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The office is almost empty, decorated by shades of several colors, now filtered away into that same one color, different shades of the same thing. The chair creeks, wheels pushing away as the man stands.
The walls have insect taxidermy, dead butterflies pinned on material and protected by glass, some species long thought to be dead. The record player sits almost uselessly on the stand, playing the same 5 songs it always has despite the abundance of vintage CDs and boxes.
The room isn't real. It's phantom. It's real and things move beneath his fingers, but it comes and disappears. Out of body experience, it could be considered so.
The cane taps the room, it disappears just as quickly. It's held almost loosely in his hand. Waiting.
Waiting is all he knows, having all the time in the world. In time, he'll forget. But not the interloper, no, him.
Writing on the floor, imperceptibly still. Bloodied claws, rancid mouth. The saboteur stares at him, asking the same question he always does. Despite wiping his memory over and over again, the old man simply can't find a satisfying answer. Short, long, detailed, skimmed over— it's not enough.
And frankly, it is not his problem.
"Why? Why me? Why are you doing this to me?!" It's a scream, a beg. Last time was what he'd consider a tantrum from a bratty child; the time before that, it was a useless threat he didn't remember and will never be able to carry on. Sometimes it's yelling, sometimes it's cussing in a language he doesn't fully understand, but it's always the same.
"I'm sick of being your saboteur!"
"You will stick the script, Solace." The words almost feel mechanical. If they haven't had this conversation a thousand times, looping the days and moving things around like a different layout, different research, wiped memories, every course and option chosen, maybe he'd actually look forward for what this convict has to say.
"Get another saboteur! I'm done!" He stands up on his grotesquely huge tail. He looks like a rabid animal, an uncanny resemblance to the dogs littering the streets in his time. Those eyes hold nothing but rage, it slips through his claws.
But the script has already been made and Urbanshade is nothing more than a stage. Sebastian just so happens to be his main star. "You are the only one fit."
"I'm getting out without your help!"
If only he knew. "It is thanks to my meddling you have not died yet." It's almost a threat, he could reset the entire day right here, right now, and just throw more monsters at the expendables if he so pleased. The animals might listen to their leader but the one holding the leash is him.
"I have! I've died, I've died a LOT. You FUCKING—"
"Wash your mouth." And yet for some reason, he can't help but entertain this conversation. What should he say? Console this tool? Insult it? He's done it all, and he'll do it again. "I am not entertaining this child play, Sebastian."
"You don't get to call me that."
"And what should I?" It's rhetorical. So many labels and yet none truly fit. Nothing fits, the only thing that does is the hat on his head. “Handyman, saboteur, Z-13… You can't reject my words forever.”
There's a grim acceptance. That's new. Maybe keeping inklings of memories or even their impression has not been for nothing. Useful, luring.
A hungry fish won't reject the fishing hook forever.
“You're loopy."
That somehow brings out a strange smile on his face. It's not reciprocal, Sebastian growls and the sound is nothing but useless static.
“It is Mr. Lopee."
He taps his cane, the world disappearing. His saboteur turns into nothing, they'll meet again soon.
And he will remember, it's the Interloper's final verdict.
“Again so soon?"
The words are almost comical, usually the spaces in-between the resets are longer, stretched out and taken up by the horrid domesticity of living in the Blacksite, dealing with the rancid animals Sebastian spends time with, mountains of research on his tail, littering a makeshift shop.
“I couldn't take it anymore."
Strange, something must've gone wrong. He stares at the gun wound in his head, marked in green. Fingers uncomfortably shifting on the green cane, used barely as support and more as a toy.
With a snap of his fingers, the black gun laced and decorated with golden patterns manifests in his hands. The murmurs are unimportant gibberish, it's empty and useless.
“And this was your only choice?”
It's not impressive. It's the third time this has happened, each one ending in a reset. The first time was with his own gun, it's a shame to witness such a waste of bullets.
Almost as a punishment, he hides the ammo away in the most inaccessible parts of the facility, leaving only a few meager pieces in his gun. This new one, too, will be tucked away elsewhere.
"I… I don't know."
That's new, it'd be funny if it wasn't so sad. “We didn't kill ourselves in my time, it's irresponsible."
“What's the point? I'm dying anyway, everybody is dying, I can't even—”
"Everything has its appointed time.” The words are easy for him to say and almost impossible to fully demonstrate. "Your fate has been written and sealed, I've made it my duty to fulfill it.”
"... What about the others?”
Ah. "Their fate is not for you to know.”
Saying they're stuck and never leaving is going to make him spiral more, and deep down, he wonders if even having this conversation will be worth it.
But there's a strange sense of peace as he snaps his fingers and lets Sebastian off the hook of a sweet death, forced back into his shop. He will forget, but the feeling of something peaceful is something that won't go away.
He knows Sebastian will sleep easy tonight.
This is infuriating.
Body after body, expendable after expendable, they die too quickly. Side characters can be murdered off but this seemed nearly obsessive. Dead meat, claws as knives and Sebastian as the butcher. It's ridiculous.
And definitely, unequivocally, absurd. Counterproductive, this will get them nowhere.
“It is not your job to play executioner.”
He thanks the now closed down company responsible for his sturdy cane, the ones in this day and age would surely crack and bend under his rage.
The growls do nothing to stop him from getting closer over this wild animal, those uneven eyes staring at him, mouth red and fangs sunken in, pumping the dead body with so much venom, it seemed wasteful. Animalistic.
