Refuge | 0.5.2 | Turnabout
The journey from the City to the Silo. Aka four times Skizz helped Impulse, and one time Impulse helped Skizz.
RATING: T | PAIRINGS: Gen | WARNINGS: Mild swearing, discussion of death
[Read it on AO3!]
BANG.
Skizz flinches back. Did Impulse really have to throw the door open that hard? There are voices arguing in the hallway as Impulse drags him out of the office by his arm, but Skizz is too busy trying not to trip on his chain to pay attention.
“Hey hey hey,” the young officer barks, rushing towards them, “hands off the prisoner!”
“Prisoner?!” cries a voice that isn’t Impulse’s, but Skizz is distracted by a sharp tug.
“Don’t you touch him!” Impulse hisses, pulling Skizz’s arm closer into his chest.
“Impulse—” he says, but he’s interrupted.
“You’re willfully disobeying an officer, sir!” The young man doesn’t sound as confident as he wants to be.
“What—Skizz?!”
There’s that voice again. Skizz looks up to see Tango standing in the doorway of his own office, tools still in the pockets of his dirty overalls, looking baffled and alarmed. “What the hell is going on here?” he demands, stepping forward.
The young officer waves Tango back. “It’s none of your business—!” he says, nervous but insistent, like he’s had to say it before.
“Tango!” Impulse rushes towards him, dragging Skizz in tow. “Tango, you gotta take over the work for me,” he says in a harsh whisper. And then, a little louder, “And take care of my family!”
“What?” As Impulse tries to dart away, Tango catches the sleeve of his stupid jacket and drags him back. “Hold—hold on! Impulse—why?” The words are clipped and direct, the tone isn’t soft, but there’s a clear concern in the intensity of his voice and his expression. “What are you doing? What’s happening?”
Impulse draws in a breath, clearly trying to steady himself. It’s just long enough for Skizz to feel awkward. “They’re kicking Skizz out of the Silo.” Impulse says it in a rush.
Tango’s eyes widen. “What?”
“I’m going up to contest it. I don’t—” He looks over his shoulder, and his voice wavers. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen.” Turning back, he grips Tango’s arm. “Just—if something goes wrong—”
The gears are whirling in Tango’s brilliant bald head. Skizz could have sworn he could see a million different contingencies clicking into place at once in his skull. “I—oh my god. Okay.”
“Ho-hold on,” the young officer says shakily, clearly trying to drag some authority back. “This is completely outside of protocol. You can’t just—”
Tango ignores him. “What do you need?” he asks Impulse, leaning in just slightly. “How can I help?”
“The lockbox,” says Impulse. “In my office. Everything’s in there. I could—oh, you’ll need the key.”
He fumbles on his belt for it, right as Skizz feels a tug on his wrists. Skizz looks down just in time to see the young officer clip the other end of the chain back onto his belt.
He might as well have pulled a gun, the way that Impulse reacts. “No no no STOP!”
The officer puts his hands up pacifyingly. “Sir, calm down, there’s no need to—”
Impulse grabs Skizz’s arm again and pulls him away. There’s a tug as the chain snaps taut, and Skizz winces, before the officer stumbles after them.
A pair of round glasses and the round eyes behind them are spying on the commotion from around the corner, and they suddenly disappear as Viv zips back into her seat.
“Viv, cancel all my meetings for the day!” Impulse barks as they blast past her desk.
Viv squares her shoulders and all but snaps a salute. “Yes sir, Mr. S.V.!”
“Hey,” cries the officer, “slow down!”
They burst out onto the main walkway and into the crowd, and the dingy copper grates clang under their feet. Skizz can’t help but feel a little embarrassed; he’d at least tried not to call any attention to himself when he came down here to Industrial, but Impulse is making no such effort. He’s shouldering through the crowd like a little snowplow, head down, eyes forward, brows low and intense, ignoring the yelps of surprise and the people staring at the strange little parade that’s carving its way towards the central spiral staircase.
Skizz stumbles forward to catch up with Impulse. “Dude, dude,” he hisses into his ear, “are you seriously gonna—you can’t risk this, man!”
“Like hell I can’t!” Impulse snaps back, not even trying to keep his voice down. “I’m a Director. I’m not gonna just sit on my ass and let them do this to you.”
The rumors are starting. Whispers. Murmurings. Skizz can hear them, rippling through the crowd like waves, catching like an infection, people turning and staring and wondering what on earth has their friendly, gentle Director looking set to kill.
There’s a tug on his arm—the one Impulse isn’t holding—and Skizz looks back. The poor young officer is practically flailing behind him, trying to keep a hold on him in this crowd, hunched over like he’s trying to hide from all the peering, judgmental eyes.
Skizz offers him a weak smile. “Sorry about this. He gets passionate.”
“Don’t talk to him!” barks Impulse.
“He’s just doing his job, man,” Skizz says with a shrug.
“Well, shut up anyway.”
“Who died and left you in charge?”
Impulse doesn’t answer. The gears are whirling so fast in that brilliant head of his that Skizz can almost hear the hum.
It’s almost…thrilling.
And kinda terrifying.
------
BANG.
The courtroom door hits the wall so hard it quivers on its hinges.
“All right,” Impulse demands, strutting in like he owns the place, “who did this?!”
If Skizz wasn’t scared shitless right now, he would have enjoyed the collective looks of oh shit that go around the faces of the Panel members. Impulse caught them thoroughly with their pants down—or, rather, with the folding chairs stacked and leaned against the wall, the black cloth lying in a rumpled heap in the corner, and the table lying on its side and half collapsed for storage.
“Dammit,” hisses one of the Judges, a bookish little guy wearing large round glasses. “Listen, Impulse, we can explain—”
“I don’t wanna hear it!” he snaps. “There is nothing you could say right now that would make this anywhere near okay!”
“We didn’t know how to break it to you, but—”
“Did you think I wasn’t gonna find out?!”
“What? No—no, we were gonna tell you later, but—”
“Oh, tell me after he’s dead in the desert and there’s nothing I can do about it, yeah, that’s a great plan.”
Skizz slips into one of the empty chairs in the audience and tries to make himself as small as possible.
A tall, stern woman interrupts. “He’s a criminal, S.V. He ran a smuggling ring back in the City.”
“Yeah, and?” says Impulse.
Their faces go blank.
“What do you mean, ‘and’?” she asks.
“Hang on,” says Glasses, “did you know?”
