understand. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to understand, lest the answer be too painful to bear.

But seeing the way that No.9 looked at times, lost and lonely amongst the group of fighters stoked that fire deep within himself, and he found himself watching the Healer closer than the rest, studying the minute expressions he made to express his emotions. Habits he would make like tapping his foot when he was anxious or ruffling his hair when he was deep in thought.

Of course, the darker side of No.2 reminded him that learning No.9’s mannerisms was all to benefit the process of killing him when the right time came. Like a predator stalking his prey. It wasn’t like their future held anything beyond that inevitable end, with No.9’s blood staining the steel of his blade.

Yet, whenever an ample opportunity presented itself, No.2 found himself hesitating. Each and every time.

The first opportunity came not long after their meeting. No.9 had confided in him in secret, away from the others and even as good as admitted that he wanted their plight to end. It was the perfect moment. He had stretched his arm out behind the oblivious Healer, his white katana poised ready to sever him from his nerve circuits in a skilful flourish. Removing him from the possibility of feeling pain as he killed him with subtlety and precision.

Just as his training always dictated.

Yet, all it took was hearing No.9's pain in that moment of vulnerability, and what he did in the heat of the moment instead was pat him on the back. With an open hand, bereft of his blade. Instead of killing him, he was more concerned with soothing him.

How was it possible? His constant testing and preparations prior to the mission elucidated no such error in judgement before. The chance had been right there.

So why was he compelled to act so uncharacteristically?

As a result of his hesitation, the blasted thing on his wrist would not cease to shut up. The insidious noise in the back of his head refused to quell. The sword weighed heavy on his back.

The only solution he decided, would be to seek a better opportunity. One where he would not be as exposed to No.9’s sweet nature and gentle touch.

That was his conviction as he pressed on, dutifully performing his role as bodyguard to No.9 in the transport ship seizure, as mapped out so efficiently by their appointed Scanner and Instructor Black. The chance came promisingly in the airfield as they were unaccompanied by any of the other more meddlesome combat units. Yet, he allowed himself to linger uselessly at No.9’s back, his palms clinging with sweat and trepidation. He hesitated once more.

Instructor Black had conveniently stopped him from following through with his half-formed assassination plan, and although No.2 was adamant to deny it, it served as a welcome excuse to what was really going on in his brain.

Instructor Black threw him off his game. There was always next time, he thought.

And that time came rapidly, with the assault of more machines once they boarded, and a striking thought came to No.2 like a flash of inspiration. The moment succeeded to distract Black with his own attempts at self-defence against the enemy, leaving only No.2 to oversee No.9’s welfare.

It would have been easy to let No.9 be swarmed with the machine lifeforms, his obvious lack of combat prowess exposing him openly to their barrage of bullets and blows. It would have been convenient to pretend there had been a miscalculation in numbers, weakening the morale and resolve of the others as he proceeded to murder them in their moments of despair at the permanent loss of their life line.

Not to mention, No.9’s blood wouldn’t quite stain his hands if he allowed the alien soldiers to claim him instead.

But he couldn’t go through with it.

Upon being beset by the machine lifeforms, No.2 found his body reacting before his thought processors did, his blade slicing through the air and finding purchase into the nuts and bolts of his attackers. It felt like his blood was on fire, his black box hammering wildly from within his ribcage. No.9’s fearful gasps were enough to incense him further, spiralling him deeper into the heat of battle.

For a moment, he even allowed himself to pretend he was the Defender he claimed to be, taking the welts of their attacks meant for the Healer with a sick sense of pride.

When would he stop pretending?

Even now as they settled into a precious moment of introspection in the cargo bay, watching reverently at the glistening, roaring waves of the ocean from down below the clouds, he was still lying to himself. His chest tightened painfully as he forced himself to listen to the Healer talk fondly of sights they would never see, places they would never go. No.2’s twinging hand gripped shakily on the hilt of his weapon, willing himself to be the pawn he was only ever designed to be.

But No.9 forced him to realise he wanted more than the restricted confines of his world. He wanted to see the world through No.9’s eyes too. To see lands untouched by the scars of war.

He wanted that future with No.9, more than anything.

But the world was not so kind. And he was not a man true to his promises. Not to No.9, not to YoRHa, not to himself.

Later, as the thickets of the trees surrounded them and the cloying smell of iron permeated the clouded air, he came to realise that fact. And finally, he understood.

Strangely, he found himself smiling as he plunged his blade into his own chest, ceasing the painful jolt of the virus that drained him.

“Please don’t die, No.2.”

No.9 didn’t want him to die. The memory warmed him in the last lingering moments before the world descended into darkness. Just another order he couldn’t follow. A cycle he continued to perpetuate.

As he felt himself slip, he remembered the moment they shared staring at the impenetrable sea, the promise of a future hanging between them.

No.9 had wanted to travel the world after the war. No.2, well…

No.2 wanted to watch the sea with him just one more time.