“They killed Painter!" He is aware. “They killed him and all they do is flash me! They wreck the place, wreck my chances of escaping! You don't understand! YOU DON'T—”
THWAK!
Silence. Finally. “You are not a wild animal, Solace." He sets the cane down, pointing a finger at him. God, this dolt has never looked so scared. The guilt is mortifying but maybe this time it'll stay in his head.
Lousy children need belts and dogs do well with a whip or two, it's nothing strange. That's how they did it in the good old days, people come out fine.
“You are a person, I suggest you behave like one."
He sets a hand on the inconsolable man, but nothing works. They've had this conversation before but no amount of comfort or threats will work.
Comfort has an expiration date and all violence does is leave an imprint.
"..."
"Do you want me to say you are not?” The gentle pats aren't enough but something in him doesn't want to wipe his memory just yet. See where this goes, if anywhere. "Because your behavior is speaking for you, Sebastian."
The name almost feels like a threat and this dolt's silence is an invitation to vent out some long growing frustration. He'll forget anyway. He always does.
"You either behave and listen or I'll make your life harder." He pushes him away, the amalgamation of scales and flesh barely moves. The cane rests on one hand, the other yanked his face. “That computer is around because I'm merciful enough to let you have this, when will you understand? I could let you die and rot but I don't, this is the thanks I get from you?"
He doesn't let Sebastian speak. “You are incredible, don't tempt me, Solace. I can undo everything here and now, I can make these animals forget. What then?"
“... I will never let you win." Comical. Snarky, the insistence was almost baffling. This is not a game he's designed to win, if only he could see the strings attached to his hands and teeth.
“Touche." Their small conversation ends with the snap of his fingers, whatever happens after this point is not his problem.
Was that bruise there before?
The green tea hits his dead lips, the flavor liquid gold. The record player does its job, filling in the silence in the otherwise quiet place.
Knock knock.
Ah, a visit. Strange. The door opens and Sebastian slithers over, collapsing on his almost empty desk, face hitting the wood and body on the ever changing material.
“Will you not question your own arrival?”
He doesn't ask before pouring green tea in the one empty teacup he has on the side, pushing the warm drink to Sebastian's cold claws.
He doesn't question it.
"I see.” Nothing at all, but he can improvise and make due with what he has. "You're aware you're the first person to visit me in years?" The word decades feels odd.
"The world went black and all I saw was this green door." It sounds like an accusation without an actual one, “why didn't you just teleport in front of me? You always do that."
“I wanted you to see my office."
He watches his saboteur shift a bit, picking up the teacup that looked so small in his hands, sipping the whole thing away in less than a second.
As if following a skit, the green gentleman picks up the warm metallic kettle and hands it over. The gesture is met with a quiet thanks and small sips, more like quiet chugs.
God, the only thing he's been drinking has been disgusting tap water and salt water, tea has been a privilege he has not known for years.
“Let me guess, I did something wrong?”
He doesn't find the amusement Sebastian does, judging by those dry, seemingly sarcastic chuckles. "I simply wanted to have a chat with you.”
“You want me to stop killing the expendables?” He sets the kettle down, the metal clanking under the thud of its weight. "Stop talking to them? Get more research?”
"None.” Seeing the sudden guessing game was fun, the TVs in his life always had gameshow channels on, people rewarded for their ingenuity and mocked for stupidity.
“Are you not going to tell me?" Maybe it's the tiredness or the discomfort of not knowing, but Sebastian watches as Mr. Lopee stands up and stops his record player, the lyrics were a distraction.
Caneless, is it only useful for hitting?
… Why does he have that thought? He's never gotten hit. He's too much of a gentleman to lay a hand on him.
“I enjoy your suggestions,” he hums, sitting back down, massaging his side. That's what the cane is for. "I'd like to discuss something else.”
He interrupts the silence again, it seems to be a concept unheard of by both. "I know you have your… Resignations, I promise I am doing this for you.”
"You're lying to me."
“I am not, Mr. Solace.” He wipes the kettle clean with a cloth, setting it on a kettle heater Sebastian hadn't seen on the table before, it simply appeared. More green tea, what else would it be? “Do I have a reason to lie to you?"
Finally, there's some blood in-between the cracks. “I don't know why you picked me, I can barely get by and—"
“You're the only one fit." He's said that so many times it's almost mechanical as it is infuriating, the man prepares the tea as if he's not on the receiving end of a growl and a death stare.
“What does that even mean?!" Sebastian rises and hits the table, not even getting a reaction. "I just want to get out! I didn't deserve this, none of it!”
"Who else is a big enough lunatic to free these anomalies?” Animals will make him angry, it's a choice of words he hasn't picked until now. He's reset this interaction two times by now, third is usually the charm. "If not you, nobody else.”
It's uncomfortable, this conversation is excruciating but since when has that stopped parents from giving the talk?
"Nobody here will save you."
“Tch, thanks." He watches him cross his arms and roll those already pin prick eyes. Sebastian will never admit it but Mr. Lopee can see how his fins clamp up against his head, claws fidgeting against leather sleeves.
“—Which means you can save yourself." He almost lets out a smile. “Your fate is in your hands, I am simply here to ensure it happens.”
They know that's a half lie, they both know who wrote the script and who wills it to happen for the first time in a long time, it doesn't matter.
The tea tastes nice. For the first time in a good while, silence wasn't this suffocating thing. Each restart was a new opportunity.
This is not a conversation he will forget.
Mr. Lopee has declared it so.