“Know what?” asks Impulse.
“That he was a smuggler.”
“Of course I did.”
The Panel draws in a collective gasp.
“What?” says Impulse. “I saw it myself. I’ve been living with him for almost ten years, you think there’s anything I don’t know?”
“And you never said anything.” The Lady Director’s voice is sharp.
“No?” says Impulse.
“You knew there was a dangerous smuggler living under our roof—” She steps forward, looming over him. “—and you never said anything.”
“He’s not dangerous,” he says through his teeth.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been living with him—” His voice is climbing in pitch. “—for ten years!”
Glasses begins to say “Impulse, what—” before the Lady Director cuts him off.
“And what exactly did you think would happen when you told us to go back through old City records?” she demands, her words clipped and rapid.
“I said we should check for things so that the Habits and the McVolts don’t happen again,” Impulse snaps back just as fast, “I didn’t mean—”
“That’s precisely what this is!”
“—I didn’t mean we should kick someone out for something he doesn’t do anymore!” He’s starting to sound frenzied.
“For what it’s worth,” Glasses says timidly, “he…did agree to exile…?”
“I don’t care!” It’s a roar like nothing Skizz has ever heard out of Impulse before, and even Glasses has to take a step back. “This is not happening! I am not letting you KILL HIM.”
The Lady Director is impassive, standing motionless behind her manila folder. “Impulse, breathe.”
“Just listen to me!” His voice cracks.
“I am listening,” she says. “Breathe.”
“I—” He sucks in a breath, and it’s cut off by a sharp hiccup, and he presses the sleeve of his jacket to his eyes.
Just like that, the room goes dead silent.
Skizz can feel the quiet crawling on his back.
Lady Director looks down at Impulse, calm and cool, but somehow…not unkind. “I’m sorry,” she says.
He draws in a shivering breath.
“I knew this would be a sensitive topic.” She turns away for a moment, thinking, and then says quietly, “If you want to know, I was the one who moved to discuss this without notifying you.”
He glares up at her. His eyes are red, and his voice sounds bitter. “So you chose to exile my friend behind my back?”
“I was under the impression,” she says a bit too sharply before getting a hold of herself, “that you were unaware of his previous criminal record and would not be able to make an impartial judgment.” She pauses. “Evidently I was wrong about one of those.”
He puts his knuckle into the corner of his good eye. “I can’t be impartial,” he whispers.
She sighs. “That is what I feared.”
“But that doesn’t mean what I have to say doesn’t matter.” That hand comes down to claw at his chest, and he steps forward, pleading. “I know him, Mavis. I know him. I know the truth better than anybody.”
She doesn’t outright disagree, but pulls a face like she’s unsure.
“If I can’t be a Judge, that’s fine, just…just let me say something. Let me give him a chance. Let me be his witness.”
She seems to ponder this, and then lifts her head. “You want a retrial?”
He draws himself up a little straighter. There’s a hard set to his jaw and a squareness in his shoulders, even as his eyes look frightened and unsure.
“Yes.”
Lady Director considers him, and then Skizz, and then turns and looks at the Panel. As she turns and looks at Impulse again, she speaks, but not to him.
“Gentlemen, put the table back up, would you?”
The other members of the Panel look at each other, surprised, but then obey. There’s the creak of metal against metal and the clack of folding chairs. Impulse’s shoulders seem to slump a bit in relief.
“S.V.”
Lady Director’s voice is low, as if only for Impulse to hear. He seems nervous as he looks up.
“I’ve always thought you had a good head on your shoulders. I’ve never doubted your judgement before. But this…” She draws in a breath and lets it out in a harsh sigh. “I hope you understand why I am hesitant to let an ex-convict have free rein in the Silo.”
He lowers his head slightly. “I understand.”
There’s a pause as she watches the rest of the Panel work. “I’m not saying it will be impossible to change my mind.” She turns back to him and lowers her voice. “But I am saying it will be difficult.”
Impulse’s eyes flick upwards, and there’s something new in them. That calm, determined spark—like the glint of the sun on the calm surface of an unfathomably deep pool—is back.
“Well,” he says quietly, “we’ll just see what you think at the end of this, Mavis.”
The thin line of her lips raises just slightly, and she holds out her spidery hand. He shakes it. She nods, steps away, and circles the table, the heels of her shoes clicking loudly on the hard floor.
“Gentlemen,” she says, taking her seat, “the Director of Engineering moves for a retrial concerning the case of one Mr. LeMan.”
Impulse squares his shoulders, fills his chest with air, and lets it out in a puff, like the deep breath before plunging underwater.
“Will we grant it?”
Various ‘aye’s go around the table.
“All opposed?”
Silence.
“Very well.” She opens the manila folder on the table and squares the papers in front of her. “Mr. Banks, if you will?”
A large, round man seated at the center of the table draws in a breath at a ponderous pace. “All right then, Director,” he says slowly, with a drawl that’s even heavier than he is, “let’s see what you have to say.” He lifts the gavel in his round hand. “The Silo Court is now in session!”
Skizz braces for the noise.
BANG! BANG!
------
Three years ago…
The feud had been raging for years before it threatened to blow the roof off the Silo.
Apparently, the Habits and the McVolts had always hated each other, even before the city fell, and sticking them down a hole in the ground together was only putting a lit match under a pressurized aerosol can. How it got started, Impulse never exactly heard, but he knew there was something about a generator, some dispute over who owned what, and it had gotten settled in favor of the Habits on the testimony of a neighbor.
That neighbor later died under mysterious circumstances.
It only escalated from there. One of the McVolt girls ran away to be with her lover from the Habits, but he dumped her and left her pregnant and married her cousin. A few Habits and McVolts got into a drunken bar fight; old Lock Habit was shot, he died a few days later, and the Habits took revenge into their own hands. By the time Impulse heard about it, three of the McVolts had been captured and executed by the Habits, half the Silo was picking sides, and the other half was scared out of their wits.
The latter group held an emergency meeting, down at the lowest layer where the naked stone was still rough and jagged and there was enough room for everyone to stand. There was much shouting and much panicking, but everyone generally agreed that they had to do something about this, and they had to do it fast.
They’d only been down here for four years, and yet—like a tin can of what was once food left in a dirty corner of an alleyway for a decade, as the seal is starting to decay and the bacteria is creeping in—the Silo was rotting from the inside, and it was on the brink of cannibalizing itself in civil war.
