Survival Of The Fittest

((Valentin Shulgin continues from Well, I'm tired of losing))

Still no Alexander.

Valentin was sat in the same spot he'd been in before, directly in front of the open entrance of the listening station, eyes on the horizon. He had decided to give it a couple more hours here before he moved on. Chloé appeared to have headed off to the other buildings in the research station, based off the path she'd taken for her departure, so maybe Valentin would follow her there. If he didn't find her there, he'd be likely to find other people there, and maybe he could try to recruit them instead. Whatever the course of action, he refused to let himself fall back into the lethargic inertia he'd been in the morning prior.

But just a few more hours of waiting, before all that.

His breath shuddered.

Valentin kneaded his knuckles, bit his lip.

The staccato sound of someone's footsteps echoed from the island's tunnel systems, louder with each passing second.

He looked up, eyebrows raised. In the distance, thirty or so meters away, was an entrance to one of the island's tunnel systems, similar to the one he and Valentin had woken up in.

It could be anyone, he reminded himself. A potential ally, someone wishing to do harm, anyone.

He could feel his heart beat through his chest.

He walked over to the dark tunnel entrance, peered downwards.

His eyes lit up.

Second after second, footstep after footstep, a figure loudly shambled down the hidden corridors and crevices of the island's concrete tombs, clothes scuffed and tattered, skin blotted with dots of white, dark eyes surrounded by dark circles, hair unkempt—composure now almost like a road sign passing further and further away in the rearview mirror.

Second after second, footstep after footstep, the figure kept moving regardless, an unstoppable march towards its goals. Even though the chill of the seemingly-endless cement catacombs, it kept moving, driven—the process of progress. And soon, the figure found the light again and shielded itself. But beyond the coming dawn, it found so much more.

S061: ALEXANDER HAWTHORNE — CONTINUED FROM "The Physical Limits"

Alexander's eyes stung. It had been long since he had last seen the light of day. A part of him had given up hope that he would ever see it again. His left arm—raised over his face like a shield—slowly lowered, and he blinked the pain away. His vision was hazy at first, but he saw something. And even if he couldn't pinpoint its features, he recognized it. Valentin.

Valentin.

His lips, cracked and freeze-dried as they were, slowly curled into a worn smile. He kept his right arm placed against the wall. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, only an arid, breathless rasp. Then, he took one step, two, three steps forward, balance unsteady. He let his arm let go of the wall and began to topple forward like a top at the end of its spin.

Then, finally, the words came.

"You're here," Alexander whispered, a hint of disbelief on the tip of his tongue.

"You're here," he spoke again, eyes bright—this time, he said it with conviction.

There was nothing else to say.

Valentin ran down the stairs two steps at a time, almost seemed to teleport downwards.

And, just like that, his arms were around Alexander's shoulders, clutching him in a tight embrace.

He had so many thoughts at the front of his mind: Where have you been? You're late? Why do you look like that? But all of them were answered by You're here, You're here, You're here.

He held him tighter.

Alexander was weary. Days and days and days—time that seemed to stretch onward forever unto eternity beyond—had passed. And, for all that time he had spent, he had nothing to show for it—nothing but the bruises of his fall from grace and the swollen blistering of the cold. His body hurt all over, ached with exertion, and with the chills down his spine.

But, at the very least, he could say he was alive.

His long legs almost gave out from under him as he entered the listening station. Valentin stood there to catch him in his arms. Alexander did not often find himself enthused by physical touch, but he let it happen. He let himself fall into the embrace. There was no other place of comfort on the island for him to stow himself away. And the warmth was respite here.

"I apologize," Alexander whispered. There was an audible guilt, a sorry song dancing on his tongue, a million apologies still left unsaid. But the one he uttered would have to count for all of them at once. Then, for a moment, he held his tongue. He closed his eyes and, when he opened them, felt an unfamiliar prick and wetness at their innermost edges.

"For my absence, that is. I should have arrived sooner—far sooner. I will not allow it to happen again." Each word paced carefully in a vain attempt to return to that erstwhile calculated demeanor. He blinked the water away before anyone could have the faintest chance to witness it, and then it was gone as if it had never existed at all in the first place.

