Chapter Text
Evbo had thought many things.
He once thought the world wasn't as flat, bumps in the terrain whose name is scat and untrue on his tongue.
He once thought the sun only rose to rumble his stomach, it was a reminder that he'll never be so free, dissappear. To know that he couldn't stomach simple, dumb luck.
He once thought the Parkour of Temple, so divine, spoke whispers in his sleep. It woke him from slumber, the jumps so daunting from behind barriers, he couldn't even weep.
He once thought that he'll make it, and turns out he did.
There must a leader to the pros, he thought once with chicken sliding down his hoarse throat. Who knew you could scream so raw that your voice will never sound the same? Someone must be telling them what to do.
And that was proven true.
Well, kind of.
Being a pro was awesome!
Getting used to waking up in a comfortable mattress did numbers, might he even dare, three-sixties on his sleep. It was odd, unfamiliar, to be unable to sleep, he wasn't even tired!
At least when he tossed through the row of splinters as a noob, his eyes would flutter, sticking together, just to be pried open again.
Doing work, daily tasks, that was new. Cooked meat. Steak, they call it.
It is a delicacy. Really, it is. I see rustling in houses, some people share their given meals.
Not the same we did.
It was harder to digest, he found. Teeth would get caught, not slicing underdone, stale chicken. Man, I do not want to think about the amount of times I almost threw up haha.
But the feeling had always been there, hasn't it?
Bile building up nicely, it waiting for the perfect moment, so vulnerable. It took ahold of Evbo like no else, all he'd have left is a single hitched breath.
The stone cooled his fall. Fingers taping his mouth, it scratched his throat. Being fed, he did not work quite enough for this food.
These iron boots are stark reminders. They keep his ankles more sturdy, I witnessed way too many noobs twisting their ankles. They withered away in their homes. It was only better, a good prey was behind doors that had been closed for a while.
It was... weird. The pros all ate this 'steak'. There were no stakes to their habbits. Fresh meat, cooked? It almost felt impious, no providence would forgive our low-level misdeeds.
Anyway, the tasks kept it quite fresh!
They had given him a piece of paper, something to get the gist of. Little do they know, that he could recite it by heart.
Evbo had been here, but now he knows a way out. That,, would have saved him a lot of trouble, actually.
The nose of his foot knocks the door, placing the goods on the grass. Slowly, the entrance slides open. "Alright, you know the deal."
For reasons Evbo can't name, looking them in the eyes felt more alike a given curse.
Scratching uselessly at his throat did nothing. Only his neighbour noticed the marks, not that any of it was mentioned.
Being a master, how wonderful.
The first master he ever saw was a blessing away from beating him in that parkour battle. Evbo had never felt his pulse more intense, running through every vein, forcing out sound from ears.
Tall, a boisterous muddle of darkness, livid-white eyes stuck out to him. It made sombering skin shine, reflecting gold on a neatly gemstoned crown. The cloak covered more, if was not enough already.
Authority, it made the pro's heart leap to block the blood to his lungs. The master was more graceful with his steps, despite being upset, than any pro the blond had ever seen.
A dance, waltzing fluently on a platform built to kill him. He couldn't even be mad, the little, twinkling dots on their skin made it all worth it.
In a sense, the master was like the void at night.
It scared Evbo in ways only few saltates did, the midsting shadow's moves did nothing but terrify. What if the pro were to trip, having the same fear as a noob would, falling deep to nullity?
Evbo feared his new friend like he feared cooked food.
Evbo feared his new friend like an impossible jump.
Evbo feared his new friend like parkour.
Evbo feared his new friend like they were the embodiment of the abyss.
(They never mentioned if they saw their God fright at the sight of the Champion. Why was he so afraid of descension?)
Inside sockets, came hunger.
Behind his eyes, knocked famine eagerly, it was pleading to be let out.
This hunger disguised itself as something different, something sweet. It swore it could change, all Evbo needs to do is let it out.
But it is safely locked through a wooden door, held captive by four walls and a hole in the ground. He wonders how much they'll hear if he screams for the void to take him.
The hand on his stomach clutches fabric, it'd be easier if sweat didn't stop him. He breathes no more shallow than before, not faster, not different, but the air likes to play too.
Anguish and fear stirred in his system like a potion, an effect to be taken place.
It was so beautiful, raw.
It seduced Evbo, whispered nothing but sugary promises right into his ear. Him down on his knees, begging for the pain to be over, with tears pricking the corners of his vision.