Someone had to arbitrate between the Habits and the McVolts. But they didn’t have a government down here, not really; anybody who was anybody important died when the City fell. Who would lead the Silo? Who was qualified to decide?
Agriculture nominated their Director, a rotund old man and a patriarch of their community. Logistics and Administration nominated their Director, a stern and meticulous woman who suffered no fools. Every level of the Silo put forward their leaders, the elders and experts that they looked up to, even—to Impulse’s own dismay—Engineering.
Impulse wasn’t equipped for this. He couldn’t be less equipped for this. He went to school to study mechanical engineering, not law. He hated conflict. He hated fighting. He was in way, way over his head. But someone had to do something—the tin can full of rot was bulging and about to burst—and darn it all, his family lived down here in this stupid can, and he’d take care of it for them if for no one else.
So there he was, sitting at the bottom of the hole, nursing the beginnings of a headache, as the Directors of the various levels argued over who would preside over all the other Directors and be the top dog of the entire Silo. And after half an hour of fruitless, pointless bickering—all of which basically boiled down to “I should be in charge!” “no, I should be in charge!”—Impulse had finally had enough of it and spoke up for the first time.
“What if none of us are in charge?”
Multiple pairs of eyes turned and stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.
“Well, somebody has to decide—”
“No, I know, but why—” He stammered and made a few frustrated noises, trying to find the words to his idea, and finally blurted, “What if we don’t gotta have just one guy up top? What if—what if we’re all just on the same level, and we work together to decide?”
The Director of Commerce—a wiry and bookish little fellow with large round glasses—perked up at that and exclaimed, “Oh, an oligarchy!”
It was his turn to get stared at as if he’d grown another head. “Bless you.”
“No, no, an oligarchy. Like the Aeropagus of Athens.” As the staring continued, he sighed and explained hastily in frustration, “It was an ancient city that was ruled by a small council of elites. There are not many governments throughout history that have done this—it’s really rather difficult to manage—but for a temporary solution, it’s…better than nothing?”
Impulse looked around at the faces of the other Directors. No one seemed enthusiastic about this idea, but no one seemed to hate it either.
Impulse sighed and sat back down. “Better than nothing.”
In his relief, he’d forgotten one of the first rules of computational programming.
Nothing is more permanent than a temporary solution.
------
In the present…
The funny thing about court trials is that they’re one of the most excruciatingly boring and yet somehow simultaneously nail-biting forms of torture that mankind has ever invented.
Skizz has been sitting here for what feels like an eternity. He idly plays with a link in his chain. He stares at Impulse’s back. He stares at the ceiling. He counts specks of dirt on the floor. He valiantly fights the urge to crawl out of his skin and bolt. And he’s been doing this since the trial started.
How long has it been? An hour? Half an hour? He can’t tell. It’s felt like days.
He has no idea what Impulse and the Panel are even talking about right now. He started to tune out a while ago when they read off all his charges again, and then he checked out fully when they started banging on about the economy in the City for god knows what reason.
His brain is frantic. It’s whirling like a hover engine with the spool about to come off. This is a bad, bad, bad, bad idea. Why is Impulse doing this? Nothing good ever happens when you go up against The Man. Skizz would know. He’s the expert in it. Never worked out well.
What if it all goes wrong? Not for himself, he’s not worried about himself—well, he is, a little bit, but the worst that could happen there is that he gets kicked out and dies in the desert, and that was gonna happen anyway. No, no, no. He’s worried about Impulse. There’s so much that could go wrong there.
What if they strip him of his rank of Director? What if he loses his job? What if Engineering stops listening to him, and his friends leave him, and the Silo ostracizes him, all because he threw his lot in with a criminal? What if they kick him out too?
When he checks back in—nope, they’re still on about the economy. Glasses is saying something about paperwork and restrictions, and Impulse says something about “because there’s no barrier to entry for legal operation of business” and Skizz stares at the ceiling again.
What the hell does ‘legal operation of business’ have to do with him? He never operated business legally. Couldn’t have if he tried. He was a bum and a dropout and never got into any of the good colleges that would’ve let him into GigaCorp or Sahara or iBuy. Not that he would’ve wanted to work for those soul-sucking greedy bastards, but, well…when all the corpo monopolies had their dirty claws in the government, it’s not like he would’ve had a choice.
His mind spins with doomsday scenarios again. What about Impulse’s family? What’s going to happen to them? The youngest isn’t even an adult yet. She doesn’t deserve to have anything bad happen to her. Would the Silo reject them all too? Would they have to say goodbye to their father or get kicked out into the desert with him? Why the hell would Impulse risk that, after everything he and his family have been through, for a no-good criminal and a thief?
This is STUPID, man, he’s screaming internally, just DROP IT.
His attention is pulled back in suddenly when Impulse starts gesturing towards him.
“That’s when he stopped doing crime,” he says, “when we left the City. To me, that says that all those economic factors we’ve been talking about were a huge part of his motive in the first place, and now that those are gone, his motive for crime is gone too.”
Skizz sits up straighter. Oh…oh all that nerd talk did have something to do with him.
“Well, some motive, yes,” says Glasses, “but not all of it. You can’t reasonably blame thirty years of sustained criminal activity on external factors alone.”
“No, you’re right,” Impulse agrees after a pause, “he is responsible for his own decisions. But it wouldn’t be right to ignore all those outside factors either.”
Skizz blinks. Well, damn. Now he almost wishes he was paying attention so he’d know what they were talking about.
He doesn’t get the chance to ask, because the Panel continues their questioning. “So you believe that his good behavior will continue.”
“Yes,” says Impulse. “And I can prove it with what he’s done in the past.”
“Isn’t it circular reasoning to use his behavior to prove his behavior?”
He pauses. “Not unless what you were doing is circular reasoning too. You were looking at the past to try to predict the future. I’m doing the same thing. Only I’m not looking at his time in the City. I’m looking at his time down here in the Silo.”
Skizz leans forward, eyes locked on the back of that stupid shiny jacket. The young officer standing at his side looks down at him nervously, but doesn’t interfere.
“I think we should look for two things: One, has there been bad behavior? And two, has there been good behavior? Because those are different, right? Lack of a negative, versus presence of a positive.”
Impulse begins pacing in front of the table, and for the first time Skizz can see his face again, watching him gesture in the air as he talks.
