Tired, always tired. Tired of something, whether it be the sheer act of survival in this stupid place or of the mere act of being like this, this miserable and misshapen kind of animal — or, as it was now, the need to skulk around on eggshells all the time, at least that they perceived. It wasn't as if it should logically be difficult to not run into him all the time, but then again, logic didn't necessarily dictate lived reality, and lived reality had a funny little way of making sure they'd always encounter each other at least once every few days (or conception of a “few days”, for whatever those were worth anymore) — and have another awkward meeting, where both of them would either pretend the other didn't exist (necessarily difficult when you're both stuck in unnatural, stupid, lumbering bodies) or begrudgingly tolerate one another's presence just long enough to go about whatever business they were going about, get their shit done and then fuck off just about as quickly as they could.

Well. The begrudging part was perhaps a little more one-sided then W.M. would have liked to admit. That naïve little part of their brain still whispered to them, told them that all was not lost (it certainly was), that neither of them were beyond reconciliation yet (they certainly were). And something else, maybe, niggling at the back of their mind like a particularly irksome parasite, though that in particular was one feeling they were keen on suppressing forever; not only was it at its very least mortifying, but to its own end, an awful, horrible, no-good inappropriate sentiment to entertain at the present juncture. Seriously — after all this? And what part they'd played?

…And more to the point, to entertain that kind of hope was futile anyway, at least to them, and either way there was but one singular mission upon which all of them could agree. And even that, really, was basically only because Painter had taken it upon himself to try and play mediator between the two of them, at the very least for the sake of facilitating their continued survival (he'd said it himself, after all, and in the end that ostensibly could have been the only reason why Sebastian was willing not to forbid the two of them from speaking to one another) — and that mission was, of course, to delay the retrieval of the vaunted crystal for as long as possible, and a mission at which they were doing a pretty good job, all things considered.

W.M. felt sorry for them, sometimes. Ha. Well, the expendables, at least. W.M. didn't hate the expendables, because much like them they really had no choice but to play their part in this sick game, the only parts their masters had laid out for them to play. To not play wasn't an option, if you wanted to keep your head.

To be fair, though, W.M. didn't really hate anyone. They used to — but not now. Not actively. Not anymore. Not even the people who'd done this to them, who did this to Sebastian, hell, even the people who set Painter up here, or any other cursed thing down here just like them — of course W.M. knew they should hate them, and they had once, but now that hatred had dulled to a soft ache, a miserable droning that shrouded their every day like a mourning veil. Like the blanket of snow, maybe, wrapping up an avalanche victim; cold, both inside and out. A beaten dog learns the meaning of the hand. The hand never leaves. To feel hate, feel bitterness, feel rage for so long — after a while, it didn't mean anything, only became the new normal. Truly real hate had long since burned clean; violence had become a daily rite, and there was nothing new down here, not under cold and sterile fluorescent light nor artificial oxygen-garden sun, that seemed to stir them from their miserable routine. The only other things they felt were all themselves awful, too, a dangerous cocktail of worry, guilt, and shame.

Despite their shared goal, all of them were remarkably good at keeping themselves alive — and out of danger — and so it didn't really matter. It was every thing for itself. For W.M., that was but a simple routine. Eat, sleep, hunt and kill. Consume. They were fast, and strong. Physical pain was forgotten about, sloughed away. Touch itself was nonexistent, no tenderness in these bones. The perfect murder machine, just as their makers had intended. No matter how much they wanted to be anything else, to be soft, to be kind. None of that mattered, would matter. Mostly they felt nothing but the acute awareness of their own body, the slicing of throats, the breaking of bones, the piercing of hide. Something animal. Their kills were practiced. Rehearsed. Still, something animal; something beyond words, something primitive and predatory. The target didn't matter. Expendable. Straggling employee. Every face was a nameless one. Even the faces they could place.

Killing. It was remarkably easy, perhaps too easy, when you boiled it down to a science.

So it was here, then, that W.M. once again found themselves lumbering about these stupid halls, in this stupid place, doing their stupid nothing at all. For once. A little downtime was always welcome, its existence probably borne while they arranged more teams, way up there, with the express purpose of sending more poor sods to their untimely deaths, sending forth more sacrifices into the labyrinth.

“Psst!” came a voice they'd very much come to recognize, notably artificial but all too real in every way that mattered, anyway. They turned to greet the sudden intrusion, all four eyes locking onto the small white screen of the door's navigation-path, bringing his small and haphazardly scribbled face, etched with concern, into focus.

W.M. cocked their head to the side. “Hi,” they replied, “Painter.”

“…Hi,” he replied. “We've got a bit of a, well, a problem.”

“And that would be…”

“Okay, listen, just hear me out here. I need your help.”

“…With?”

He paused, sheepish. “Um… Sebastian?”

W.M. snorted, as if in disbelief, though then they merely sighed, squeezing their eyes shut as if exasperated; not at him, mind you, but at the prospect. “I can't help you with him,” they said. “You know he won't talk to me. And to be fair, I don't blame him.”

“I know that—”

“Then, I don't know, why ask? You two get on better than he and I, that much is obvious. What do I have to offer either of you but my expertise in physical violence? And, well, poor interpersonal skills and emotional slights?”

“It's just that — look, and you know, I know you two really aren't on, well, the best terms or anything — I don't want anything bad to happen to him. And neither do you, right?”

“…Right. Where are you going with this?” For once, worry had found stronger grip around the heels of their heart, digging its teeth into soft metaphorical flesh, letting itself bubble to the surface rather than merely seeing fit to play soundtrack. “Did something happen?”

“Yes! Well, kind of,” Painter replied, tripping over his own words as he stifled back a strange laugh, his own expression seeming mildly concerned at the nature of his own almost-outburst. “Okay, well. Sebastian doesn't sleep very well.”

“…Okay?”

“Yeah, and since he doesn't sleep very well, he has this, you know, this little tendency to keep himself awake as long as humanly possible. Like, keeps himself awake to the point of passing out. And really, normally that's not an issue, ‘cause he's usually a really light sleeper, so I can just, wake him up myself. If he does it somewhere stupid. Which he does! …But I'm having a little bit of a problem with that right now, because of how busy these past few days have been, and — um, I can't wake him up.”

“Alright. So, you're telling me he's sleeping somewhere stupid. And sleeping like a rock. That's what you're getting at? And you need my help moving him somewhere not stupid?”

“Mhm.”

W.M. seemed apprehensive.

“It won't be a problem, I swear,” said Painter, voice tinged with desperation. “Look, if he does wake up, I'll take the fall for it, I promise. I can tell him it was my idea. He'll listen to me. Please. If we don't go help him — you know what they'll do if they find him.”

They sighed. “Fine,” they replied. It's my due penance, anyway. And the right thing to do.

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