Chapter Text
By the time your breathing evens out, you nearly forget Sebastian is in front of you.
You drop your hands from him and shuffle backwards with a pang of uncertainty ringing through your chest. He quickly pulls his hands towards his torso and awkwardly wrings them. His eyebrows knit together; he's torn between different words to say.
You try to slide further backwards (since you're sitting) but are greeted with a solid mass hitting your back. It's his tail. An embarrassed hue creeps up on your already warm face as you shift forwards to not touch it again. When did he curl his tail around the room like this? How hadn't you noticed?
You wet your mouth. Your tongue feels dry and heavy. Phlegm coats the inside of your throat. You raise your wetsuit sleeve to your face to scrub away the tears and snot that are staining your skin.
“Sorry.” Your voice is low and raspy against the idle noise of the fan underneath you. You blink and the movement feels foreign. Pain settles under your skin, like a worm burrowing in the dirt.
Sebastian tilts his head, causing a few wayward strands to fall in front of his face. For once, he pays them no mind. A few seconds pass in silence and you realize how much you've messed up. You’re a burden. You're baggage that Sebastian has to carry around the Blacksite.
“The burns on your back,” He starts, “when did you get them?”
It's hard to respond. You stare at the splotchy red stain on his shirt that came from your blood. “A while ago.” You mutter.
It's not a lie.
That's not the answer he wants. His ear-fins twitch as he tilts his head slightly, irritated but still gentle. It makes you feel sickly.
“When?” He repeats, and lowers one of his hands to the grate. His clawed finger fidgets with one of the many holes. You simply gaze at it, words unwilling to leave your throat. “Expendable?”
You swallow thickly. It feels like adhesive is sticking your teeth tightly together. “It’s…” You hesitate. “...my PDG exploded.”
Sebastian glances at your very much not exploded diving gear that's been haphazardly tossed on the ground. A pause, then a denouement: “Your injuries carry after death?”
You try to look anywhere except the blue eyes that are hooked onto your every movement. It's difficult, and his critical gaze prickles at your skin. “Kinda. I guess.” You murmur.
Silence follows, imploring you to elaborate. You don't want to. You force the syllables nonetheless. “Deaths have special effects. They last until I next die. Everything else?” You weakly shrug. “It stays.”
“That explains a lot.” He replies.
“I guess.” You stare at the fan that lies under the grate you sit on. The air pushes against your wet skin and further chills it. The heat on your back is a prickling presence that won't fade.
“How?” He starts. “How did it explode?”
You flick your gaze to him and stare at him through your lashes. You focus on the rise and fall of his chest, and his awkward fidgeting in place. Eyes catching on every mark on his skin, every scar that feels too human, like it used to be a freckle, mole, or acne. The twisting sensation in your stomach that he's hiding something from you.
The knowing that you're hiding the worst of your sins from him.
“I was swimming.” You switch to staring at the holes of the grate. “And the room had been completely ripped apart. Walls all missing, just a chasm of sea.” A pause, then you say: “There was a Searchlight.”
Sebastian chimes in. “Unlucky.”
You force a dry, quiet laugh. “That's not even the worst of it. It hooked me. Through the stomach, so the PDG was fine.” You rub your stomach with your hand to try and alleviate some of the pain. To remind yourself that, no, you don't have a giant puncture wound.
“It dragged me too far from the Blacksite. Y'know…” Emotions rock you so strongly you start shaking. “Beep. Beep. Boom. Hook destroyed, I'm spinning through the water.”
“Jeez.” He mutters.
“Yeah. Blood loss. Visor cracked, so there's water too.” Your hands start viciously fidgeting. It feels strange to have the pulse of your heartbeat lie under your skin. “Burns. Darkness. Then these… things come out. Hundreds of them, tiny.”
“Parasites.” Sebastian supplies.
You don't look at him. “You're acquainted?"
“Vaguely.”
“So I don't need to explain it.”
He pauses. Hesitance. “Whatever you say,” his voice is low, “I'll catch the gist.”
“Yeah.” You wet your chapped lips. “In whatever case, I'm a prime target for them. Push comes to shove, whether it be from blood loss, shock, or the parasites burrowing in my skin, I die.”
You wave your hand leisurely. “Here we are. For better or for worse.”
“Here we are.” Sebastian echoes. “For the better.”
You don't respond. The conversation breathes, if only for a moment, with the only ambience being your ragged breath and the mechanical flowings around you. You pick at the torn skin by your fingernails. Will it be smooth after you revive?
“What do you feel?” His voice sounds oddly muffled by the fan blade slicing air underneath you.
“Nothin’ bad.” You promptly lie.
It's silence after that. You try to focus on anything but the burning sensation on your back. You tug a shard of skin too harshly off the side of your nail and it starts bleeding. You're enamoured, for a moment, at the fact that you've seen the insides of your body outside so often.
It's still quiet. You don't dare look up at your companion.
“It's not important, Solace. You should start moving on.”
More silence.
“Sebastian.”
You look up at him.
Three pools of blue gaze at you, void of any pupils. Your breath catches in your throat as you see his eyebrows knit together, his lips pursing as if he's holding back the urge to speak. One of his ear-fins flick once, twice, as he shifts his weight back and forth. His angler lure light flickers, but remains a steady glow against the harsh red light of your surroundings.
You take in a sharp inhale. “It…” It feels like there's a nail stuck in your tongue, trying to hold it down in your mouth. “...it hurts. It always hurts.”
You fidget with the zipper of your jumpsuit, moving it up and down your collar. “The older injuries are fading. But, uh—” You hesitate, pushing your tongue against the back of your teeth, “—I can still feel them. Every bullet. Every cut. Every burn.”
Your gaze drifts to your previously-dismembered limb. “My arm.”
A shaky breath, and you continue. “The newer stuff takes priority. Like, y'know, my ankle hurts, but my back feels like a bitch right now. I don't really know what the effect of death was this time, everything just kind of fucking hurts, right? And— and.” You stutter, losing your train of thought. You screw your eyes shut.
Something is tentatively pushed against your back. Your eyes fly open, and you twist around to see what lies there. Sebastian's tail takes its place behind you, an invitation, open and waiting. Something tells you to push him away, to tell him to save himself, but all you can manage is to turn back towards him and rest your back on it. Bliss arrives. The burns on your back die down, if just for a moment, at the touch of something new.
“It's placated by touch. As an example, it… it feels like I have a Searchlight hook in me right now.” You offer a weak smile as you focus on the sensation of the harpoon digging into your flesh, and how every minute movement sparks a harsh sensation of exposed flesh rubbing against it. “But when I touch it,” You place a hand against your stomach, and are greeted with firm flesh and cloth, “it dies down. I guess it's ‘cause I'm realizing there's nothing there.”
You pause. You let out a harsh laugh. “Or something. I don't know.
I don't know why I hardly go into shock. I don't know why I keep— how the people close to me…” You trail off, and wrap your arms around yourself. “Damn it. Shit. Shit.”
“Expendable—”
“—FUCK!”
“Expendable.”
“WHAT, Seb? Why are you here? Why do you keep doing this?”
“Because I care.”
Care. That’s bullshit. Bullshit! It can't be true. You can't let it be true. How selfish are you to let him trust you?
That shuts you up. A single thought comes to you, which you barely manage to vocalize:
“Why?” Your voice is weak and cracks.