“Now, I already said he hasn’t been doing any crime since he left the City. He hasn’t hurt anyone in the Silo. There have been no complaints, no—all of you had to go digging really far before you found anything that he’d done.
“And obviously, if someone down here had a problem with him and told us about it, I’d want to look into it, because that’s the right thing to do, right? I’m not trying to sweep this under the rug. But that didn’t happen. No one down here has a problem with him. And I think that’s important, because that says that he’s making a conscious choice to be different now than he was previously.”
Skizz is playing with the link again, wrapping it around his finger and then unwrapping it. The chain clinks and rattles idly in his hands. It feels like there’s another tether on him, but not a physical one; something invisible, immaterial, simultaneously not real and somehow even realer than the one on his wrists.
One end is tied to something deep inside his chest. The other end is tied to Impulse. And Skizz can feel that invisible line being pulled along as he paces.
“But doing good is different from not doing bad, right? Presence of a positive. Because he could have just been living down here and taking up space and eating our food, and then he’d just be dead weight, right?
“But that’s not true either. He’s been helping. He’s been actively working to help support the Silo. Even…even at the beginning, way back then, he’d help out whenever we got new refugees in; find them food, find them some place to sleep. And nowadays, he’s helping me—he does all the logistics stuff for my dig projects so I don’t have to—and that helps everybody.
“He’s helping me build the Silo. He helped me build this room. That’s who he is, who he’s always been, he…he sees something that needs doing, and he doesn’t just sit around and wait for permission, he just does it.”
Skizz’s fingers slow. The metallic clinking stops.
“I know we’re worried about overpopulation right now. I know you’re looking for people who could be dangerous or dead weight and you’re trying to get rid of them. But Mr. LeMan isn’t dangerous, and he’s not dead weight. He's a hardworking citizen, he’s a valuable part of the team, he’s crucial to the Silo’s infrastructure. We…we need him, you need him, the same way you know you need me.”
Skizz lets out a puff of air through his cheeks. Hardworking and valuable and needed, huh? Boy, that’s new…
“And if we’re concerned about the safety of the Silo—because that’s our job, right, protecting the people of the Silo—then I think we should be paying way more attention to what Mr. LeMan has done in the Silo and for the Silo, not what he did before he came to the Silo. Because that’s a totally different context.”
There’s a pause as the Panel digests this, and Glasses jots down a note.
“Even though it was in a different context,” says Lady Director, “clearly you are at least somewhat concerned about crimes committed in the City, or else you wouldn’t have suggested that we go through old records.”
“Yes,” Impulse says slowly, “because sometimes what people did in the City does bleed over into the Silo. Some people never change, even when they’re given the chance. We saw this with the Habits and the McVolts.
“I never meant to dig up old things that people did in the past and kick them out for it right away—obviously if we find out that someone down here used to be a serial killer or something, that’s completely different—but in general, I just wanted to look at old records so that we could figure out which people we need to keep a closer eye on going forward.
“If they make the choice to change, now that they get the chance, great! But if they don’t—if they choose to keep hurting people—I want to catch it before the damage gets too steep.”
“Do you expect us to leave the crimes of the old world unpunished, then?” she asks.
“I expect…” He pauses to think. “I expect the punishment to be proportional to the crime. Even in the City, after everything Mr. LeMan did, the worst they’d do to him is throw him in prison. Maybe for life. But they wouldn’t execute him.”
Her voice is level. “Exile is not an execution.”
“It might as well be!” he insists. “It’s summer up there. It’s a hundred and ten, maybe a hundred and twenty degrees in the daytime? There’s no food, no water, except what you bring with you. There are bandits. He’d be all alone, he can’t fight like he used to, he’s got a bad knee, and—let’s be honest—none of us here are as young as we used to be.”
Skizz frowns. Gee, thanks, man.
“If he gets sent out there alone, that’s basically a death sentence. That’s too much. Maybe he deserves time in prison, but…we don’t have a prison down here. I never built one. We don’t have the space for it. We don’t have room for anything more than the little jail next door. We barely have enough to feed our people who aren’t causing trouble—not for lack of trying,” he adds, with a nod at Mr. Banks, “—so we can’t afford to give free room and board to our troublemakers right now.
“The only punishment we have at our disposal is exile. And that worked fine, when we were only looking at severe crimes that do involve the safety of the whole Silo and do deserve kicking people out. But if we’re gonna be bringing in these lesser crimes…we’re gonna have to start bringing in lesser punishments too, to fit them.”
Her expression is still unreadable. “So when he agreed to submit to exile…”
Impulse is quiet. “He agreed because he believes his crime does deserve a punishment. Maybe not exile specifically. But he believes he should pay for what he’s done.”
Skizz would have protested to anyone speaking for him, but he’s got to admit that Impulse is right. Maybe he does understand…
After a brief pause, Impulse leans in again, tugging on that invisible line. “That proves his integrity more than anything, by the way. Dishonest people don’t want to face the music for what they’ve done. Honest people do.”
Skizz puts his head down.
Impulse’s voice is quiet and earnest. “And he is honest, after everything.”
Skizz swallows hard. There’s a mysterious lump in his throat. The words ring in his ears and wrap around him and he’s not sure if he can believe them.
He is honest.
He’s not sure what to do with that.
There’s a tug on his chain. “Get up,” the young officer says. It’s quiet, but it’s an order, and it’s a welcome distraction.
When he stands, Skizz is surprised to see that they’re not alone. The room isn’t empty anymore. Nosy bystanders and busybodies—the normal people of the Silo, with dirt still on their clothes—are poking their heads into the courtroom and quietly filing into the seats by the entrance.
The ringleader of this operation appears to be the one leaning against the door—arms crossed over his chest, ankles crossed in front of him, and a smirk on his face—one ornery looking Tango Tek.
“What—what are you doing?” Mr. Banks blusters, rattling his prodigious jowls. “You can’t be in here!”
Tango stretches his arms over his head with a grunt. “Eh, nothing in the rules that said we couldn’t. Why? You got something to hide?”
There’s another tug on Skizz’s chain and the nudge of a boot at his ankle. Skizz falls back into his seat. It’s away from the audience now, halfway between them and the Panel, with its back against the wall.
Skizz can see Impulse’s face now. And he can also see the Panel’s indignant expressions at Tango’s insinuation of impropriety.
“Of course not,” Lady Director says, coolly, but with a bite. “But the Court does not play for an audience.”