For a noob, the blond had never quite gotten used to dearth. A paucity of food should never take toll on a body, he thinks he might have a fever.
A painful sob, hard to resist agony.
Evbo doesn't think he had felt hunger this bad, he isn't even sure what made it sting so much.
It felt so physical, a ditch between his ribs. A ravine meant to be overflown, instead it is dry and yearning.
Clothes were a cushion, it only made his coffin more comfortable. Death beds were nothing like he hoped, they are more degrading than comforting, he finds.
There are only so many ways he could get food, none of them are appealing.
The pros might come down tomorrow, they might not. What he is about to do will feel so foolish if they do.
He had never tried it before, hah, he was always the odd one out. The neighbourhood is vacant because of it, they've quenched their lives.
It is possible that all Evbo needs to do is tighten the bandana on his head and yell for the iron-boots that he is still here.
He wears starvation as a cape, with pride that'd come back later to punch him. Oh, there is no way I am coming out of this situation alive.
He'll let guilt eat him up later, at least that one will be fed.
His legs tremble, laying his head against his fist on the door. Closing eyes only make dusk brighter.
It opens the same, the difference is that Evbo's peccability is dragging his steps.
The one-block jumps are easy, they've always been difficult. Could they be reassuring him? Is this the right move?
No, he must be going insane. Thinking that these grass blocks talk to him? Thinking that they smile back when he looks down criminally?
The blond doesn't knock on the door, he doesn't want to give the noob hope that they're getting their parkour check.
Hands shake up until he enters.
Under his fingertips burns blood, under his fingertips throbs a pulse, under his fingertips dies a meal.
Squirmed, struggled against his hands, but they gave up. There is no light to fade from their eyes, they were already cinereous.
A sigh of relief is what it feels when their arm falls limp down the side of the bed. They'd surely forgive him, they'd surely known.
Evbo will keep quiet of this kill, despite it being his biggest accomplishment. Is this the kind of sick enjoyment that pros get out of watching them tear into each other?
Do they wonder too, do they see the exact image? Lifeblood tipping down from the nose, handprints outlining the throat.
Do they know murder is freeing, that murder is so breathtakingly rapturous?
Evbo doesn't think he had felt hunger that bad since then, he wasn't even sure what made it sting so much.
It felt so physical, a ditch between his ribs. A ravine meant to be overflown, instead it was dry and yearning.
Evbo doesn't think he'll ever feel this full again.
In the corner speaks a shadow.
It towers over him, when he works.
He knows they had forgiven him.
We all were born to be hated.
That is a fact that Evbo had unfortunately was faced with many, many times, over and over again.
For Evbo that is like knowing there are only four layers, knowing that inside him isn't a heart that beats.
We all were born to be taunted.
Grins plastered within indisposed faces, teeth ridden with laces.
The next time he saw a book was when he was hanging out with his friend. It was a pretty, purple color.
Emf held that book delicately, they did it the way they do everything. Too focused to pay attention to the Chamipon's words, weirdly.
"Bro, you've been reading for sooo looonng, put it doown." He whines, tapping the master on the shoulder.
Sitting at the edge of the new parkour arena, he had to disband the current battles because of how many players asked him to preform a three-sixty.
Annoyed, Emf lowers the scripture. One of their eyes widen, if Evbo could see their eyebrows, they'd probably be raising one.
"Instead of complaining—" The blond pretends to be offended when they brush his hand off their shoulders. "—you could read with me, you know."
The diamond-boot crossed hands behind his head as he laid down on the ground. "You know I can't read."
A thoughtful hum is all his friend gives him, glancing down at their champion. As opposed to Evbo's usual collected demeanour, he seems to be relaxed, fiddling the strap of the headband.
As much as they tease him for the egotistical reshaping on Parkour Civilization, such as making the buildings themed after himself, he did a pretty good job. "Do you want me to read it to you?"
Arms spread out wide to the sides, he shakes his head. From this angle, the master can barely see his face because of the big hood of his sweatshirt.
Hesitantly, he changes his choice with a nod.
Evbo has been scrambling to try and give back as much as he can, showering the people who helped him with small gifts, unspoken favors.
Not too long ago, they couldn't find their crown. The blond pointed out how odd they looked without it, before realising they actually lost it. He surprised them with a new crown that afternoon.