“You're different.” He states firmly, as if it's clear as day.
“I'm not.” You feel wobbly, like you're about to fall apart at the seams. As if your skin will melt off. “I'm just as horrid as any other expendable. Property of Urbanshade. Scum of the earth.”
“Scum?” Sebastian repeats incredulously. “Please. Would scum spend so much time mapping out the facility and trying to make it safer?”
You frown. “I’m not— you… you’re wrong.” You lie.
“It's pretty obvious.” He shifts his weight. “Whatever your goal is, it's not the directive Urbanshade sent you down with. I know that much.”
You suck in a sharp breath. “You don't know that.” You squint your eyes. “You don't know anything.”
You can see your words slide under his skin. His ear-fins bristle as the blues of his eyes dim slightly. His lure flickers. Jaw clenched, he drums his fingers on an invisible surface before clasping his hands together. The sound catches you off-guard, and causes you to flinch.
“You said touch makes it feel better.”
You don't have it in you to respond. You cross your arms and dig your fingers deep into your wetsuit, chastising yourself for opening up to him. You want to scream. Yell. Screw the calm after the storm; your storm never ends, and every part of you is wrought with debris.
You look away from your companion, and try not to focus on the sensation of his tail supporting your back. You feel his muscles shift underneath you, and when you glance back up, you see him moving closer to you.
“Can you take off your wetsuit?” His voice is sickeningly soft.
You gaze at him with half-lidded eyes. You don't even have it in you to force yourself to say ‘no’. You slide your tongue between your teeth, testing the weight of your jaw strength.
“Expendy. C'mon.” Sebastian mutters, raising a hand to your face. “Expeeeeeendyy…” He drawls out, and pinches your nose between his fingers.
The movement catches you so off guard your eyebrows shoot up. He playfully shifts your head back and forth via his grip on your nose. You raise a hand and swat him away, leading him to raise both of his hands up, palms facing forward (as if in a mock arrest).
“Okay, okay, I get it.” You rub at your nose with the back of your hand. “I can take it off, it's just…” You trail off, gnawing on the inside of your lip.
“...uncomfortable?” Sebastian chimes in.
You frown at his interruption. “No.” Tentatively, you lift a hand to one of his raised ones. Your palm presses against his. You hadn't realized how close he was.
Sebastian stills. His lure light imperceptibly flickers as his breathing hitches. His throat bobs with a swallow. He lowers the hand you're not touching and savors the sensation of your skin against his.
His hand dwarfs yours. Clawed fingertips could easily break your skin, and you’ve been on the receiving end of his strength many times. You’ve seen the way he treated Farval, and the compassion he had for Upreppa. He has secrets, but at the end of the day, you do too.
You have to tell him. You will tell him.
For a moment, though, you want to enjoy this. Trust. Care. Having a bond that goes deeper than a business partnership.
Selfishness. You deserve this punishment.
“I trust you, Seb.” You shift your palm slightly, pressing your fingers between his own. Like a potter molding clay, he opens his fingers and lets your hand intertwine with his. You wonder if he can feel your pulse beating through your clammy fingertips. He wonders if you notice the way the beat of his blood speeds up.
“I wish I didn't.” You confess.
Sebastian's expression twitches. It grazes an emotion you don't want to identify (it's hurt) and quickly morphs into a neutral placeholder. “If this is because of what I di—”
“—it’s not your fault.” You squeeze his hand tighter, and his touch feels heavenly. “It's never your fault.”
Sebastian's ear-fin flicks. His brow furrows.
“It’s because, for some awful reason,” you force a dry chuckle, “I made you trust me too.”
“That's not a bad thing.” He counters. Your arm is starting to get sore from holding his hand.
“It is.” Your arm starts to droop. “You're an amazing person. Resourceful, stubborn, equally annoying as caring.” You take a sharp inhale. “Beautiful. Funny. The list goes on and on.”
You miss the flush dusting his cheeks.
“I'm a horrible person. I ruin people, Sebastian.” You remove your hand from his. “I don't want to ruin you too.”
A pause.
Then he pushes his hand back against yours, far enough that your forearm touches your bicep. He bridges the gap between the two of you and places a hand between where your neck and skull meet. You reflexively open your legs to avoid bearing the weight of his body. A heat works its way through your skin (and it isn't the one from the PDG explosion).
“You can't ask me to believe that of you.” His voice feels closer than ever. “That's bullshit. If you were going to ruin me, you're doing a shit job at it.”
Any potential responses fall dead on your lips. The proximity is intoxicating, and much like any drug, you only want more of it. It's a brush of a feeling you can't place, and an undeniable sense of yearning for more. Your eyes travel, focusing and unfocusing, until you manage to lift your (unoccupied) hand up.
Wordlessly, you brush your fingertips at the top of his neck. Careful to avoid his gills, you trail your touch downwards. This close, you don't just hear his breath hitch: you see it. The falter in the rise and fall of his chest, the widening and squint of his eyes, and his pupils fading away.
Your touch dips farther, grazing his collarbone. A little farther, and you trace the strings that span the v-neck of his blouse. You can see a few scars that line his skin, mostly obscured by his shirt. It doesn't feel real. He's a person.
You've spent so much time suffering by yourself, at the hands of all the entities of the Blacksite, that being able to see someone, touch someone, talk to someone, feels imaginative. Sebastian is in front of you. He's real. Someone with thoughts, feelings, and a stubbornness (that you find endearing) that has enabled him to prevail against Urbanshade.
Lost in thought, you're torn out of them when you catch a whiff of…
“...fish?” You sniff again. “Seb, you— you smell like fish.” You glance back at his face.
His expression is unreadable. It dips into something new, something you've never seen, before settling on ‘bashful embarrassment’.
“I am part fish, expendable.” He slightly tilts his head to the side. “When I touch water, it brings out the stench—”
“—what do you mean, part fish?”
He falters. His touch pulls away, ever just so slightly, as his pupils return to his eyes. They burn bright against the blue that surrounds them as his lips part. His esca light doesn't just flicker; it turns off completely. The two of you are bathed in a dull red light. Sebastian's hand twitches.
Then his grip tightens. You bite down a wince as a harsh chuckle works its way through his throat. He closes his eyes and takes a sharp inhale. His lure light flickers back on, and his grip loosens.
A forced, twisted smile is on his face. “Right. I'm a special creature, expendy.” His voice is low. “Like a mermaid, y'know? Part of the fish family… not really a fish.”
You frown at the sudden shift in behaviour. “Are mermaids a part of the fish family?”
“Does it matter?” He retorts.
You press your lips tightly together. “I guess not.” You remove your hand from his chest.
He lets go of your hand (thankfully, as your arm was getting quite sore) and gingerly grabs hold of your wetsuit zipper. He forces a steady sigh as he takes a long blink.
“Let me see the damage, then.” He adjusts his hold on your head, but never lets go. “I need a clear answer.”
“You’re good.” You shrug. “Y’know, there’s no damage to see...”
He only hums in response. He tugs down the zipper just to your stomach, exposing the sweat(and blood)-stained tank top underneath. He finally removes the hand that lies against your neck in order to better adjust the tight fabric. It's less pliable since it’s wet.
He pulls the fabric over one of your shoulders, exposing your skin to the cold wind of the fan. It feels heavenly. Sebastian squints his eyes as a clawed fingertips taps the knob of your shoulder. You flinch, and it sends a tremor down to your stomach.