“Oh I know.” Tango shrugs. “We won’t get in the way. I just thought people might wanna watch and see if their justice system is really being…just. Y’know?”
Impulse shoots Tango a grateful smile. Tango winks back.
Well, if Skizz ever had any doubt that these two are geniuses…
Speaking of genius, the gears are starting to turn again in Impulse’s head. He straightens up and faces the Panel.
“So, to recap.” He counts it off on his fingers. “We discussed Mr. LeMan’s original motives for crime. We discussed how those motives were shaped by the economy in the City. We said he stopped doing crime once he left the City. We covered his time in the Silo; the absence of bad behavior and the presence of good behavior. We talked about the choice to be a better person, and the fact that pleading guilty actually proves he’s an honest person. And we covered proportional retribution.” He stops and faces the table again. “Does the Court have any questions about any of that so far?”
Shaken out of their stupor, the Panel sorts hastily through their papers and notes.
“You make a compelling argument, S.V.,” Glasses says slowly, “but it’s tough to argue that seven years of good behavior should outweigh thirty years of criminal activity. Just numerically speaking.”
“Numerically, yes,” says Impulse. “That’s why I made such a big deal about motive and context. And recency. It’s not what he used to do a long time ago, it’s what he is doing right now.”
“And what if that changes? What if those old habits return?”
“They won’t.”
“But what if they do?”
Impulse doesn’t answer at first. The furrow between his eyebrows is back.
There’s a long pause until the Lady Director speaks up. “If I may, Director.”
He lifts his head. “Yes.”
“Surely you recall the case from two months ago.”
He sounds like he’d rather not remember it, but his voice is steady. “I do.”
“Then you will remember that the accused was the previous Director of Mechanical.”
His nose wrinkles with quiet disgust. “I do.”
“And yet, despite his power in the Silo and the work he did for this community, we exiled him for his crimes nonetheless.”
He sighs. “Yes. And I think that was the right thing to do.”
“Then you agree that all individuals must be held accountable for their actions, regardless of social standing or power or proximity to power.”
Impulse is quiet. He seems to see what she’s getting at. “I do.”
She regards him steadily. “In all the years we’ve worked together, one of your primary concerns has been that we do not emulate the corruption that was rampant in the City’s legal system. You’ve come here today to advocate for a friend—”
Skizz ducks his head and looks up warily.
“—and that shows its own sort of nobility.”
Impulse straightens up, and there’s a firm set to his jaw.
“But I'd like to remind you that if we give Mr. LeMan special treatment that he does not deserve—on no other merit than simply because he is connected to you—that is, in fact, nepotism and corruption, and we are no better than the City we left behind. You understand that, don’t you?”
Impulse nods firmly. “I do.”
“Then I will reiterate the question. If Mr. LeMan were to bring harm to any citizen of the Silo, what do you suggest should be done?”
This time, Impulse is ready. “He should pay for it. I’ll drag him to this Court myself. And I’ll pay the damages, ten times over, out of my own pocket, in addition to whatever sentence the Court deems right for him.” His voice falls slightly. “I realize that I’m asking the Silo to give an ex-convict a chance, based on my word alone, so if he causes harm to anyone down here that is my own fault, in a way. I’m ready to take the fall for it. If that’s what it comes to.”
Lady Director looks at him with a steady, unreadable expression, then turns to Mr. Banks and straightens up. “No further questions.”
“Judges,” drawls Mr. Banks, “would anyone else like to cross-examine?”
Skizz holds his breath.
No one answers.
“Very well,” says Banks. “Director, do you have a closing statement?”
Impulse nods. “I do, actually.”
He holds up a finger, turns, and coughs into his elbow. All this talking seems to have taxed his voice. But he clears his throat and soldiers on. “You brought up the—” Another cough. “Sorry. The corruption in the City’s legal system. I want to circle back to that.”
He takes a bolstering breath, and then paces, speaking loud enough for the whole room to hear. “I think it’s important to realize where we are right now. We’re survivors, living in a hole, trying to rebuild the law from scratch. We’re not gonna get it done overnight. We’re not gonna get it right the first time. But we’re taking those first steps, and maybe our children can finish what we started after we’re gone.”
His voice lowers. “I want to give them a good foundation. I don’t want to give them a legal system that’s all about power and profit and punishment and is rotten straight to the core. I want to give them something that’s kinder. Something built on mercy. Something that rewards people who actually make that choice to better themselves.”
The audience behind him is leaning in, hanging on his every word. The corner of Tango’s mouth twitches upwards. He seems to approve.
“We’ve got an opportunity right now. The chance to make something new. Whatever we decide today…it’s not just about Mr. LeMan,” Impulse says, pointing back at him. “It’s about whoever sits in that seat next. And the next person, and the next person, and the next, and everyone in the Silo, really, because that could be any one of us tomorrow.”
A few more heads turn to look Skizz’s way. It’s uncomfortable, but he gets the sense that they’re not actually looking at him; they’re looking at the seat he’s sitting in, and imagining themselves there instead.
How would I want to be treated, if I was in his place?
And as if Impulse hadn’t made the Panel deeply uncomfortable already, he doubles and triples down.
“Three years ago,” he says, pacing, with his fingers steepled in front of his nose, “the people of the Silo entrusted us with the power to be their leaders; to make the decisions so they wouldn’t have to. The only reason we have any say in anything is because they agreed to listen to us. We’re nothing special. We’re nothing important. We’re servants of the people. We have to be fair and just and do what’s right and lead them well, because the only reason we have power is because they gave it to us.”
He turns and faces the Panel, and all of the sudden, Skizz sees something that will be etched into his brain for years to come: a singular man, standing alone, staring down the powers that be, and at his back a silent army of at least a hundred watchful eyes.
This is only a small fraction of the Silo’s population, and they all know it.
The Judges are outnumbered.
They gave us this power.
And the unsaid part…they can take it away.
“And what about you, Mr. S.V.?” the Lady Director asks, after the silence becomes too long. “After all you’ve said here today, are you willing to abide by the Court’s decision?”
“Yes,” says Impulse.
“Even up to and including exile?”
He pauses. His voice is heavy. “Yes.”
Lady Director does not answer, but Glasses says through half a laugh, “Oh, good. I’m glad you’re not so out of your mind that you’d choose your friend over your life in the Silo.”
Impulse turns to look at Skizz.
