coefficiency | five. inbox

[Oh.

Oh no.

Stop being so polite and nice, it's weird.]

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

I see. It feels longer than it's been, in reality.

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

Upside-down. I hope you're well.

[Because while he's been reassured of some things, he's still hallucinating and it makes him feel dizzy.]

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

Yeah, you're right. I guess everything that's going on makes it seem like a really long time. They like to keep us busy.

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

I'm alive. I'm glad to see you are too. Not that I had any doubt in your abilities.

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

I can't believe we're really going to blow up this planet soon.

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

Idle hands are dangerous.

[He's not going to respond to that second one, because all he can think about is how effortlessly he'd shot Masaoka. How his hands hadn't even shook.]

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

It's a bit difficult to swallow. My only hope is that they don't decide to leave all of us here.

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

What

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

You don't really think they'd do that, do you?! Why would they?!

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

You've never heard of that before?

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

At first I thought there's no possible way they would; it would be a waste. However, in light of some recent missions, I'm not sure anymore.

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

I mean, it could happen... but I've never considered it as something they would actually do. They might not care about our lives, but we're still resources.

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

I'm guessing you mean the blue mission.

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

Yes, that mission. It put a spin on my initial perspective.

[If he thinks about it clinically enough, will it hurt less?]

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

Don't tell me...

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

You didn't have to die, did you?!

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

No, I didn't.

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

But to complete the mission, I had to kill someone close to me.

[ he should have known, considering he knew Gino was on the blue team, but some part of him still hoped it wasn't true.]

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

But... they're okay now, aren't they? People came back.

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

I followed orders; you don't need to be sorry.

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

He hasn't come back.

[It feels numb to say it like that.]

[ ... What in the world? had something gone wrong? the next message is delayed by ten minutes or so, as Zuko has to fully process what this might mean. ]

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

Where are you?

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

Why?

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

Wait, you don't need to

[he's not sure he wants anyone to see him in this state. yet, it might be better than reliving the happier memories; the ones that reminded him how good it had been (and now it's gone).]

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

It doesn't matter. I know I can't make anything better, and we barely know each other, but you shouldn't be alone.

[ he respected the need for space, so he won't go if Gino insists he doesn't, but he wouldn't feel right not offering company, at least. ]

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

I

FROM: ginoza.nobuchika@cdc.org

Alright. Rover 022.

[he could use the grounding to reality.]

FROM: zuko@cdc.org

I'll be there soon.

[ And true to his word, he shows up within fifteen minutes or so, letting his presence known with a gentle knock. ]

[He's been telling himself not to open his eyes for the last fifteen minutes. The images flickering on the edges of his vision get worse when he opens his eyes and it makes him incredibly jumpy.

It's finally when there's a soft knock at the door that he sits up in his bunk, eyes opening slowly and cautiously. Okay, nothing out of the ordinary. Quietly, he strides over to the door, unlocking it and opening it just enough (it's cold out– er, extra cold).]

Here, come in before you get sick.

[ Zuko doesn't need to be told twice. Now that he's here, he's not sure how to proceed, given that there's no way he can ever say or do the right thing. All he could do was offer some company as Gino tried to get through this. ]

Thanks.

[ He looks over the other's face, trying not to let his own anger show just yet. He can't believe the CDC would actually do something like this... it's cruel and unjustified. ]

Is there anything I can do?

[ After Zuko steps in, he shuts the door quickly (the brisk breeze was enough to let in), leaning against it with unsurety. He hates admitting defeat, hates to show his weakness even if the situation is explainable.

Even if the situation is intensely personal and emotional. Gino's been raised to hold it in, because who's going to take pity on the son of a latent criminal? Who's going to assume his tears are from anything except for his mental instability? They're mostly right, he knows they are. Years of suppressing it all is choking him now, is making his hue cloud over and the numbers assigned to his mind go well beyond what was considered healthy.