“You are one stubborn son of a bitch.” He trails his claw down your shoulder, stopping once it hits the wetsuit again. Something fuzzy fills your brain, and puts a lump in your throat.
“I’m gonna take a guess and assume these are new?” He taps your skin a few more times for emphasis.
You take a gander (which is difficult since it's such an awkward position) at what he's talking about. Sure enough, painted across the bare skin of your shoulder is a plethora of different colored scars. None of which you recognize. Oh.
“I guess your deaths leaves a mark, huh?” Sebastian muses, as if he's talking about the weather. “That's… a lot. Damn.”
A clamminess works its way to your fingertips. Your gut does a flip and you feel like you might upchuck. It's not solely because of the scars. Rather, it's due to a single question:
—what the fuck are you doing?
You should've discovered these on your own. This is your burden to bear. You're getting complacent and lax. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. You were never supposed to get attached. You were never supposed to get help.
You were never supposed to have this.
You have to end it.
You need to cut it off. The source of reliability.
“...Solace?” Your voice cracks.
He stills. His gaze meets yours as his hand remains lightly placed against your shoulder. “Yeah?”
“I think I should leave.”
He stares. He gives you the opportunity to elaborate, and unfortunately, you do:
“I don't think I'm a good companion for you, Sebastian.” You admit.
The hand around your shoulder tightens. The blues in his eyes dim. “I don't really have a lot of other options.”
“It's not worth it.”
“Not worth—!? Look around!” You can feel a bruise forming from his grip. “We have nothing. I have nothing. I have you, an AI who needs help that I can't give him, and an entire organization hellbent on killing me!”
There's no time to unpack that. You bite your tongue. “I'm sorry, okay? But it's the truth. It's what I've been telling you.”
“What you've been telling me, has been selfish.” You can't see the blue of Sebastian's eyes anymore. “You don't get to decide this. You don’t get to ruin us because of some stupid idea of self-righteous-punishment—”
“—self-right-what—!?”
“—you're human, and it pisses me off that you think you don't get to live as one. We make mistakes. We hurt people. Grow the fuck up!”
“Grow up? Grow up?” You echo. A shallow laugh cuts its way through you. “Growing up is realizing that however bad you are, I'm worse. I'm a criminal. I deserve this, and I'm not hurting the one person I care about in this hell just because I'm fucking lonely!”
You can tell your words hit him, but it's not enough. He presses his hand further against your skin, pushing you against his tail. “This isn't a competition. I don't know how ‘worse’ you think you are, but I couldn't give less of a shit. So shut up, because I’m sick of hearing you whine.”
You grit your teeth. You raise a hand and launch it around his bony wrist on your shoulder. A red hot flush works through your cheeks and you feel the tail behind you curl inwards.
“I've killed people, Sebastian.”
“—and?” His claw breaks into your skin. “I have too. We have to do bad stuff in order to survive. We hurt those who have hurt us and others. That's the cycle of life. We hurt, and we live.”
You blink. Your grip falters, and you feel your blood begin pooling underneath the tips of his fingers. “It wasn't self defense. It wasn't vengeance.”
You force yourself to breathe.
You look at him dead in the eyes. You steel your expression.
“Seven of my friends. Dead, because I woke up one day, and felt like it. And— and you know what's messed up?” You don't let your expression fault you. Your heart twists. “I enjoyed it. I made it hurt.”
(You pled guilty. You've never felt the same bloodlust ever again. The world was painted in red, and you haven't seen it in the same hue since.)
The hand on your shoulder loosens. Two white pinprick dots stare at you, wide-eyed. Your heart throbs in your chest, and you force yourself to stumble upwards. Sebastian slips away from you, the hand that was on your shoulder now suspended hesitantly in the air.
You feel dizzy. In your periphery you can see his tail sliding away from you, propping him towards his more normal height. His esca flickers as his frown deepens.
A bead of liquid dripping off your fingertips. Your blood trickles down the pathway of your arm. A pause, and you realize he's not staring at you: he's staring at your shoulder. His claw is stained red with your blood.
“It's…” You trail off, and take a moment to close your eyes. You take a deep, shuddering inhale. “...good luck. I hope you get out of here.”
This seems to snap Sebastian out of his stupor. He blinks rapidly as the darkness of his eyes fades to a deep blue. “There's a vent behind you that should take you back to the Navi-Path.” He drops his hand defeatedly at his side. “We're going to talk about this.”
You don't have the energy to debate him. You force a pained smile as you begin to walk away. Your footsteps echo against the metal grate beneath you. You don't bother collecting your items, or even zipping up your wetsuit. You bend down to enter the vent as every part of your body protests. The past burns, the sealed over cuts, the new punctures on your shoulder and thigh. Everything hurts.
It seems like a dull pain, though, to the ache in your chest.
If it were anytime else, you would wave him off. He would give you a witty quip as you entered the vent, to which you would laugh or respond to. In those moments, the weight of your PDG didn't feel so heavy.
There's an undeniable weight on you, and you aren't even carrying your gear. Every movement in the vent feels like trudging through mud, or like someone stuffed cotton all around you. It feels too real, and the cold metal walls of the air duct feel more stiff than usual.
The vent system grows darker, and your eyes struggle to adapt to the lack of light. Every minute motion of muscle feels like someone else is moving you. A weariness overtakes your body, not enough to inhibit your movement, but enough to fog your mind. Autopilot is the best term for it, but even that makes your stomach twist, because that implies you've been stuck in the Blacksite long enough for it to become second nature.
A light at the end of the tunnel. You pry your body out of the air duct with a slight wheeze out of your lungs. Familiar surroundings, but the ground underneath your feet feels miles away. The vent exits above the underwater tunnels you normally take, with the same ramp you always rush up on while the Abomination is hot on your tail. Your gaze slowly switches between the water and the Sea Gliders, absorbing the information, before drawing to the stairs.
Climb up the stairs. Past the abandoned Urbanshade-branded broken machinery. A faded logo of the Hadal Blacksite. A slick oil stain that's too reminiscent of blood. A door. Another door. Numbers counting down.
Eyes glazed over. Lights flicker, you enter a locker. Breathing behind a door. Avoid it. A thick mass of a viscous green substance coagulating in the corner. Faint trills of creatures in the dense walls around you. Ignore it. Ignore him.
The bulb from the ceiling looks like the tip of an esca. A rumbling in the vents that reminds you of when you were in his grasp. The bandages and strained wound on your thigh. The scabbed bare skin of your shoulder. A burning pain in your back, accompanied by an ache in your stomach and a prickling sensation over your body.
There's a cardboard box in the corner of the room. It draws your attention, like a moth to a flame. Something that isn't the same drab grey walls, or the same threats that makes the speed of your heart rate shift. New. Different. Bad. Horrible.
You walk over to the box. You don't know how long it takes you to shamble over, or if it was just a couple steps away, but you're staring at it. Your brain lags and you can't do much but blink sluggishly, barely realizing the movement of your legs till you're at the corner.
You're at the corner. You moved. Stimulation prods your brain, giving you a twitch at your fingertips. Monotonous movement of the same repeated rooms dries you of all want to do anything. You bend your knees, squatting down. Your eyes linger on the flesh of your bare leg. You're not used to the sight of your skin.
