The light was going out of his friend's eyes. Alan held the broken form of his friend, hysterical laughter bubbling out of him.
"No one is coming. I am with you and yet, no one is coming. And you'll die here, I will too. Such is the fate of us," The Graveyard felt stifling, pressing against his chest, constricting his rib cages. There was no way out, he knew. And he was too weak to move forward.
"We lived, didn't we?" His dying friend and sometimes partner in the workshop asked and Alan wished he didn't have to see the sorry sight before him, didn't have to see a body that rejected the prosthetics and got infected by the metal.
James was dying, plain and simple. Alan had seen more death than most people, and yet he couldn't take his eyes away from the sight before him. James's dying had a tone of finality to it, and even if Alan wanted to look away, he couldn't.
It'd be a disservice to his friend.