"But I am glad that you are here." Here. The words left unsaid: safe, sound—alive! The heat felt good on his skin, like a knife cut through the chill. But, like all good things, he had to let it go. True comfort was always cold. So he forced himself to tear away from the embrace, to stand on his own two feet, as he had always done, and hold himself up against the wall.

The cool of the air was sudden and unwelcome, but not unexpected. Alexander always drew away eventually, but that was his nature. He needed his space.

So, Valentin afforded him that space and stepped back once, only once.

And then, he replied to Alexander's apology with a quiet, stunned bit of laughter.

"I was late first." And it was true. There was not much daylight between four days of tardiness and four and a half days. All the anxiety and the fear and the despair was nothing now, it could all be forgiven in light of this mercy of mercies. "There is nothing to apologize for," he followed.

A few seconds of silence, serene, passed between them. The adrenaline of before began to wear off and, only then did Valentin begin to fully take stock of his friend's depleted condition. His lips curled downwards slightly, brows pressing together in worry.

"What happened to you? Were you lost in that blizzard out there?"

Alexander let his weight fall on his two legs again. They could barely carry him. But, through the pain, through the tiredness, he remained, and he stood. He would not surrender. Not now. Not ever again in his life. There was no room for surrender—not to their situation or his desire. And, as much as his body screamed and screamed to rest, to stop, slow, stall, he refuted it, refused it, and required its silent compliance to his will again.

He turned his face away from Valentin. It did not matter that Valentin was also late. Two wrongs did not yet make a right. It did not absolve him. He refused to let it excuse his weakness; he had to take that responsibility into his hands, whether Valentin wanted him to or not. Because, as much as it pained him, the choice to take responsibility for his failings was one of the few choices he still had left. And he wanted that freedom still.

"I am fine," he lied through gritted teeth. Then, as if to spite his words, Alexander's leg gave out from underneath him.

On instinct, Valentin hoisted his arms under Alexander's shoulders, kept him standing.

Like before, his questions were answered not in words, but in how Alexander's knees shook, how clammy and chilled his skin felt, how lacking the warmth of his body was. Like he was fading.

Valentin's lip trembled. He shook his head, refuted Alexander's assertion.

With fervor, he half-guided, half-dragged Alexander to a corner of the room. He took off his jacket, and bundled it under Alexander's head, making sure his neck was supported, making sure he had something even close to comfort.

"You are safe here. Now rest," he commanded.

They could catch each other up later, once Alexander was well rested.

Once they knew they had more time.

Alexander's teeth gnashed as the fatigue kicked the leg out from below him. His eyes were heavy. He fought to keep them up. The humiliation of it all made his face flush with blood. Silently, he cursed his body. He cursed its weakness, cursed its treachery. He raged at how, when he needed strength, it failed him so utterly. But he could do nothing now. The jig was up, the façade had cracked, and the universe deigned to call his bluff.

At that moment, his vulnerability—deeper than his skin, muscles, bones—was exposed. The whole world was there to witness it, to laugh at his shame; the captors, sadistic as they were, would feed on his pain like storybook zoophages. He cursed them, too. He condemned them to a hell of his own making. Because, deep in his heart, he had no belief in an afterward of any sort, so his imagination would have to do for now.

"Fine," he murmured. The two preceding words of that sentence cut away like so many shreds of paper. His left hand, with its long, spiderlike fingers, drew up to his face as if to hide his disgrace away. His eyes stared out behind it, piercing, bitter, and so tired, so very tired, as if still trying to withstand the urge to fade into the comfort of a night's rest. But, ultimately, he gave in and sunk below the jacket's waves of warmness.

And then, Alexander turned his face away from Valentin as if afraid to face his friend again.

S061: ALEXANDER HAWTHORNE — CONTINUED IN "28 Ghosts IV"

Alexander hated him, momentarily, and the stinging that came with it was fine. He could go without small talk, small comforts, for a while further, even if Valentin had been deprived of Alexander's presence for so long. He would bear anything if it meant another day with him.

All that followed Alexander's final word was the long zip of Valentin's bag opening, and the clattering open of his rations, his first aid kit. The beginning of Valentin's work.

((Valentin Shulgin continues in 28 Ghosts IV))