Inside is a bunch of random supplies. Retired electrical components. A busted up TV remote. An old moldy film covering a keyboard. Pieces of stationary. You press your hand inside and sift through the items.
Hardrive.
Walkie-talkie.
VHS tape.
Hardrive.
Walkie-talkie.
Walkie-talkie.
Old wrinkled manilla folder.
A sharp circuit board that slices your palm.
A Code Breacher.
You examine the loot of the box while a trickle of red falls down your fingertips. It stings, but you don't mind anymore. Your pain tolerance has been pushed so far. At what point does it permanently break?
Muscle memory kicks in and you reach for your duffle bag to zip it open, but you find nothing. Oh. Rough fingertips travel to your wrist to feel your pulse. You count the beat of your heart, trying to ground yourself. Everything feels distant, fake, like someone suspended the concept of time. Maybe it is suspended. How long have you been down here?
One. Two. A bloodied wrench in your hand. Three. Four. The hand twitches, an eye staring at you. It can't blink. There is no eyelid left. Five. Six. Farval smiles, and trusts you. She cares, and listens. Upreppa places a hand on your shoulder, and guides you. She doesn't mind your reliance. You miss the footsteps behind her. You miss the breathing in the locker.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Your heart rate increases. You remove your hand from your wrist, and there's now a smudge of blood there from the cut. It'll be gone next time you die. It's unimportant. You resign from steadying the rapid thoughts racing through your head, and settle to let a fog take place over your mind. Maybe it's best to not pay attention. Maybe that'll make your inevitable death hurt less.
You mourn the loss of your duffle bag. You take the walkie-talkie and Code Breacher in shaking hands, uncaring as to whether you have a free hand or not. You press the items against you as you carry them, relieving your grasp of some of the weight.
Before you know it, you're at door fifty.
Movement is foggy. You barely register opening the door, and you only realize your location when you see ‘49’ staring back at you. Your eyes flutter to the vent you've always seeked solace in. The cover to it is strategically placed aside, and the industrial light seems to have recently been shifted to perfectly shine on the opening. Your shoulder aches.
You walk past the vent. It's a complete contrast to how you moved before; every footstep now feels heavy and unsteady. A single second feels like stretched out minutes. By the time you reach the door, there's a clamminess building in your palms, and you don't want to think about why. You hastily look down to grab the keycard…
…only to see it missing. Great. Fun. You don't know what else you expected from someone as stubborn as Sebastian. It's horribly nervewracking knowing he's probably in his shop, listening to your every movement. You suck in a sharp breath before inserting your Code Breacher into the keypad.
It's a repeated motion you've done hundreds of times before, but it feels almost wrong to do it at Sebastian's shop. Minus your first visits, the keycard has always been there. A constant in your endless torment. Door fifty always has a keycard. Door fifty always has Sebastian.
You unpolitely drop the Code Breacher on the ground after it unlocks the door. The clatter of it against the hard floor makes you flinch, despite however much you expected the noise. Your eyelids feel heavy. The vent to Sebastian’s shop seems inviting.
You place two walkie-talkies down, and leave to room fourty-nine. You double, triple, and probably quadruple check to make sure the walkie in your grasp is turned off. You're not sure why you left two of the walkies, but it feels better than just ignoring him. It's a parting gift. A farewell.
Forty-nine and forty-eight has you holding the walkie-talkie in a steel grip, and training your ears for Sebastian. You can't describe the emotion that sinks into your stomach when you realize that, no, the creaking that sounds like it's in the vents isn't Sebastian. It's a Wall-Dweller.
You tell yourself the emotion is relief. Maybe fear. It's a response to a typical threat that always makes your heart beat faster.
(It's not relief. Not fear. It's regret, and guilt.)
It's not long before you lose track of your thoughts again. Muscle memory kicks into full gear as your footsteps echo down a hallway, the noise barely managing to register in your clouded mind. The lights flicker, and when you blink you realize you’re already prepared in front of a locker.
A yawn builds up in your throat, and you release it, closing your eyes and tipping your head back. The sound of an angler fast approaching hits your ears, and the only indication that you’ve heard it is a slight twitch in your fingertips. You rub at your eyes, feeling the bags that are much lighter than they should be (thanks to your revivals), and only spare a small glance at the approaching entity. Flippantly, you blink back to the locker and enter it. The Angler speeds past shortly after you had hid.
There is no raised heartbeat. There is no pump of adrenaline, or worry over when you need to enter the locker. You leave your hiding spot and your only worrying thought is that you’re starting to feel hungry. It’s a sensation you’ve ignored since your repeated revivals, so you bite down the growls of your stomach with a pinched brow and strained muscles.
It’s as if you’re a newscaster, separated from the tragedies they report on. The weather today is cloudy. Rainy. A small chance of the Good People lurking behind a double door you missed. A possibility for hail. You keep on walking deeper and deeper into the Blacksite.
Not looting is a double-edged sword; on one hand, you move faster and don’t have to worry about the added weight. On the other, you lose all the tools you normally scavenge. Your hand keeps reaching for your belt, instinctively wanting to unclip a light source, but all you’re greeted with is smooth black fabric pressed tight against your skin.
So when the lights go out, you're left in the dark.
You remember leaving room fifty. Faintly, you remember an angler, and the walkie remains tight in your grasp. But you don't recall the room layout. The cold air of the Blacksite nips your skin as your eyes attempt to adjust to the change in lighting. The layout of the office rooms remains relatively the same, so you have a general idea of where the door is.
Not bothering to extend a hand to feel around for where you are, you walk to where the door should be. Thick and blocky shadows prescribe to you a general location of where it is.
A bright light appears to your left.
Instinctively, you're prepared for Eyefestation. You sharply turn your gaze downwards, trying to avoid the pull. When you realize that your head isn't throbbing, and the light shines white, you cautiously glance at the source.
It's from the monitor on the door to the next room. The actual one, and almost comedically on cue, you hear a growl come from the door you were originally heading towards. That could've been bad. Just how zoned out were you?
“Where's your stuff?” The scribble-face from before talks to you.
Your mind lags. “Lost it.” You respond succinctly, and start walking towards the exit.
A beat. “You're bleeding.” His animated face raises a brow.
You falter. You glance down, seeing that the wound on your thigh has re-opened, causing a few beads of blood to fall down the pathway of your bare leg. The liquid is soaking into your sock.
“I know.” You lie.
Scribble-face scrunches his expression. “I don't like liars.”
The words don't strike anything in you. With heavy, half-lidded eyelids, you stare at the hijacked Navi-Path monitor. How can he see you? Your gaze flickers around until catching on a security camera in the corner. With a deadpan expression, you stare at it.
It tilts downward, almost bashfully.
“...I closed the Lunar Docks.”
Your head shifts to the monitor so fast you think your neck might snap. “Lunar Docks,” You start, “like, the Searchlights?”
“What else? You know any other Lunar Docks?” He grumbles. “There's no more generators. No more expendables. No more point.”
“You're the one who opened them.” You sway on your feet, exhaustion oozing out of you. “Did you start the lockdown? Are you the one who caused all of this?”
“Of course not! That was—” He cuts himself off. His eyes widen, before nervously glancing to the side. “—never mind. I'm not… I just help with the tech stuff.” His voice sounds meeker.