The color was a bit off, crooked in places, but it was perfect. It fit on their head like it was fate, created to be worn. It's beautiful, made for them, shaped not to please but to remind them of his presence.
Unlike their last one.
"What is it about?" Evbo mumbles, shielding his eyes with a hand, Emf flips back to the first page.
"Agriculture." They've been meaning to read this one for a while, but could never find anyone who still owned a copy.
Their previous crown radiated glory, it let them stand out from the rest of the masters. It shined with the light of the Sun, deity-blessed. In each diamond piece reflected the night, selfish and abundant.
Their boots, accessories, crown were all gold, but the special gem brought the attention of everybody. Not to say others didn't flaunt with wealth, but they had never seen one that sparkled like sunlight on water.
The master wouldn't tell them anything, they pried, they desired, but the voidling kept their mouth shut. No one, not one star, not one could recite it, Parkour wouldn't believe if they shouted it into the vast emptiness.
Once they believed he could rule the world fair, he gushed about it like a birth right. In full plates of armour walked in their blood, bonded by parturition. The Temple held them both like a cot.
Too bad that It resents their titles now, banished by divinity.
"To grow wheat, you first need to plant a seed—"
In each sigh bloomed flowers that none had ever seen.
Deep within cracked skin, lies sick besetting sin. Crafted, morphed and stretched from the silk that keeps the void together, it makes fissure an aether.
On the clear sky are blocks that blocked vision, born on the steps of the sanctuary, never quite inside, never quite meant for the world outside.
Begun on the lowest stratum, a chapel left as a piece of heaven.
They had never believed in the afterlife, many around believed that this torture was inferno itself. They were convinced this life was all anyone got, why would anyone live further than the jumps go?
Beside them awoke someone who awaited their arrival, in his pure eyes smiled words he couldn't ever voice.
Yet, they begged to hear him say those things, in their throat would die a pleading ode.
Parkour sung the two new noobs a ballad, the verses were all their upcoming mistakes.
Brother.
It was a word the fresh master heard hushed from the others, looked away when talked about them and him.
Emf had never thought of him as such, it could never be explained so simply.
When they arose, the distance wrote an elegy, it rhymed exactly with tragedy. The Temple of Parkour intertwined souls on a whim, it cared for no future.
On top of high skyscrapers, the apartment dead silent. From a room, all they could hear were the quiet cries of those below. They didn't do anything to save them though.
He talked so well, he talked so enthusiastic about a plan to salvage the people. Whenever Emf looked, he looked too much like themself, it terrified the master that he'd fail the same they'll fail him.
My last words will be a confession, I won't let them die on my lips.
Resentment had woven itself into the boots that shined even at night. They wore their golden boots with much pride, carried as much of their hatred as long as knees didn't buckle.
To speak is to hum a tune, a lullaby shaking back to sleep. They'd give anything to forget the face of their brother.
My last words will be a confession, I won't let them die on my lips.
For someone so ambitious, the Champion loved to stay behind curtains. Emf followed the other master's lead to act.
Unfortunately, since void birthed them both, the golden-boot witnessed the crowning of the man in diamond.
Then, they learnt hands were made to worship eternal rulers. The parkourers say names live forever as long as there are people to remember.
My last words will be a confession, I won't let them die on my lips.
If none had a name, there'd be nothing to forget. Emf will make sure nobody will ever know him again.
On top of high skyscrapers, the apartment dead silent. From a room, there was so much hear.
He talked so well, he talked so enthusiastic about a plan to salvage their homely life. Whenever Emf looked, he looked too much like themself, it terrified the master that he'd fail the same they'll fail him.
My last words will be a confession, I won't let them die on my lips.
They chatted in the home, until they phsyically couldn't. Until the sun bended light, siblings discussed upcoming victory.
"I don't understand how the Elder Champion won, I was doing everything right." He once spoke, holding a knightly helmet between arms. They think they might be able to recite his every word.
To that they replied simply, not knowing how words affect. "Maybe he was cheating."
Between fingers strummed black hair that fades red, braiding in all the lies they'll tell him. "You think so?"
They cheered him on, to try and battle the Old Man.
They had known him for all of eternity, it feels, yet they believed he could make a great champion.
But history books will encrypt his name with the blood that dried under his blue boots.
It doesn't help Emf's case that they helped him reach the top.
Soon the people would call him evil, The Evil Champion, and he'd wear it with pride. Emf never stopped hiding behind those curtains.
