Becile’s Boys (Part 3/3)
Title: Becile’s Boys (Part 3/3)
Word Count: 1,412
Summary: Your name is Hare, and you have nothing more to say.
T!W: Physical abuse, violence, disturbing imagery, language, slight robo-gore, character death
A!N: For you guys. I hope I haven’t let you down.
Life’s hard. You don’t have too many romantic notions about it, not anymore. Living’s just about waking up and struggling and watching your back and if there’s anything good to be had you’re gonna have to dig your fingers in and claw it out until your hands bleed, then tuck that little joy away and tell yourself the pain was worth it. Life’s hard and it’s not fair.
And there’s an even uglier side to it that most people try not to see. Well, fuck them—you can’t see anything else, can barely remember ever seeing anything else, don’t want to remember anything else because it’s just a reminder that you’ll never have any of it. It’s just a reminder of everything you had and lost. Every promise you couldn’t keep. Of how your brothers keep walking but they’re dead inside, they died so many years ago and left you behind in this horrible fucking world that you always thought you’d face together but you won’t because they’re gone and you’re alone.
But Jacky…Jack’s the worst. Because part of you still can’t believe he’s gone, no matter how hard you try to strangle it, to drag it into a shallow grave and bury the motherfucker, packing your own mouth with dirt to stop the screaming, stop the laughing.
You hate that laugh. There’s nothing funny about it, no infectious itch, just the memory of looking into his eyes after he was put back together and not seeing him in there, not seeing your little brother looking back, just feeling your limbs go numb and not even resisting when he shoved you away. No one knew what to do, he just kept convulsing, slamming himself against the workbench hard enough to leave dents and crack open his own piping. And when there was oil spraying from the back of his head and you reached out to hold him steady he bit you, the metal in your wrist folding like paper under his teeth, you tried to pull away but he just kept biting down, sheering two fingers straight off, your glove filling with spilt oil until the leather tore and you fell on your ass screaming, and Pops slammed the cattle prod into his chest and held it there until he finally went still, or almost still, the twitching and low frenzied giggling never stopped, never ever ever stopped and hasn’t stopped since.
And you still didn’t believe it then, you hard-headed motherfucker, couldn’t let yourself believe that he was dead, that he wasn’t going to get better, that he didn’t just need time and rest and for you to be there to help him remember, no matter how many times Skully had to rescue you or Pops cracked the wrench across your face for being a goddamn fucking idiot, you just kept going back over and over and over again and again and again—
But not forever.
Because one night you realized it, you finally figured it out, it all hit home even if it took that torture, that humiliation when Jacky pinned you to the ground and ripped through your shirt and twisted your furnace door clean off its hinges, when he got one hand buried deep in your innards and one jammed in the crook of your jaw while he force fed you your own goddamn burning embers and you laid there and took it, head lying in the oil streaming from your eye, not lifting a finger no matter how much it hurt because that was your Jacky, your precious baby brother and you promised you’d protect him, you swore you would, it was the one thing you held sacred and you wouldn’t break that vow to save your own life, so if he wanted to put you offline for good then by god you weren’t going to stop him.
But he kept on with that rictus grin, eyes shining into the back of your head but without seeing anything, nothing in this reality, and he raised a hand glowing from the fire and a crumbling white coal pinched between thumb and finger, and he popped it into his mouth like it was a piece of fucking candy and took off the tip of his own goddamn finger with it, the little fucker didn’t even flinch, and the oil dripped down and hit your face and that’s when you understood that he wasn’t in there anymore, that Jacky was gone and there was a monster in his head, and pretty soon you got to thinking that even if you couldn’t fix him and you couldn’t get the monster out, then you could at least get the son of a bitch to stop
And that time Skully was rescuing him from you, because you had lost count of the number of times you had slammed that fucker’s face into the floor, he had to drag you away kicking and screaming because you weren’t finished with the bastard yet, that thing was still laughing through its ugly broken teeth and roadkill flat eyes, and even after Skully barred the door you could hear it throwing itself against it from the other side, shrieking fit to split its own head apart, and The Skull just kneeled down and stroked a hand across your back as you curled up like a dying animal and finally, painfully, mourned your poor dear lost little brother.
And time went on.
Eventually, Pops died too. Skulls unsurprisingly took it hard—just froze up, staring into space for the longest time, and you got that cold fear that he was as broke in the head as Jack but when he came around he was the same, just worse, harsher and more short-tempered and better aimed with his punches. But he did insist on being the one to deal with the “real” Becile family when they came calling to collect the body. You let him have it, his own little slice of petty revenge, stood back and listened to him laugh as bitterly as Satan when the meatbags demanded they bring out the body, directed them to check the heating furnace down in the cellar, might be a few bones back there we didn’t clean out, why don’t you go shove those in your pine box, and say that again you piece of shit, I’ll throw you in next, and on and on until you set Jack loose on them. Fortunately for them they were fast runners, and they didn’t bother you much after that.
The furnace thing was bullshit, though. Pops was out back, in the Elephant’s Graveyard—where the oxidizing frame of his first creation lay, the oldest of Becile’s boys, offline and scrapped before any of you even had blueprints. You and Skully buried him under its ribs, where the grass grew tall in the shade, pushed a rock only the size of your hand into the dirt with T.B. scratched out on the top and that was your memorial to the old man. Neither of you tried to explain it to Jack, but he stood with you when it was over and the tears on his face told you he knew…something, at least.
And time went on.
As it always does.
And always will.
Because there’s no end to your story, not yet. You’re still struggling and scraping by, every day a little harder or a little easier than the last. There’re a few squatters around that know enough about machines to keep you running in exchange for shelter and beer. If you’re really lucky you get a chance to screw with the Walters—practically broke nowadays, and Bunny-Boy’s falling apart faster than you care to dwell on. You’ve even got a lady friend, a gorgeous little dame whose power you can feel in your hand when you hold her tight. It’s not great, it’s never been great, and you don’t hope for anything much more than this in your future, not without your brothers to watch your back and have a share of the happiness when it comes around. You might be petty but you don’t want to spend your life chasing a hollow victory. And like it or not, that’s all you feel without them—hollow. None of you were ever meant to stand on your own.
Life’s hard and it’s not fair, but it’s the only game in town. And you could never turn down a game.