You furrow your brow, uncertain if he's friend or foe. Sebastian's mentions of an ‘AI’ rings through your mind. “Okay.” You take a sharp inhale. “Okay. You… said there's no more generators?”
“Yup!” He's horribly eager. “You fixed them all. Well, you fixed enough of them, anyways. There's no point in keeping a Searchlight around if there's no generators to be repaired.”
That logic feels incredibly flawed.
“I… fixed all the generators?”
“That's what I meant, yeah.”
“There’s no more generators.” Your voice wobbles. “There's no more Searchlights.”
“Do you always repeat yourself?” He mocks, but you can hear unease lurking in his voice.
“No– I–” You stutter, bringing a hand to your mouth. “I just didn't expect to do it.” How long have you been down here?
“Well congrats.” Scribble-face is sarcastic, now. “You got rid of one of our best ways of disposing expendables.”
“You didn't have to close them.” You narrow your eyes. “Why'd you do it? Just to give the Searchlights a break?”
“Yes. Obviously. And, well,” He looks sheepishly around him, and you can see the security camera in your periphery mimic the movements, “Sebastian said you aren't getting the crystal.”
You feel your breath hitch in your throat.
“The way he mentioned you made you seem… nice.” He sounds embarrassed. “I just. Y'know.” He trails off, and he takes a sharp synthesized inhale. “I’d like another friend. Not killing you means I get a better chance at seeing you.”
Your stomach sinks. What do you say? Do you close him off? Shove him away? The pain of your goodbye to Sebastian seeps into your every vein.
“You mean in-person?” You carefully avoid the subject of friendship. “You're in the Navi-Path?”
“You bet! I used to control most of it, so I made sure to put me and Sebastian on the list of pathways.” He boasts. “He wasn't too happy with my room placement, something about ‘expendables getting their grubby hands on me’. But only a few have made it to me, and I always make sure to gun them down!”
There's so much information to unpack, but your lagged brain can barely process it. “That makes sense.” You manage to say. “I guess I'll see you soon? Assuming I make it that far.”
“Assuming you make it anywhere.” He mocks. “You expendables are always dying at every inconvenience."
“The inconveniences tend to be pretty deadly.” You reply, but there's no bite to your voice. It's painfully monotone.
“I can try and steer some entities away from you. I’ll turn off the turrets, too.” He smiles, and little drawn-on dimples appear in his animated face. It's incredibly endearing. “That should help you meet me faster!”
“That… will help.” Huh. You blink in disbelief. “Thanks. I think.”
“You're very much welcome! The name is Painter, for the record.”
Painter. You recall Sebastian muttering the name.
“Thanks, Painter.” You test the word out, weighing the syllables. “I guess I'll see you soon?”
“Be there or be square, expendable!”
The light on the monitor flickers to darkness, before being replaced by a ‘28’. The security camera turns towards a wall, as if to give you privacy.
Expendable. The word rings clear and true, evoking the same response in you as always…
…wait, what the fuck? You're at room twenty-eight?
You hadn't realized you'd gotten so far. Your mouth dips open, eyes wide as you stare at the number plastered on the screen. You stare at each individual pixel, as if it could shift at any moment.
It can, actually, because of all the moving rooms. So you take a deep breath, shove down all the thoughts boiling in you, and continue onwards.
The next couple rooms have you painfully attentive.
The fog that encapsulated your brain was ripped away by the interaction with Painter, and is now replaced by a stabbing sensation of every sense you have. The texture of your wetsuit grinds against your skin, and it’s giving you a chill, but you find yourself with enough cognizance to finally zip it up.
Every noise hits your ears like it's going to be the last sound you've ever heard (until you're revived.) You can see the skin of your leg prickle with every ambient noise that sounds too close, or too loud. Your hand is beginning to cramp from holding the walkie, but you feel too off-balance with it in the other hand to make the switch.
You press your tongue against the roof of your mouth, feeling dehydration and hunger settling into your pained body. Pain rocks your every limb, shooting spasms of aches through your skin with every step you take. The burning of your back feels a bit less extreme without your PDG on, thankfully.
Speaking of your PDG.
“Where’s your bomb?” Painter asks at room twenty-four, as you're looking for a keycard. You nearly topple the cabinet you're scavenging through with how hard you flinch.
Taking a couple steps back, you glance at the Navi-Path to the next room. Sure enough, Painter's face greets you on the monitor.
“You mean my PDG?” You question, before returning to your cabinet. “I lost it.”
“That's a pretty hard thing to lose.” He remarks. “Isn't the whole point of it that you can't take it off?”
“That, and making sure I don't drown underwater.” You crouch down, checking the bottom shelf of the cabinet. “But yeah. You're right.”
“This is the part where you tell me how you lost it.”
You don't entertain him. “No.” You state bluntly, before standing back to your feet. The cabinet bore no keycard.
“Suspicious. Tell me.”
“Nope.” You open up a desk drawer, and spy a familiar blue glint of plastic. Bingo. “It's not that much of a story, anyways.”
Just that Painter’s friend took it off for you. Also, he probably shouldn't be talking to you, considering your current situation with Sebastian. You should stop responding. You should ignore him.
A horrible feeling of guilt weighs on your shoulders.
“Boring. Nothing interesting ever happens down here.” That's a lie, and both of you know it. Nonetheless, Painter keeps talking; “You're lucky Navi doesn't have access to the cameras down here.”
“Navi?” You echo, making your way to the door. “Like the thing that makes the path?”
“—and the entire AI that keeps this facility stitched together. There's no way you don't know this.”
Ah. His words are ringing a bell. “I do, it's just…” You have too many things happening right now. You're overwhelmed. Your brain is so stuffed with information that you're beginning to miss details. “...it wasn't that important when I got here. Seemed like something I could forget.”
“Yes. Well, you're welcome for blocking her access."
You glance at the monitor, where Painter is happily showing a prideful expression. Your own face remains boringly stoic. “I hadn't realized. What would happen if she had control?"
“She would be pissed that you don't have your PDG,” Painter replies, “and that you've been fraternizing with the enemy.”
“Oh.” You swipe the keycard through the door as it lets out a series of shrill beeps. “Thanks, then.”
“Yup.” Painter frowns. “And walk faster. You're taking forever to get here.”
If it were any other time, you would've replied with a smile on your face. You could've waved the walkie at him, playfully chastising him for having no sense of patience. There's an easy quip to be made about the other entities being the reason for your delay.
There's a frown on your face, and a heaviness to your eyes. All you can think about are your mistakes, and the hurt you're going to inevitably bring to those around you.
“Okay.” You state blankly, and enter the next room.
The next room follows a layout you know like the back of your hand, and before you can even realize where you are, you're in the tram station.
A generator looms at the end of the room, already fixed. A foul taste lingers on your tongue as you try and process what you've done. You did it. You repaired all the generators.
It doesn't feel real. It feels absurd that your stupid idea actually worked, and even more insane that it ended up having such a positive effect. No more Searchlights.
You repeat it to yourself like a mantra. No more Searchlights.
You enter the tram, and pull the lever. No more Searchlights.
Where you would normally see a spotlight, you were instead shown the deep abyss of water. No more Searchlights.
You feel sick. If it wasn't for the fact that you've had no sustenance since… forever, you probably would've vomited by now. You decide to blame your nausea on the blood loss. And the exhaustion.