If their brother was so wretched, why does the world keep spinning? Why does life go on, why do everyone's lips tremble?
Their brother cupped their hands, the gentleness coaxed Emf to illness. Pushed a relic into traitorous palms, green gemstones wounded with sight.
"You will never have to worry about anything." They were stupid to not ask if it was a promise.
Appeared a Totem of Undying, oh, if only he knew it will be his doom.
They were one and the same, funereal black skin merging into unity under the bleakest mornings. Only some could pin point where the oldest begun and where the apostate ended.
The master wouldn't tell him anything, he wouldn't pry, nevertheless the voidling kept their mouth shut. No one, not one star, not one could recite it, Parkour wouldn't believe if they shouted it into the vast emptiness.
They believed he could rule the world fair, he cried about it like a birth right. In full plates of armour walked in their blood, bonded by parturition. Back when the Temple held them both like a cot.
Lower a crown, the diamond is only to make sure Emf stays in line. "One day this will all be yours."
My last words will be a confession, I won't let them die on my lips.
They wonder what their brother's last words were, did he yell for a saviour? He lept, and fell back to their home. Had he thought about them when building that impossible challenge?
Emf gave Evbo that totem. The Champion liked to preach, pride himself that he was 'all-seeing', but turned a blind eye when betrayal came.
It was Emf who gave Evbo that totem. The master wonders if he could ever figure it out, that the reason he rules over the people is because of the blood that builds each layer.
The desolate-made had only heard of the jumps their brother preformed, Evbo couldn't stress enough how much cheating those involved.
With heart agape, their last words might be a lie.
Life had.... always been simple.
Which is surprising for Evbo to even admit.
Whenever he brings up the fact that he used to be a noob, people treat it like a sob story. It's not a tragedy, it's just a fact.
And facts are true, and the truth is that sometimes he still feels he is a parkour noob. Okay, okay, it sounds silly when it's phrased like that.
But, when he wakes up on his throne, he misses his uncomfortable bed and sweat-adorned sheets. Brain on autopilot, he is ready to jump for the chicken, only to start falling down the layers.
Evbo wouldn't be the Champion if he failed a water bucket clutch, but luckily, he hasn't failed a single jump in his entire life so an mlg wasn't a challenge. Yep.
Being a noob wasn't all that bad. Sure, they didn't have parkour deliveries or cooked food, but they didn't need these anyway.
Mocking his friend for failing the first jump as a noob was Evbo's favourite pass time. Don't get him wrong, he appreciates them more than anything, but it's kind of Evbo's right as the best parkourer.
What the people lack is some motivation. Don't think for a second that he is thinking about bringing back the parkour checks, but he definitely was thinking of that.
They were the best, and at the same time worst point of the day. The sun lounged after he ate, some pros didn't even wait to see if he made the jump or not.
His neighbour was really the only one he talked to.
Sometimes... sometimes Evbo thinks.
Okay, no, he always is thinking, he is so thinkful! Thoughtful? Nah.
Sometimes Evbo wonders what life would have been like he was born a pro instead.
As a noob, there was nothing of importance. Keeping personal values was only to save your sanity from slipping. But, being born a noob was simply a one-way ticket to decline, so, well, yeah.
Would he have became the Champion if he was a pro from the start? If he bathed forever in the riches, wouldn't have known pain?
These are just silly thoughts, to keep him up at night. Not that he needs to sleep, the diamond boots shake him awake.
But it's nice to just stare up to the sky, and dream when he isn't even sleeping. He fantasised so often about the clouds, what they were like.
He wanted to create a picture, fingers dipped in paint, mimic the beauty in his memories. Evbo had seen the vast blue before, back when he was naive and had a companion.
He wanted to capture the same feeling, no awning to get in the way of expression. He would feel the air in his soul, fresh breeze knocking on windows, the clouds must be wool.
Just to get wind into failing lungs, cleanse an unjust mind. Parkour Civilization was a home which never welcomed anyone, it was however a prison, one that you chose to stay in.
He knew, Evbo knew, if he left, he wouldn't live to see the day he didn't regret departing. The ground was beneath his fingertips, atop of the Temple.
He remembers the day it all crumbled. He was still a master, curiosity would have killed anyone.
Seawatt, looking at the blond with a scowl.
Seawatt, no pity scratching the surface.
Seawatt, the man's a mystery.
The bush was just to shield himself from finding out, it was almost like he knew it from the beginning. Evbo remembers their joint lives like he remembers names.