Skizz’s eyes widen. The invisible line is pulled so taut that he could pluck it like a guitar string. What’s that look on his face? What’s he thinking? There’s something soft about it, something determined, something sad…
Impulse is quiet. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Skizz feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The air is shifting, like it does before a storm on the surface.
Impulse turns to the Panel, looking the Lady Director dead in the eyes.
“If he goes,” he says, “I’m going with him.”
Instant. Pandemonium.
There’s a sharp gasp from the audience, and a crashing wave of chatter. The Judges all but leap out of their seats, shouting over each other. Tango straightens up off the wall, staring, eyes wide with disbelief. Skizz just feels dread.
The Judges are all leaning over the table, clamoring, insisting that Impulse reconsider.
All of them, that is, except for the Lady Director.
In the middle of the shouting, Glasses turns to her and cries, “Mavis, tell him he can’t leave!”
She doesn’t turn her head. “He can.”
He backs up, stunned.
Her voice is quiet. “Residents of the Silo have the right to depart any time they wish.”
“But…” he stammers. “But to go up there in this weather would be suicide!”
She has not moved. She’s barely blinked. She’s still looking at Impulse, and he at her, the only calm and still things in this storm. Her expression is not hard or cruel. It almost looks like…she expected this. Like she knew what he would say even before she asked.
Skizz can see Impulse’s throat work, but he does not back down.
Glasses is faltering now. “Mavis, we…we need him.”
“Yes,” she says quietly. “Yes, we do.”
It’s only after the volume level in the room comes down again that Impulse speaks. “I wouldn’t be leaving you alone.” It comes out as a bit of a croak, and he coughs, his throat clearly dry from all the talking. “The infrastructure is stable. Mr. Tek can handle the—”
He can’t finish. A throatier cough wracks his chest, and he puts his face into his elbow.
Someone in the audience whispers, “Director.”
Impulse turns around to see who spoke. She’s a few rows back from the front; with one arm, she’s holding a slumbering baby to her chest, and with the other, she’s offering a water canteen.
He steps back towards the audience, and the canteen passes from one hand to another to another—most of them with calluses and dirt stains and chipped fingernails—until it is close enough for him to grasp. He smiles, whispers “thank you”, unscrews the cap, and takes a sip.
Every eye is on him. The Panel is discussing in frantic whispers over Mavis’ head. The people of the Silo look at their Director with mixed expressions of fear and uncertainty and respect and love.
We don’t know what you’re doing, they seem to say. We don’t want to lose you. But whatever happens next, we believe in you.
Impulse looks up. His eyes meet Tango’s, who’s resumed his place holding up the door in the back of the room.
Tango’s eyebrows are furrowed, but he sets his mouth in a thin line and nods.
Impulse nods back.
As he turns back to address the Panel, he passes by Skizz, who strains at his chain to lean forward.
“Impulse,” he hisses, “what are you doing?”
“Just trust me,” he whispers back.
“Don’t do this. Don’t throw it all away for me, man.” Skizz can feel the rock in his throat, and it’s making his voice falter, but he doesn’t care. “I’m a criminal.”
Impulse looks him dead in the eyes.
“So am I.”
He takes one last sip and turns away.
Skizz feels like the room, and the whole world, has been turned upside down.
What the hell happened to that soft, spineless pansy who begged him for help all those years ago?
Well…I guess I did tell him to grow a pair…
As he turns back to the Panel, Impulse clears his throat and starts to screw the cap back on the canteen. “This isn’t part of my argument,” he says quietly. “I tried to keep my emotions out of it. But it’s important.”
He takes a deep breath, sighs, and raises his head. “Mr. LeMan saved my life. He’s the reason I’m standing here today. Nothing I’ve done as the Director would exist if it wasn’t for him.”
A soft murmur ripples through the crowd. All eyes are on Skizz. It makes him want to squirm and bolt out of his too-small chair, but in a different way; they’re looking at him with awe and gratitude and love, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.
“I don’t want to live in a place that doesn’t allow people to make themselves into something new,” says Impulse. “I was a criminal myself. The Silo was my fresh start. If it doesn’t welcome him anymore, then it doesn’t welcome me.”
The whole room seems to be holding its breath.
“I have the right to leave,” says Impulse. “I have the right to protect my people. I have the right to share whatever happens to him. And if it kills me…”
It’s like the silence before a clap of thunder.
“I have the right to die beside my brother.”
Skizz blinks hard. There’s some strange pressure behind his eyes.
Finally, after a long pause, Impulse says, “I rest my case.”
He steps down.
What he leaves behind is not a pandemonium like last time, but the room is suddenly awash with noise. The people of the Silo lean over to their friends and family and chatter in impassioned voices. The Panel argues in whispers. Skizz licks dry lips and tries to remember how to breathe.
“Need some?”
Skizz looks up. Impulse is standing right there, offering him the canteen.
It feels strange to have him close enough to touch, again, somehow.
Skizz lifts both hands to grab the canteen—he doesn’t have a choice because of the cuffs—unscrews the cap, and raises it to his lips with a shaking hand. He wishes it was alcohol rather than lukewarm water.
“Do you think it’ll work?” he croaks.
Impulse stands beside him, watching the Panel. “I don’t know,” he whispers.
Skizz moves to press the canteen back into Impulse’s hand, but the invisible line is reeling in tight, and he grabs Impulse’s wrist and sets his forehead against it instead.
There’s a soft coo of sympathy from somewhere in the crowd. Skizz doesn’t care. If this is one of the last times he gets to be with his favorite person in the world, he doesn’t care who sees him like this.
Impulse kneels down to his height and moves his hand, only to press his forehead where it was instead. They’re almost nose-to-nose, and Skizz can hear him breathing, and it’s almost enough to make him cry.
“Wherever you go,” Impulse says softly, “I’m going with you.”
Skizz’s inhale sounds wet in his nose, but he doesn’t even care. “I can’t stop you, can I?” he whispers.
Impulse gives a little smile. The good eye is watering too. “No.”
Skizz shuts his eyes and buries his head in the shoulder of his brother.
------
Two months ago…
“Another bad one, huh?”
The only answer out of Impulse was a weary grunt. He was lying on his couch in front of the little fireplace with his arm slung over his eyes, and he looked exhausted.
Skizz slid in next to him and wedged himself into the last bit of usable sitting space on that couch. “Can you tell me about it?”
Impulse’s voice was quiet. “I can’t give you the details.”