It's easy to follow the repeated movements you've done hundreds of times before. Down the stairs, open the door. Grab the keycard. Step back as the large bulkhead doors open.
No more Searchlights.
The expansive warehouse is void of any spotlights. The water that loomed overhead is now sealed shut with metal. All of the droplets of liquid that would fall from the ceiling have long since dried. Across the room, the door is already open.
You should feel elated. Happy. You acquired your goal. You did something for once.
Yet Painter's words shoot through your head like a bullet; ‘You got rid of one of our best ways of disposing expendables’. Are you even helping?
You're not on the good side. Good people don't hire criminals, and good people would've never allowed Upreppa and Farval to risk their lives at the Blacksite. A good person wouldn't be Urbanshade, if any of their scummy schemes you've seen can function as any indicator.
You aren't a good person either, though. So why is it you want to be one so badly?
Your footsteps are lost in the massive space, echoing before fading off into obscurity. A flight-or-fight response prickles at your skin, but nothing comes to fully trigger it. It's like being the second mouse to arrive at the cheese. The trap had already been spent.
The size of the room had never really registered to you. Not until there's no threat, and your destination shifts from hiding places to the simple door that mimics the one you entered in. Subconsciously, you still keep tabs of every nearby area or cover, as if the Searchlight could just magically appear.
With shaking hands and an unsteady balance, you leave the warehouse.
Room fifteen. That's the room where you stop in your tracks and think about the fact that this is the farthest you've ever gotten. You could get the crystal. You can finally leave this hell that's plagued you for so long.
Everyone you've lost, you can... avenge them. You can locate Upreppa and Farval's families to give them closure. You can do something right for once.
There's leftover bandages on your thigh from a shopkeeper that you (want to) believe doesn't care about you. There's an AI who turned off most of the hazards in the Blacksite because he wants to be your friend.
There's a Green Man who is strangely invested in your well-being. There is an eldritch creature, who embodies death, that makes your revivals all the more bearable with her care.
If you get the crystal, you help Urbanshade, and hurt them.
At the oil rig, you murdered seven of your friends, and were assigned a death sentence via lethal injection. For some reason, Urbanshade has kept you under its radar since your crime.
There's nothing waiting for you if you get a pardon, anyway.
The lights flicker.
Your movement is automatic. Without a second thought, you walk over to a nearby locker, gripping one of the doors with your hand. Exasperated, you press a few fingers to your temple.
You can't let them care about you. It's a fact you've cemented into the framework of your mind, carving it into every facet of your being. Your presence hurts people.
…but you care about them.
You can't deny it. The (relatively less-lethal-to-you) members of the Blacksite have found a place in your heart, right next to the gaping hole you made with your destructive behaviour. You couldn't bear to rip away their chance at escape by grabbing the crystal.
The roar of the Angler hits your ears, and you sigh as you realize it's Froger. You stare at the doorway where the noise is coming from. A frown is plastered on your face. At the sight of a yellow light, you swing the locker door open and climb in.
It zooms past your locker, creating a wind gust that shifts some loose papers on a few nearby tables. You patiently wait until it speeds backwards again before you exit the locker.
You resume the same position as before; hand on the locker handle, poised for action.
You won't get the crystal. Not this time, at least. You'll distance yourself from Sebastian and Painter, but will try to help them where able.
The roaring echoes through the hallway again. You spare only a wayward glance at the fast approaching blur of yellow, before entering the locker.
You place your forehead against the cool metal of the locker door. The walls around you reverberate with the force of the Angler speeding past you, but you know they won't break.
All of your junk is still at Sebastian's place. You groan in annoyance as you lightly tap your forehead a few times against the locker. It's like you're going through a bad breakup. (You ignore the way your heart beats faster at the thought of you and him being together. Blame the blood loss.)
“Dude.” You close your eyes and savor the chill temperature of the surface. “This is so confusing.” You mutter.
You would kill for a nap right now.
With a small complaint under your breath, you exit the locker and continue trekking through the rooms. The walkie-talkie remains tight in your grasp, although still turned off. A part of you wonders if Sebastian found the walkies you left at his door, but you decide to ignore that train of thought in order to maintain your composure.
The room numbers are getting smaller and smaller. There's an anxiety that beats in your fingertips. You find yourself double-checking things that you normally don't. Is that really not a Void-Locker? Did the lights just flicker?
Room seven is different.
Upon opening it, you're greeted with a red dot smack dab in the middle of your forehead. You let out a string of obscenities as you stumble backwards and out of sight of the doorway. The red dot remains trained on where you stood prior.
Silence. Not even gunfire. Then:
“Hah! Got you!”
The Navi-Path is taken over by a familiar scribble-face, and you find yourself letting go of the breath you didn't know you were holding. You take a few steps backward into room eight to properly see him.
“Yeah. Got me.” You scrub the nape of your neck with your hand. “Gave me a heart attack, Painter.”
“But you're still standing?” He raises a (digital) brow.
“Figure of speech, bud.” The nickname slips past you easily and you wince when you see his expression brighten at the use of it. He thankfully doesn't mention it. “Are you in the next room?”
“Yup!” He announces cheerfully.
You sidestep to take a glance into the next room. Sure enough, behind the turret is a huge hole in the wall. The turret, comedically, raises its gun high in the air and waves it back and forth in a mock wave. Tentatively, you raise a hand and give it a small wave back.
“In the hole?” You question.
“Yes! Hurry up!” The AI replies, now impatient.
You cautiously enter the room with your gaze locked on the turret. The walkie-talkie in your grasp becomes a stress ball of sorts; you white-knuckle it to the point where you're slightly worried about breaking it. You keep tabs on where you can run to avoid any bullets from the mounted gun in front of you.
The turret twitches left. In a flash you also jerk to the left, ready to bolt away, before realizing that the turret isn't following you. You stare, unmoving, poised to keep running away.
“You're really that scared of it?” Painter's voice cuts through the silence. Your body loses tension.
“...yeah. I guess so.” Your mouth feels dry.
“I control them. I told you I turned them off. Look!” The turret waves around in a circle, and you notice he's purposefully turned it away from you. (To avoid frightening you further.)
“I appreciate it,” You take in a sharp breath and continue walking, gaze still held against the gun, “but my muscle memory is hard to override.”
Painter doesn't respond. You enter the hole, one hand on the caved-in wall for support—
—”I'm sorry.” You notice Painter's voice coming from both the speakers in room seven and the hole in front of you. It’s a stark contrast from the cheer you just heard from him. “For hurting you. Hurting everyone.”
You stop in your tracks. Not knowing where to look, you decide to focus your attention on the turret. It's aimed at the ground dejectedly.
“I… can't speak on behalf of every expendable.” You try to give a gentle smile, hoping that the cameras in the room can catch the expression. “But I forgive you, Painter.”
You shouldn't. He's responsible for so many deaths, regardless of whatever his motives are.
He just wants to escape. You are (were?) useful fodder for him to help delay the acquisition of the crystal.
Useful. You can be helpful, even if it is just by dying.
“Let's just have a fresh start.” You offer.
Hesitation. “As friends?” His voice wobbles with tentativeness.
Your mouth grows dry. Your tongue sits like dead weight in your mouth, unable to move.
“Friends?” You echo. “Wow. Don’t even know my name yet.” You joke, but your hands are shaking, and your smile is forced. The camera quality isn't good enough for Painter to catch it.