He could name all the times he failed jumps, but there were no risks. Only, if he could bear the man in robes making fun of him.
These false prophecies were only the fill the hole, patch memories that would wake him up midday.
The last one he remembers was of them laughing about something stupid, stomach cramping.
Almost black hair matched so well with golden jewelery, they could have told Evbo the future. Each finger adorned with rings, different sizes and styles.
The tip of a brewing stand is all that was supporting his feet. Tiptoed, so close to making a jump that meant nothing.
The grass was green, it always was. The house was spruce, they renovated it not too long ago.
One, two, taking deep breaths.
Then, he was falling.
He is falling, and there is nothing under him. When he closes his eyes, he realised he saw the void wide-open.
It was almost liberating, not hanging onto anything. His insides and outside would equalise, feeling vacant, empty, what more could he feel?
He doesn't wonder what awaits him when he reaches the bottom, he doesn't need to. It will gash him, abrade his skin and turn him awry.
Then, his feet hit the ground.
"You said you were going to get it this time. What happened?" Evbo didn't need to look to know a smirk had sneaked its way onto Seawatt's face, jibing the words without a care.
"Seawatt,"
"Well, it looks like you're not getting paid. You know how it is, no parkour means no diamonds." The self-crowned prince waves the offer in front of green eyes. He is less of a prince, and more of an imitation of one.
"Seawatt,"
He stands on the stairs, just like always does. Dark hair curls in places, some kind of stick out as spikes.
"Seawatt, please."
The sandstone grounds him, grainy texture. Around his wrist swathes the handprint that held him down, that didn't let him go.
It would've been easier for the both of them, but whatever. At this point, honestly, Evbo might deserve to call Seawatt the stupid one. After all, the diamond-boot's plans don't include hiding that he knows of Seawatt's.
His enemy raises a stupid eyebrow at the ask, he always does that. He probably doesn't anticipate any betrayal! Though, Evbo has to give the guy credit for it, the cover up story was believable.
"You can't parkour your way out of this, Champion." The man points accusingly. The fighter layer is starting to bore him. "What got into you last night?"
The blond doesn't have to answer anything. "Erm, nothing? Bro, just give me the compass and I'll be on my way."
Is he going to ignore the way his voice shakes, thinning out at the end? Absolutely, you bet he will.
"You're mad annoying, dude." He whines, and is up on his feet as quickly as he to reach into a chest. How convenient.
Palms blanketed by soft material. It's strangely sweet, was he not too dazed by bloodloss, Evbo would have shot back with something witty.
He doesn't want pity.
Let alone Seawatt's, who hands the last compass to him gently, instead of throwing it from a distance like he usually does.
The Champion feels more than your average man, but it takes no rank to notice how a certain peer loiters, linger longer than most. Not even sure he can, a swatting curl in his stomach might say otherwise though.
In the time of exit, Seawatt dwaddles. In one hand is a possiblity, in the other there is blood being drawn by slow-sinking nails.
Painful is to watch the blond limp out, exhausted, bloody. None of it was Seawatt's work, he had ruined himself before the fighter could even have a chance to pull a plan.
This was the beloved Champion of the People? Crowned by Parkour, drowned by man? He had forced himself deep into the glen, and won't start climbing out until he knows for certain that it's the end.
Pathetic, Seawatt would spit. Howbeit boots keep him rooted in the doorway until the horizon covers the shadow of the blond.
He can't let Evbo die ahead of time, that's the only meaning behind his acts.
He had never fought fair, bistred hair would carry an unknown legacy in the wind. A parkour battle would not do. A knife in the back? Sure, he could live with that. Tracing shapes of hatred into Evbo's spine.
But that could wait. They have a civilization to destroy, after all.
Emf is on making-sure-the-Parkour-Villain-doesn't-kill-anybody duty.
Their God had been working tirelessly, on reviving everyone.
(Everyone meant everyone after all.)
(The crown sits heavy on an unworthy head.)
They had helped guide the reborn pros and masters to their new temporary abodes. Some of the people's former acquaintances caught them up on the recent events after Emf bid them farewell.
Trapping the Villain wasn't all that hard, actually.
But it still was weird. When revival came, it was just like all the other times. At first, when the sequence begun, they had felt nauseous upon seeing the parkourers be put together again.
The jester however, did not panic when he was revived.
