It was a small memorial, only two to witness the laying of the casket into the ground.
“So long, Jack. We hardly knew you,” one said.
The other quirked up an eyebrow. “That’s it?” he asked. There was a note of amused incredulity in his voice.
“What’d you expect?” A ghost of a smile. “This is, what, the eighth time we’ve buried you now?”
A nod. “At least.”
“Does it ever get old?”
Jack shrugged and pushed his hands down into his pockets. “Hasn’t yet. I’m good for at least another half dozen deaths, I think. There hasn’t been any detectable signal degradation yet.”
“Well, that’s debatable.” The first man sounded sullen now.
“Oh, c’mon, Charles. This project was as much your idea as mine. You don’t get the right to be grumpy about it.”
“I’m not. I just—” Charles broke off, leaving the thought unfinished. A pause. “Do you remember what it feels like each time? Y’know, after?”
Jack grimaced. “Every bloody detail. I’m thinking I’ll go for something less violent next time.”
“Fine. I’ll arrange it.”
[Originally posted on Ficly.]
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