He laughs, and you can hear his mood improving.
You quickly divert the topic. “You ready to see me?”
“I dunno. Am I ready to see a dirty, gross expendable?” You jokingly roll your eyes at his tease. “It's taken you long enough! Get in here!’
“Okay, okay!” You turn back to the hole and raise your hands in the air. “I'm going! Have some patience, kid.”
Kid. The word rolls easily off your tongue, but you catch yourself ruminating on it as you climb the tunnel. Kid. Kid. Hell, it sounds like something Sebastian would say.
Maybe he's rubbed off on you more than you want to admit. Or maybe you're just old. Yeah. Let's go with the second one.
You breach the tunnel, and you're led into a server room. In the corner is a fenced off area with a computer that displays a familiar face. Painter's drawn a small hand next to his grin, which waves enthusiastically at your arrival.
“Hi friend!” Your insides twist a little at his use of the word ‘friend’.
“Hey Painter.” You look around the room for any points of interest. Your eyes catch on a nearby rolling chair with a large manilla file on it. You turn back to the computer. “Nice digs.”
“Thanks! I put a loooot of effort into all the interior decor.”
You deadpan. “Sarcasm?”
“Sarcasm.” His eyes squint. “You look stinky.”
“It's been a long day.” Or week(s?) for that matter. You grab the rolling chair and gingerly remove the file from it, placing it on the ground. You take a seat and roll the chair in front of the computer. “I probably do, though.”
You lower your head and pinch a little bit of your wetsuit fabric to sniff. Oh. Your nose wrinkles. “Yikes. Yeah. That's— that's not pleasant.”
“It's that bad?” Painter's face rotates slightly.
“Very bad.” You grimace. “That's probably why I encounter so many entities. They all smell my stink cloud.” The joke leaves your lips before you can stop it.
Painter laughs. “That, and the audio lures I play to bring them to you!” He announces.
You blink. He stares. Tiny beads of animated sweat appear on his monitor. “I think there are employee showers, if you need them.”
“I might take you up on that offer.” You reply lightheartedly. You lean back in your chair and look up at the ceiling as you spread your legs to stretch them. Your pain flares up at the movement, but you bite it down with gritted teeth.
Huh.
You feel lost. You worked so hard to an individual goal, but now that you've achieved it, it feels worthless. You could work to try and make the facility safer, and keep trying to map out the layout of it, but you've lost all motivation. You want to help, but you don't want to get too close to Painter and Sebastian. You want to do something, but you have no idea what that something is.
You weren't sure what you were expecting with meeting up with Painter. Something new? A goal? You have so many questions, but they feel worthless when compared to the weight of Painter and Sebastian's escape. How do you help without getting involved? Can you ask them what you can assist with, but still distance yourself from them?
“What do you do for fun around here?” You ask flippantly, not really paying attention to your words.
“Well, I draw.” Painter replies, but his voice sounds… occupied.
You glance up from your staring contest with the ceiling. Painter has MsPaint open, and is blocking out colors for what appears to be a painting.
“You can… spin in your chair, maybe?” He continues. “Or we can talk? Share stories? We can play games, but it might be difficult since I don't have, um. Hands.”
“You draw?” You scooch the chair closer. “You have any finished works?”
A pause. “You want to see them?” His cursor stops moving.
Your mind is heavy, fogged, and desperate for some kind of relief. After constantly moving and driving yourself for so long, you can feel your muscles yearning for a moment's pause.
You settle in your chair. “Yeah. I do.”
You'll allow yourself levity. Just for this singular stretch of time, you can allow yourself to enjoy someone's company. You can relax, for what may be the last time.
Oh. That's a dark thought. You might actually die down here, assuming Urbanshade won't supply you infinite revives.
You're expendable. You're not expected to return.
But your stubborn will to live grips you, bringing a stiffness to your posture. You watch as Painter immediately dives into expressing his love for art and his processes. You have to live. Your back burns. You aren't willing to die. You will see this through, helping these people you care about. Your body is in pain. You will avenge the people you've hurt and lost.
You will do all this, while distancing yourself from them.
Which is. Ugh. Confusing. You don't know how.
…but for once, you find yourself willing to set those thoughts aside. They don't seem as pressing as before. A small smile tugs at your lips as you rest in your chair, listening and conversing with the sentient AI across from you.
You nearly forget you're in the Blacksite. The only reminder you have of it is the dull pain that echoes through you, and the constant movement you make of rolling the chair around the room so your PDG doesn't explode from inactivity.
It's so peaceful, you nearly forget your sins.
Then it breaks, and the guilt floods through you.
“What's that in your hand?” Painter asks as you fidget with the walkie-talkie.
“Hmm?” You stop spinning the walkie in between your fingers. “Oh. It's a walkie I picked up earlier. I had a few more, but I dropped them off at…” You trail off.
“At?” Painter prods.
You glance away from his monitor, desperate to come up with a lie. You would even go for a half-truth. “The shopkeep, at room fifty.” You didn't say his name, at least.
“Oh, Sebastian!” He clarifies happily. You feel your heart rattle against your chest. “I know him, you don't have to keep him secret. He's the one who told me about you! He talked about you a lot.”
You feel your expression drop before you can stop it. “He what.”
“Nothing bad, although he did say ‘stubborn’ a lot.” Painter swaps out MsPaint to the usual canvas of his face. “It's how I knew I could trust you. I saw the two of you earlier, but I lost you in the maintenance tunnels.”
He pauses. “Is that creepy? That's creepy, isn't it. I— I'm not trying to spy, it's just that, well, there's not much to do here, as much as I love drawing—”
“—it's fine.” You clear your throat. “Don't worry about it.”
Painter hesitates, his expression now wrought with an emotion you can't place. “O…kay. Cool. Cool.” If he had hands, you think he would be wringing them awkwardly.
“You can keep it.” You roll the chair closer to the chain link fence. “The walkie, I mean. Do you have any way of using it?”
“It should be able to be incorporated into my systems.” He scrunches up his face thoughtfully. “But we should just let Sebastian do it. He's a real ‘computer-wiz’. His words, not mine.”
Heavy machinery was always your preference over code, so you're fine with it. “Sounds good.” You reply, but your voice is heavy with the memories of your last interaction with the supposed ‘computer-wiz’. You reach down to set the walkie on the ground.
“He's on his way over, anyways.” He says simply.
You freeze. The walkie dangles from your fingers, before slipping and falling the small few-inch drop to the ground.
“How long?” You ask promptly.
“Uh.” Painter's face freezes for a second, as if he's tabbed out in another program. “He doesn't have his SCRAMBLER, so I can track him on cams. I saw him earlier…” He trails off as he focuses on his work. You quickly stand up from the chair.
“...ah, he's entering the vents. So, probablyyyyy ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes?” You repeat, not conscious of your own words. Ten minutes. Ten minutes. You've overstayed your welcome.
“What, do I look like a damn GPS?” He frowns. “It's an estimate, expendable.”
You don't dwell on his words. “Why doesn't he have his SCRAMBLER?”
“It's lethal to my systems,” He replies, “and, y'know, I don't really want to have to deal with that.”
“Okay.” You raise a finger and bite at the cuticles. “Okay. I… gotta go.”
“But, Sebastian is—”
“—exactly why I have to leave. Him and I need to talk about something and I,” Need to avoid him at all costs, “need some time to compose myself.”
