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He could smell them bleeding before they’d even reached the vent.
He almost wondered if they wouldn't, at first. There was only one of them, and from how their heart rate was fluttering he wouldn't have been surprised if they just collapsed and perished at the door before even making it to the shop entrance.
But he sent out his usual call, and sure enough he heard the telltale clunks in response, albeit heavier and more halting than usual. Oh they must be hurting real bad.
Luckily for both of them, he had just what they needed.
He suppressed an eager song- not that they’d hear it anyway -as he pulled himself upright and took his usual position beside the desk, satisfied that he’d make at least a medkit’s worth of research off of the poor, unfortunate soul.
Or he would, once they'd made their way through the vent.
With how much iron he was scenting, he supposed he couldn’t blame them for progressing slowly.
(There was another scent in the air, mingling with the blood. One he didn’t recognize. He put it out of his mind.)
Eventually his patience was rewarded, and as their head breached the vent he reached forward to manually unveil his lure as usual.
“You sure are taking your sweet ti—!"
Oh.
To say he was taken aback would be an understatement.
As he wasn’t one to waste words, he didn’t say; and as he wasn’t one to waste time, he would deny, if asked, that he hesitated a moment as he took in the sight of the figure emerging from the vent.
(He wasn't asked. He knew he wouldn't be.)
“...wooow. You’re looking…kinda pale.”
“I wonder why,” the expendable snarked through grit teeth, seemingly heedless of the dribble of blood that fell from their lips.
It spattered lightly on his floor.
“Mm, such a mystery,” he volleyed, drawl returning as he fell back into the familiarity of traded barbs. “I’m sure it couldn’t have anything to do with the giant, hooked spear through your midsection.”
The expendable finally met his eyes, a spark of something besides agony in their gaze.
Unfortunately, whatever questionably-witty retort they had for him was lost as a spasm shook their body. Their lips abruptly pressed closed in a thin line, one clenched fist flying to their mouth.
He frowned, as they swallowed whatever had just tried to expel itself along with their words. They were fully in his shop now, and he could see the hacked off remnant of a searchlight arm trailing down their back from where the other end of the wicked spear protruded. That explained the strange smell.
It didn't explain anything else though.
When they had regained control of themself, the expendable began crawling closer.
He found himself fighting the urge to recoil.
“If you came here with some idea that I’d help you, then I’m afraid the pain has made you delusional," he warned. "A medkit won’t fix that. And I’m no paramedic.”
“…figured…s’okay…”
(It was not. It was decidedly not okay.)
“How did you even get back here without your gear detonating?” They'd already visited him once this run. To find his shop again, they would've had to turn around and go back through doors they'd already traversed. Their head should've been blown off long before they'd gotten within range of the SCRAMBLER.
They shrugged, then grimaced as the motion tugged at their wounds. “Dunno. Might ‘ave p.AI.nter…’s turrets t’ thank for that.” They sat back on their heels, gesturing vaguely at the back of their neck. “Jammed it…‘r somethin’.”
They took a moment to breathe. He let them, out of courtesy. No use in rushing...whatever this was...
(Why hadn't p.AI.nter finished them off? Unless it didn't feel the need to, since the expendable obviously wasn't gunning for the crystal at the moment...but still, they were easy pickings right now. It was a miracle they'd made it back.)
"So you get speared by a searchlight, you somehow don't die from that, then you somehow manage to evade every other hazard and monster in this place just to come crawling into my shop, and...what, exactly? What were you expecting when you dragged yourself back here?"
They tried to steady their breathing.
He huffed. It was an impatient huff. Definitely not an agitated huff. They wouldn't know the difference anyway.
They licked their lips, blood smearing.
“…c’n you…?”
As they murmured, one hand rose, thumb and two fingers extended.
They held it aloft a moment, before turning their wrist in a grim parody of recoil.
What.
“I- I can’t do it,” they finished shakily, tone almost sheepish, as if that somehow clarified anything.
What.