Skizz shrugged. “Okay, then tell me about you.”
There was a long silence. Skizz started to think that maybe he didn’t want to talk at all. But then that arm slipped off of Impulse’s face and dangled limply off the couch and Skizz could see that the good eye was tinged red.
“I just wish I could make it stop,” he whispered at the ceiling.
Skizz made a low noise of sympathy.
Impulse shut his eyes. “I wish I could snap my fingers and make people stop hurting each other. Make them be kind.” He rolled over miserably to face the back of the couch, like shutting out the whole world. “I wish I could fix it for real.”
Skizz just put a hand on his back and was silent. He knew better than to ruin this by running his mouth.
“But I can’t.” He said it through gritted teeth, and Skizz couldn’t tell if it was from anger or pain. “The damage is done. We can’t undo it. We can only take the sonnovabitch who did it and kick him out to die, and that’s worse. It doesn’t undo what happened. It just makes more pain. And now he’s out there and if he doesn’t hurt someone else first he’s probably gonna get killed or starve to death and she’s still here and she’s just gonna have to live forever with what he did to her, and—”
He sucked in a breath, as if he’d just realized he said too much, and planted his face into the couch cushion.
There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Skizz ran his hand up and down Impulse’s back, feeling the bumps in his spine and the tiny movements as he breathed, hoping that this offered comfort in some small way.
“Y’know,” he finally said, slowly, “sometimes I think you’re not cut out for this court stuff.”
Impulse tucked his chin down until only his forehead was pressed against the cushion. “I have to,” he said, weary but defiant. “We have to. If we let people like that stay in the Silo, they’re just gonna hurt more people. I don’t want my daughters living in a world like that.” He let out a shuddering exhale and seemed to deflate under Skizz’s hand. “It just…sucks.”
“I know.”
“It sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.”
Down his spine, and up again. A wet log popped and sparked in the fireplace.
Finally, Skizz leaned over and asked him quietly, “You had anything to eat since you got back, homie?”
Impulse didn’t answer at first. When he did, his voice was small. “No.”
Skizz stood up from the couch with a grunt. “Well, there’s a problem we can fix.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he just barely caught a glimpse of the weary, grateful smile on Impulse’s face, before he turned his head again and sunk back into the couch.
------
In the present…
The gavel falls: BANG! BANG!
There’s a sudden hush.
Mr. Banks clears his throat and speaks, ponderously as always. “The Silo Court has made its decision—”
Impulse stands up, straight and defiant, the copper buttons shining like fire on his jacket. Skizz can feel his heartbeat drumming in his ears.
“And sentences Mr. LeMan to—”
Everyone leans forward.
Impulse shuts his eyes.
Skizz can’t breathe.
------
One week later…
“Hey.”
Skizz turns around, surprised. “Hey. You’re…not supposed to be down here.”
Impulse shrugs, jostling the pickaxe on his shoulder, and smirks. “I’m a Director. I can go wherever I want.”
As this sinks in, Skizz feels himself smile; and it’s just a little softer and a little more sincere than he meant it to be.
“Scoot over.” Impulse nudges him aside, swings his pick, and lodges it into the rock.
“Hey!” Skizz shoulders him back and raises his own pick. “Quit doin’ my job!”
“Well, start swingin’ then!”
“I’m workin’ on it!” he grunts. “You’re making me—” He tears a chunk of rock loose with a noise of effort. “—look bad.”
“Hey, I’m not meeting your quota for you. I’m just keepin’ you company. ‘Sides—” Another strained noise of effort, another swing, another crack in the rock. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t throw your back out down here.”
“What?! Where did that come from?”
Impulse’s voice takes on a mournful tone. “It’s not fair to do this to an old man.”
“Oh I’ll show you old man,” Skizz growls, “I am two years older than you!”
“One foot in the grave.”
“You shut up!”
Impulse snickers.
“God, what’s it take ta get some good company around here?”
He’s complaining loud enough for the whole dig site to hear it, but in actuality he wouldn’t have it any other way.
And Impulse seems to know that, because he just chuckles.
------
Ten weeks of community service. That was the verdict. Impulse almost looked like he’d collapse in relief.
As the audience began to file out, chattering to each other, the Lady Director approached the side of the room where Imp and Skizz were, and Skizz watched Impulse draw himself up as straight and tall as he could.
She stopped and regarded Impulse, scrutinizing him with the same level expression as before, but there was something new and not unpleasant in it.
“Well done, Director,” she said simply.
He nodded, looking emotionally exhausted and ready to collapse right there. She extended her hand—after a moment’s hesitation, he shook it—and the tiniest ghost of a smile crossed her stern face.
She dropped his hand and nodded at the young officer. To Skizz’s surprise, he stepped forward and inserted a key into Skizz’s cuffs, and they fell off with a click.
Skizz rubbed his wrists in surprise.
He was…free.
It didn’t feel real.
“You have a good friend, Mr. LeMan.” Skizz looked up just in time to see her lean forward slightly, towering over him as he sat in his little chair, and there was all the weight of an implicit threat behind her words as she ordered, in no uncertain terms, “Never betray his trust.”
He swallowed hard and shook his head a little. “No, ma’am,” he said meekly.
He never would have dreamed of it anyway, not after all this, but now he really didn’t want to.
She straightened her back, scrutinized him and Impulse one last time, turned her shoulder away—and then finally turned her head and walked out the door of the courtroom, her heels clicking on the hard floor.
------
The clatter of tools. The grumble of falling stone. Voices calling to each other and echoing off the sheer walls. Skizz is breathing heavily with exertion, and so is Impulse, but the sound melts into the ambient noise of the dig site.
“They should’ve pardoned you,” Impulse says under his puffing breath.
Skizz doesn’t have the energy left to sigh. “Impulse…”
“It’s not fair.” He punctuates it with a sharp jab of his pick into the stone. “You’re not that person anymore.”
“I gotta do my time, man,” Skizz says; like he’s been saying, for the past few days.
“By breaking your back down here?”
“You want the alternative?”
It’s a harsh challenge, but it’s asked softly, and the look Impulse gives him says it all.
“You know I don’t,” he says softly.
Skizz can’t even bring himself to joke about that. “Yeah. Me neither.”
They keep working for a little while longer. Skizz is hitting his stride now; figuring out a way to pivot the pickaxe so that it swings on its own momentum before striking the rock, using as little effort of his own as possible. He’s always been one for finding workarounds and alternative solutions. This is no different. It’s just something new.