Eyes wide, but not out of pain. His mask was gone, not covering his face as it used to. Emf almost considered looking away out of decency.
Remained calm, looking back-and-forth between God and his Champion. It was almost like he expected this to happen.
Vibrant red eyes haunted their step, it observed every soft move. They did not lose sight of sovereignty. And by Evbo, if it was the Void that truly formed their body, each of the Villain's blinks threw them right back into it.
They felt strangely.... seen.
Under those violent scarlet eyes, there was no hiding. It was the clown that had no mask, yet they felt theirs slipping.
Anyway, now he was locked up securely in a barrier-block protected apartment! The Villain had probably never seen the master layer before, and Emf will make sure he doesn't ever.
There is no use knocking on the door, he won't be able to open it anyway. The perks of being the Champion of Parkour is that barrier blocks are no obstacles, they can just easily break them and then replace.
"Have you taken pity on me?" It was a mocking tone. A flat, monotonous mocking tone.
"No," they answered, reaching into the inventory only they could see, before throwing a bunch of materials down to the ground. "I simply am doing my job."
"You're giving the 'Villain of Parkour' blocks." He stated, staring up accusingly from where he is sitting. "You. You like playing with danger."
"Bold assumption." There is something, something that makes their tongue sharp when he comes into view again, an elaborate game of parkour chess.
A thoughtful hum, the revived's pure white hair is put up in a bun. He sits on the floor, clearly contemplating what to do with his freedom. Well, limited freedom, but this is more mercy than his previous prison.
"And the blocks?" He speaks, tilting his head. Emf didn't expect him to look like this under the mask, all reborns have scars relating to their deaths. But not the Parkour Villain, tanned skin is devoid of any wounds.
"What about them?" With a few swanky steps, swaying their long tail behind, boots stop right in front of the man.
"Aren't you afraid?" Inculpating, a gloved finger points. It's made of leather.
Emf shrugs.
The only thing that this house lacks is light and a door. "Nothing is stopping me from challenging you to a race."
"That is true," the click of their fingers don't make much sound, made of fur. "But it wouldn't make any damage. I would simply respawn."
The ruff around his neck is the only thing that would make him stick out in the crowd. No master would care for his presence though.
He scoffs, looking away. There is not many things to look at, so he looks up at the Champion again. "I see he is following the footsteps of the Old Man."
"That's never a good sign." Continuing. This time, he actually stands up. Emf is taller than him by a few. There are claw marks on the wall. "You don't suppose he would throw you away like the Old Man did to me, would he?"
"He wouldn't—"
"You know, I talked some with him. Not much, he was too occupied trying to survive my attacks." Emf can't help that they take a step back when he takes one forward. "His intentions are clear."
"His 'intentions' are to restore Parkour Civilization to—"
"People never learn." Is the final, finishing bow to it. He walks over to one of the closed-off windows.
They want to say something. Grab the Villain by the shoulders, yell. They want to say something, defend Evbo. They want to say something, but can't.
The lack of noise is actually.... not that terrible. You'd expect that it would be awkward, but it's kind of pleasant.
He is trying to get into Emf's head, they are aware. There are strings, unspoken of, and those stay even after death.
Some would still listen to those who hurt them if their abuser opened their mouth for a favor. They would drop everything if it meant that they'll be comforted one last time by blatant lies and open wounds.
There are people who would stand by the Parkour Villain too. There must have been a reason the Elder Champion kept him by his side.
"I know what it's like to trust someone unconditionally." The crook breaks the peace with a hushed, softer voice than before. Hand resting on the windowsill.
"I'm sure you do." They sigh, tightening the tie around dark hair.
"What was his name again?" He asks, with no real malice behind his words. Or maybe there is malice, and they have gotten used to hearing it in this short period of time.
"That's none of your concern. He is your God, the God of Parkour." And I am the Champion of Parkour, two matching titles. "Evbo wouldn't do anything irrational, you don't know him like I do."
"Right." It's a simple answer. Does the clown have nothing better to do than being cryptic? "I don't. And I don't want to either."
The leaves of the potted plant in the corner had been ripped off, left to wilt on the floorboards. The upper rooms had been blocked off too, the only escape is the gap in the ground.
With that, Emf turns on his heels, making his way over to the entrance.
Outside and placing those invisible blocks back, they don't miss the warning the Villain gives him.
"Watch your back."
All sound form inside is drowned out. Emf can't miss Seawatt's revival.