Chapter Text
Reports are flooding in from all across Helios.
«Rhys?»
Handsome Jack is dead.
«Rhys, what do we do know?»
His boss. His beloved. His god.
«Rhys, are you listening to me?»
Even now, the vermin who once wriggled at Jack's feet, desperate to bask in even the faintest tendril of his light, are making their final preparations to take the throne of Helios for themselves, Rhys is certain of it. In his mind, he can almost see Blake barking orders to his minions, foaming from his hideous grin, free at last from the shackles of duty and loyalty to his CEO. And Vasquez? Oh, surely he can't wait to lick every boot on the station for a chance to kick Rhys out of the office it's rightfully his.
Draped on this very desk – Jack's desk, it's still his... the body is not even cold yet – looking at Elpis, Rhys used to cuddle in the post-coital warmth of his lover's embrace, drowning in cascading kisses while Jack poured love and giggles down his throat like oxygen. They used to gaze outside, pulsating and unafraid, knowing the universe was theirs, a limitless alcove of infinite bliss.
But now Jack is dead.
Helios, Rhys' Helios, just went out.
«Rhys, look at me.»
And he has to do something before it falls into unworthy hands. Unloved, traitorous claws.
Clasping his hands, the bones of his flesh hand cracking under the spasmodic grip of the metal one, Rhys turns around. Down the steps to the CEO's desk, Tim shudders.
Standing tall against the cold, unforgiving expanse of the universe, Rhys stares at him, silent and very, very quiet. It's amazing and a little bit terrifying how, between the blinking stars and cracked moon outside the windows, Rhys' eyes are the darkest thing in the room right now.
Tim gulps, and a sudden thought hits him, like a bullet in the back of the neck.
The King is dead, long live the King.
Rhys breathes from somewhere far, far away: «Blood.»
«W-What?» Tim blurts.
A few clicks on his cybernetic hand, and Rhys has names, CCTV feed across the station, coordinates and hiding spots. He sends it all to Tim, and this time his voice brooks no argument.
«Bring me their blood.» Traitors, all of them. Jack would love this, love him even more for what he's about to do – well, what Tim's about to do, actually. His ECHO eye sparkles in the dim light of the office. «And make me watch.»
Now, that's an interesting choice of words, Tim thinks: he has to make him watch. It's like Rhys doesn't really want to, but he must, he has to. Because that's what kings do, they take the burden of blood and smoking guns, and use it to sew their own regal, cardinal mantle.
Tim barely resists the urge to bow, and then he's gone.
Rhys stands by the window, watching it all unfold.
Alone.