“And hey,” he says with a grunt, “if it makes ya feel better, at least I’ll have a clean conscience after this.”
Impulse hesitates. “You sure?”
“Yeah!” he says between swings. “You know how long I was waiting for that other shoe, man? Was startin’ to eat me alive. But, well, now it’s happened. I got found out, and it’s not that bad. I did what I did, and now I get to pay for it, and after this is all over and done I can just live my life and forget about it. It’s a new start, man. That’s worth somethin’.”
Impulse is focusing on his work, but there’s a thoughtful wrinkle between his eyebrows. “I guess. If that’s…if that’s really how you feel.”
“It is.”
“Okay. I—okay.”
Skizz turns and looks at him. “You know I’m grateful, right?” he says, dead serious.
Impulse sighs. “Skizz…”
“Well I am.”
He chuckles. “I know, buddy, I know, I—” He waves it away, trying to make a joke out of it. “You only say it like a hundred times a day.”
“Well I gotta!” Skizz insists. “You saved my life, man.”
“Yeah, well…” Impulse looks up at him and shrugs. “You saved mine.”
Skizz can feel a little smile creeping onto his face.
Impulse turns and taps his mark on the stone. “So…I guess we’re even now.” He swings the pickaxe and hits it right on the mark.
Skizz just chuckles. “Sure.”
------
Impulse stood completely motionless for a moment, watching Mavis walk out the door as the crowd parted to let her through. He seemed frozen, like a part of the stone under his feet.
But then he drew in a deep breath, pumped his fists, half-laughed half-sobbed out “YES” and bodily threw himself onto Skizz.
Skizz just laughed. If the chair hadn’t been pushed against the wall, the force would have sent him rocking backwards. As it was, he kicked one leg out and then surged forward, hugging Impulse fiercely, as he felt Impulse bury his face in his shoulder.
Tango charged down the aisle, dodging between people, and threw himself onto both of them. “Hooo, ohh, man,” he said through barking laughter, “I was this close to runnin’ off into the great blue yonder with you guys!”
Skizz couldn’t tell if Impulse was laughing or crying. “Nooo, Tango, I needed you here…”
“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t have to choose, now, huh?” Tango threw his arm around Impulse, shook him a little, and then slapped him heartily on the back. Impulse just chuckled weakly, and Skizz felt it just as much as he heard it.
God, this was incredible. He felt like he’d explode. Every part of him was so indescribably happy that it made his chest hurt and his throat close up.
“I…don’t…deserve you guys,” he finally croaked, somehow.
“Too bad, Skizzy,” Tango said immediately, “you’re stuck down in the hole with us now. Gonna have to get used to it.”
Impulse’s laughter sounded like hiccups.
Tango slapped Skizz on the shoulder, stood up, and snapped off a salute. “See ya at the dig site tomorrow, Skizzle! Maybe I’ll let’cha drive the backhoe!”
“Later, brother,” Skizz said, and if it came out a little softer and more fond than he intended it, well…that was fine.
Tango gave one last wave and strutted out the door, chatting with bystanders on the way, and disappeared into the crowd.
After a long moment, Impulse lifted his head. Skizz looked at him. The good eye was still watery, but Impulse was beaming like the sun. And Skizz couldn’t help but laugh and press their foreheads together again.
Thank you.
Thank you so much.
------
“I guess there is one good thing about all this,” Impulse says, after a long pause to dislodge a stubborn stone.
Skizz’s voice is quiet. “What’s that, homie?”
He says it slyly, like he’s already embarrassed about the joke, but he’s choosing to go ahead with it anyway. “You can finally work off a few of those extra pounds, huh?”
“WOW,” Skizz barks, “okay, that is—I’m gettin’ lit up over here!”
Impulse bursts into high-pitched laughter.
“Did you come down here to just bully me?! Is that what this is? What the heck, dude?!”
He throws himself backwards, still cackling.
“That’s rich comin’ from the guy they had to roll into the Underground over here!”
The laughter is suddenly cut off by an offended squeak. “Hey, what?! No! No they didn’t!”
“Yeah you cracked the pavement outside my hideout, homie—”
“I did not!”
“I seem to recall we made that door wider just to get ya through it.”
“Uh, that was for you.”
Skizz plows on, ignoring him. “Yeah I’d show up with you places and they’d ask me if I needed a takeout box for the pork dumplings—”
And just like that, there was suddenly an elbow in his ribs.
They laugh and scuffle for a bit. Skizz headlocks him. Impulse yelps. Skizz scoops up a handful of dust off the stone shelf in front of him and drops it into Impulse’s hair as he struggles and sputters, and Impulse grabs a handful of dust and gravel and throws it up into Skizz’s face. Skizz laughs and releases him, and Impulse stumbles away.
Skizz is still chuckling as he spits the grit out of his teeth and tries to brush the dirt off of himself. His dusty gloves just leave more smears and streaks across his shirt. Impulse stands a little ways away, shaking the gravel out of his hair and trying to get a hold of his laughter, but it doesn’t seem to be working.
His snickers turn into little hiccups. He tries to hide it behind his lips, but it all comes out in a burst. Then there’s a hiss of an inhale through his teeth, and a little low ohhh…and then one last chuckle.
If Skizz could have one impossible wish, it would be to have that laugh tattooed on his skin.
“I love you.”
Skizz’s head whips around. “What?”
Impulse’s face is suddenly flaming. “Nothing!”
“What did you say?” Skizz asks through his climbing laughter.
“I—nothin’! I didn’t—I dunno what you’re talking about.” Face beet red, Impulse grumbles, “Go—get back to work! Geez.” And then he turns around and takes his embarrassment out on a pillar of deepslate.
Skizz grins, thinks about it for a moment, makes up his mind, closes the distance between them with the stealth of an alley cat—
And punches Impulse’s arm as hard as he possibly can.
“Ow!” yelps Impulse.
“Love ya!” Skizz scampers away before he can retaliate, leaving a smear of stone dust from his glove on Impulse’s shirt. “Hoohoohoo!”
Impulse sighs. It’s the “Skizz why are you like this” sigh, and it’s the best sound in the world—second only to the fond chuckle that follows it.
If I was dying on my knees You would be the one to rescue me And if you were drowned at sea I’d give you my lungs so you could breathe
I’ve got you, brother I’ve got you, brother
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