They glanced up, as his silence stretched. "Hh. I, I can...trade? Still got- got a breacher, n'...here."
They tugged something into view, haphazardly wiping it clean of what he could only conclude was searchlight-blood, before trying to place it down in front of them. A cringe of pain for their efforts caused them to drop it instead.
"Y’can have this…th’s cool knife I found. 'n containment.”
The banana-yellow blade glinted cheerily in the light of his lure, at odds with the rest of the gruesome scene.
What the hell.
They quivered under his stare. Though, given how much blood they'd already lost, they'd probably quiver anyway. “Y... you c’n have...my liver?”
“Why would I want your liver?!” he roared, incredulity finally breaking his stunned silence.
“Only m’ liver. Nothin- nothin’ else, n' other organs. M'ybe m' bones. But stay 'way from m' brain—.”
"That's not even— shut up, just- shut up for a second!"
They nodded, wincing again, uncertainty washing over their features for the first time. Or maybe it was nausea.
In the quiet, their original question echoed.
Their...request.
Can you...?
"...you dragged your- already dying -self all the way back here...just to ask me to finish the job?"
They nodded.
They looked hopeful.
His face dropped into one hand, the other two threading through his hair.
Because what the hell.
They could've just let the searchlight take them. They could've opened any void-locker. They could've trespassed on the turf of the DeVine. They could've beheld the Eyefestation. They could've chanced the Good People. They could've swung a light at a squiddle. They could've stood in the path of an angler. They could've foisted that stupid knife off on a sea bunny in exchange for a landmine. They could've let a wall-dweller or Pandemonium or one of the candlefolk bring their miserable run to an end.
They could've let the turrets shoot them.
(Why hadn't p.AI.nter shot them?)
They could've voluntarily tripped one of his doorstoppers.
They could've ensured an end to their suffering in innumerable other ways.
But no.
"You've got a lotta brass, coming in here and expecting me to just..."
(But were they wrong?)
(It wasn't like he'd never killed before. Not anymore.)
(Besides, this one would die anyway, whether he killed them himself or just...let them bleed.)
(And hell, they were asking. They wanted this.)
(He had no reason not to, really. No reason not to just get it over with for both their sakes.)
(Nothing but—)
A hiss escaped his throat. He clawed at his scalp, third hand falling enough for him to pin the expendable between the frame of his fingers with simply a glare.
“Did it occur to you," he growled, "to wonder whether or not I’d want to do this?”
By the look that flickered across their face, no, it had not occurred to them.
How typical. How utterly typical.
(And yet, some part of him was still surprised enough to be—)
(No. Dispassionate. Composed. That's what he needed to be. Drown everything else. Survival depended on it.)
(He couldn't afford to be—)
The expendable rallied whatever mental faculties they had left, and used them all to send a glare his way. “Y’re th’one…always call’s me n’idiot.”
Like he should've expected this from them.
He shook his head in disbelief, hands finally dropping as he uncurled and straightened to the height he usually adopted with customers. “You're incorrigible.”
“…’m dying.”
“Yeah," he ground out. "And you’re gonna do it outside. You’ve already made a mess with just your blood; you’re not gonna make me deal with your corpse too when you don’t have anything on you worth looting.”
He pointed indicatively to the vent. "Scram."
For the first time, something like fear stirred in their gaze. Something desperate. Something akin to...
(Why? Why this? Why was the possibility that they could've been wrong in their assumption of his willingness to put them down like a lame horse the part of this that scared them? Why were they so sure he’d just be fine with it?)
(Why wasn't he just fine with it!?)
"I- wait, I—"
"Perhaps the pain has clouded your judgement enough that you can't understand me," he lowed, flukes rising dangerously as he coiled. "Allow me to translate for your pitiful comprehension: no."
He held their gaze, waiting for some sign that they'd gotten the message.
Their eyes sparked again.
Whatever it was, it wasn't resignation.
“…fine,” they wheezed.
But they made no move to leave.