“Did you get into a fight?” He’s confused. “Did you hurt him?”
“He's a ten-foot-something fish, Painter. I couldn't hurt him if I tried.” It's something of a lie. You did punch him that one time, and you know the risk you run if you linger around him too long. You bring danger. You can't put that on him, or Painter.
“I guess that's true.” He mutters. “Will you come back?”
You freeze.
You can't return. It's the conclusion you decided on the moment you saw him.
With a sharp inhale, you walk directly in front of him. Your hand grabs the fence, your fingers resting in the holes in the chain-link.
“Can you help me with two things?”
“You didn't answer my question.” His expression furrows.
You bite your tongue in between your teeth. “It… depends. I need to figure out what I'm going to do next.”
“Is that why you need my help?”
“Sort of.” You lean your weight against the fence. “Can you help? It's okay if not.”
“I have to know what I'm helping with.” His voice is low with caution.
“Okay. Yeah. First things first; do you have access to Urbanshade files?”
He scribbles a tiny question mark in the corner of his screen. “What file do you need?”
You think back to the file on Revive Tokens:
‘EXR-P B-023:
Hadal Blacksite Expendable Protocol (CRYSTAL RETRIEVER).
Revives: Currently In Use
Injuries carry somewhat after revival, fixed revival location [See File: EXR-P B-023] in Hadal Blacksite Dock ███, Urbanshade Branded Black Duffle Bag and High-Energy Container kept after revival.’
“EXR-P B-023.” You tap your foot, wary of Sebastian's impending arrival. “My file.”
“I can try, but Navi's been improving the Blacksite's firewalls.” He erases the question mark. “I'm not sure what I'll be able to get.”
“Just you trying is enough.” You offer a smile, albeit a weak one.
“It's more than enough.” He retorts. He doesn't give you a chance to speak before he continues. “After you leave, are you going to go get the crystal?”
“No.” You don't hesitate. “I'm gonna head back to the submarine dock.”
“What?” He questions. “But how are you–?”
“—I have my ways. Don't worry. My second question,” Your foot taps faster against the ground as anxious energy jolts through your body, “is about you. You mentioned before you placed your and Sebastian's rooms on the path. Do you control how the rooms move?”
“I…” He falters. “Kind of. It's confusing.”
“I can handle confusing.”
“Confusing means long, bub.” He blinks, and the action catches you off guard because it's so human. Has he been blinking this whole time? (No. It's the first time he's blinked.) “If you wanna get out of here before Seb arrives, I don't have enough time to lay it out for you.”
Your foot stops tapping. Is he actually helping you avoid Sebastian? Is this out of his own self-interest? Is he just avoiding the question?
You don't have time to think about it.
“That's fine.” You remove your hand from the fence. “It was fun talking with you, Painter. You're, uh… nice. It's not something I see much down here.”
“I'm glad I could show you basic human decency!” His words earn a small laugh out of you. “How are you getting to the submarine docks?”
“When I revive, I'm placed back at a submarine dock.” You wince as you see Painter's expression.
“Oh.” He wasn't expecting that answer.
“It's not my transportation method of choice, but it's the easiest.” Your body is also reaching its limit. You have to deal with the fact that it'd be easier to reset at this point, as much as you hate it. “I… actually have one more question.”
“Shoot.”
“Where's the nearest turret?” You glance at the hole that you came from, as if it has all the answers. “Besides the one outside this room, I mean.”
“Uhhh.” Painter's display freezes again as he tabs out to look at a different program. A small blue circle appears over his cursor for a few seconds, and it's enough to send you spiraling with worry. He talks soon after. “Two rooms down. Room five.”
“Can you turn it on?”
Painter freezes at your words. It's not the same as when he's in a different program— it's one of shock. “I, uh… that's grim.”
“It's not ideal.” You admit. “But it's the easiest way. Doesn't hurt that bad.”
You see Painter wince. “I'll turn on its independent AI. Autopilot, so to speak. Lethal targeting mode is on, too. Stand still in front of it, and it'll be quick.” His eyes downturn. “Why not just use the one outside my room?”
“Because it's attached to your room, and there's nothing…” You make a vague waving motion with your hands. “...gross there. I don't want my body to ruin that.” You also don't want Sebastian to have to deal with a rotting corpse every time he wants to see his friend.
“Corpses disappear after a while, though.” What. “But I appreciate the gesture. I'm sure Sebastian would, too.”
What.
Corpses what? They—
“—disappear.” You mumble the word. “Blood and all? They just disappear?"
“Yeah? I think it's the work of an entity. I've never been able to see it happen. One second it's there, then boom!” He draws a tiny explosion on his screen. “It's gone. Super weird, right? Thankfully the items are left behind.”
The items are left behind.
So when you first met Sebastian, when he made you go scavenge the items off of those bodies— he could've— you could've just waited. As much as a threat it would be for someone to come by and klep the items off of them, it doesn't weigh to the sight of their bodies.
It makes sense, though. The disappearing. It's why you haven't seen any corpses. Any blood.
“Yeah. That's, ah. Weird.” You fidget with the zipper of your wetsuit.
“You should probably get going.” Painter suggests, his scribble-face appearing on the monitor again. “Next time I spot you on cams, I'll try and help out. I'll tell you about the whole room-control thing too.”
Your eyes widen. “The long and confusing explanation?”
“The long and confusing one.” He smiles. “Pinky-promise.”
“You don't have pinkies.” You tease.
His smile grows. He quickly sketches out a drawing of a fist with its pinky outstretched. You let out a small laugh that you have to quell due the time limit you've placed on your stay.
You thread your pinky through a hole in the fence. “Pinky-promise.” You state seriously, which causes the composure of you and Painter to crack. The two of you chuckle.
A pause.
“You're going to come back, right?” His words twist your heart as you remove your hand from the fence.
You try to settle for a vague response. “As long as I'm stuck in these halls, you'll see me.”
It's a good enough answer.
“I think I'll smell you before I see you, expendable.”
You want to reply. You want to say something about how ‘he doesn't have nostrils’, or that he ‘probably wouldn't smell much better’, but you can't. You can't stay in this room. You can't pursue his friendship.
You give him a smile, a curt nod, and a wave as you exit. If he wishes you goodbye, or draws a funny face at you, you don't turn around to see it.
The moment your feet touch the floor of room seven, you sprint.
You slam against the door to the next room as you rip it open, your legs pounding against the floor. The wound in your thigh causes you to stumble, but you ignore it, all for the sake of avoiding the person who patched it in the first place.
Room six flies by in a blur, literally, as you crash into the door of room five. Your arm whines in protest as you throw open the door, the heavy weight straining your weak and overused muscles.
You pause in the doorway at the sight of a turret aimed at you.
There's a breathless chuckle that comes from you. “Well,” you mutter, still catching your breath, “this is gonna su—”
—the turret locks on, and the bullet hits you before you can register the sound of gunfire.
The death you faced is different from your last demise, but you're welcomed to River Styx all the same. It's a familiar darkness that surrounds you, one that you've grown used to, however painful it is.
…but this time it's warm.
The sunrise is splayed out across the water in front of you. You lean against the too-short railing in front of you, the surface of it rough with rust. It should be replaced, although no-one is meant to be on this side of the oil rig.
There's footsteps to your left. You turn your head to—