Brow furrowing, he looks down at his hands, unable to make eye contact with the other boy just yet. There are images flickering in his peripheral and he doesn't trust his eyes. ]

Do you think I made the right choice?

[ Or should I have died? ]

[ They haven't spoken much, but Zuko's never seen him like this before. He's used to the composed version of Ginoza, who wasn't overtly warm (then again neither was he, personality-wise) but was nevertheless polite.

He stays quiet for a while, then finally breathes in slowly and rests a hand on Gino's shoulder. ]

I don't think you had a choice to begin with, Gino. You did what you had to do.

[ And now, he doesn't understand why everyone else got what they were promised and Gino didn't. ]

[ He did what he had to.

Had to. There’s a weight there, behind those words, that sting. He thinks of all the things he’s done back home, because he thought he had to. Those things that are all slowly unraveling, pulling apart at the seams. Gino wonders what he could’ve done, here, in place of following orders. It would’ve been so easy to turn the gun on himself. To stick the muzzle next to his temple and pull the trigger. It’s not as though his life’s work has been outstanding enough to warrant keeping his mind intact.

Masaoka hadn’t deserved this. His father was warm and caring to everyone, and he was cold, so cold. ]

I thought coming here would be more freeing, but it feels like there’s an even shorter leash.

[ An Inspector, feeling like an Enforcer. It’s not comfortable. ]

[ Zuko has no idea what's running through Gino's mind at the moment. He knows so little about his life back home, or what kind of relationship he had with his father. Only that he must have loved him, and that he was probably a good person. He keeps his gaze diverted downward, never quite knowing what to say or do, but not wanting to leave him alone during such a difficult time.

What he says doesn't really make sense to him, but that's okay. Zuko has the feeling Gino is speaking mostly to himself, and Zuko just has the privilege of being the comforting shoulder. It was all he could hope to be, and certainly wouldn't make up for Gino's loss. ]

We're going to get through it. They're not going to break us.

[ He finally says after a long, long moment. Zuko hesitates only briefly before raising his hand and placing it on Gino's shoulder. He gives his shoulder a light squeeze. ]

You're not alone.

[ They may not know each other that well, but they were in this together. ]

[ They're not going to break us.

There's something in that sentiment that feels like a cold heaviness in his chest. He wants to believe it. Desperately. But, right now, he's having a hard time thinking about it. After all, what strength has he shown over the years? Kougami had been his pillar of support, and when the other man pulled away, he'd sent his foundation toppling. Gino hates that he worries about his ex-partner so much, hates that tone his father had spoken to him in, telling him he was in over his head.

Sybil was close to pushing on his last nerve, his therapist had said as much. So he clenches his jaw as he wills himself not to crumble entirely in front of Zuko, who's being kind to him, even if he didn't ask for it. There's so much he wants to disagree with, but he can't bring himself to. Because the younger man is right– he's not alone. The tension bleeds out of him gradually and he feels like he's sinking, gravity finally having its way with him. Reaching out, he curls his fingers into Zuko's shirt, holding onto him for balance as he bows his head (his neck, his back, he's collapsing into himself, in a way).

It's quiet; his breathing shakes. There aren't any tears left. ]

[ Gino doesn't need to say anything. His actions speak volumes, and though he had been trying his hardest to keep his composure before he'd arrived, it was plain to see just how much pain had been building up inside of him. Though he doesn't know what it means to have a father that meant so much to him, he knows that this kind of pain isn't so easily numbed.

Zuko doesn't move from where he's sitting when he feels Gino's hands curl into his shirt. He's crumbling, and though he questions just how he should respond, something tells him he doesn't need to do much of anything. Just needing a shoulder to cry on wasn't just a common saying. Even if Gino seems to be fresh out of tears.

After a long moment, he raises his arms and wraps them loosely around Gino's form. It's strange-- the other man is larger than he is, but in his grief, curled up like this, he almost feels small. ]

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approximately 4,000 years later

same

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jk i wanted to do this

wails

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