Instead, he watched as, with no little difficulty, they drew out a disorganized assortment of manila and tossed it in his direction.
“I’ll…take a beacon.”
Insolent little—
He drew himself up to loom over their pathetically shivering form, not bothering to swallow a hostile hiss or stop his flukes from slamming angrily at the wall.
“You really think you’re in a position to provoke me right now?”
He glanced down briefly at the papers that had been dislodged from their folders, scoffing at what he saw. “…this isn’t enough, anyway.”
They wilted, the insufficient funds getting to them in a way that his threat display, annoyingly, hadn't. “…damn. I k’nda…stopped collecting, after…visiting you last…”
Underwhelmingly, he felt his rage drain away.
He sighed. "Why did you come here to die?"
They shrugged.
(As if they didn't know. Then again, maybe the pain and the blood loss had addled them enough that they really couldn't tell.)
(He knew, though.)
(He recognized the instinct.)
(He would've done the same.)
"...'m s'ry..."
He glanced to them.
“I…don’ think I c'n move,” they admitted. "...think 'm stuck here 'ntil it's over, 'ne way 'r th' otht'r. or...y' move me."
They shuddered weakly, one hand hovering gingerly over the damage. "...'m sorry, for...imposing. Please don't...throw me out."
He said nothing.
They struggled to breathe for a moment, before speaking again. “I'll b' outta y’r hair soon 'nyway…s'okay...y're here..."
They weren't talking to him anymore, he realized. Did they know they still had his attention?
"...s'okay...y' made it...s'alright...wh'ever happens now, 'll be 'right..."
They slumped in something like relief, at the sound of his gun unholstering, the tension unfurling from their body to permeate the air and invade his senses. His face twisted in something like revulsion. "Something's wrong with you."
"B'sides the...being impaled?"
"Yeah; something in the head."
They mustered up a hapless yet somehow still challenging grin through bloody teeth, and tried not to choke as they laughed. “Guess we c’n say th’ pain made me delus'nal.”
“Hey, no stealing. Not my wares, not my lines.”
He pressed the barrel to their forehead, and tried to ignore the acceptance in their posture as their eyelids fluttered closed with no intent to reopen.
He thought maybe their lips moved, as he pulled the trigger.
As the aftershock of the shot rang in the air, he watched as their body reeled backward from the force. It arched grotesquely, the searchlight spear keeping it propped up like some absurd display stand.
Dammit, why hadn’t he shot them from behind? Then they would’ve fallen forward and he wouldn’t have to look at…this. He should've done it that way.
(Execution style.)
He...
As he continued to stare, he became aware of his face twitching. He pulled his lips into a snarl; partly at the situation in general, and partly in an effort to suppress the involuntary motions of his barbels as they processed the sudden disappearance of the other sign of life in the room.
He didn't need the extra sensory input to know that the expendable had been dead before their body had hit the ground.
It was only then that he finally registered the words their silent lips had formed:
Thank you.
For once, as the forces beyond him registered the death of their player, he let himself get pulled into liminal space voluntarily.
As if there hadn’t been enough firsts today, he discovered to his immense disquiet that the idiot had somehow arrived before him.
They startled, jolting up from where their head had been laying on the desk.
“Oh,” they mumbled, one hand rubbing at the lines that had become impressed in their cheek; they’d been lying on the clock that some other long-forgotten prisoner had idly scratched into the faux-wooden surface. “I wasn’t sure if you were gonna…y’know, since…”
They stuttered on a laugh, and had the gall to look almost happy, subdued manner notwithstanding. “I would’ve said ‘see you on the other side,’ if I’d known you’d meet me here—"
“Don’t—!”
And oh, no, he could not sound like that, what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck was wrong with them, get it together—
“...don’t do that again.”
Their levity expired in a quiet smothering of embers. “O-okay. Um…which part?”
He didn’t know.
(He did.)
He didn’t answer.
He told himself it was because he liked watching them squirm in the silence.