Chapter Text
Mistakes, as it turns out, are remarkably easy to make. Once one happens, many others follow suit, eventually cascading into a singular moment where one's only thought is ‘what the hell’.
You dub your most recent series of mistakes: Everything Went Wrong, Part Two.
The first mistake comes when you commit a tiny crime. Something minor, barely deserving a few months of jail time, but it opens a realm of opportunities that are too good to pass up. Various jobs (of varying legality) began opening up to you, practically begging for your grubby little hands to get involved.
Second mistake is getting caught. It was a chilly night, and you were getting arrested in a cheap, thin t-shirt as handcuffs rubbed uncomfortably against your wrists. The police took seven minutes just to read off your long list of charges. In the depths of denial, you joked that ‘that's enough charges to blow up the moon’. (An officer looked up at the moon after you said that. Whether he was gauging the explosives it would actually take to do it in, or if he was checking if he could see any charges you placed on it, you don't know.)
Your lawyer was the third mistake. He had all the hallmarks of a good lawyer: five-star reviews, not-too-expensive-but-good-smelling cologne, a fancy briefcase, and many, many papers. However, it turns out that he was a victim of one of the online scams you had helped manage. Your nice smelling, paper-obsessed, popular lawyer suddenly became a lot less charming and a lot more… harming.
To put it bluntly: he ruined you. And humiliated you. His ‘defenses’ were nothing more than a backwards affirmation of your charges.
From there, you were sentenced to life in prison. The first time you had sat in your cell, you realized that this is the conclusion of the mistake series known as Everything Went Wrong. You toyed around with the thought of the etching tally marks into the wall, but realized shortly after that you had no tool to do so.
Then an official with silky hair in a pretty suit appeared in front of your cell, and you realized this was merely Part One of Everything Went Wrong.
Part Two starts with an Urbanshade official.
She sits you down at a table, and offers you a long-winded speech about a job opportunity. Words like ‘not held liable’ and ‘lethal’ were thrown around, but you were too focused on two of them to care: ‘freedom’ and ‘absolvement’. All you had to do was get an item for them, and you're home free from prison? Sign you up!
Thus, you started signing. The whole ordeal lasts longer than you thought, with every form you signed being quickly replaced by another. The official was quick to snatch any paper you had already etched your name into, leaving you no opportunity to second guess what you were getting into. It was at this part you contemplated this being the first mistake of Part Two.
However, you remained hopeful! This was your lucky break! This wasn't another mistake in your long line of errors… this was the first success after your fail era! All you had to do was to see the glass as half full.
You realize now that, regardless of how much water was in the glass, that was your first mistake of Part Two.
The second mistake of Part Two was the submarine you chose.
Standing in the lobby, surrounded by countless expendables, you were growing slightly dizzy as you spun around to try and find someone. It seemed as though every criminal was already joined at the hip with someone, and every solo person you approached was a hardened ‘lone wolf’ who wanted to kill you with their gaze. You weren't killing anyone with your gaze! Why couldn't you find anyone?!
Even the groups of two's and three's wouldn't accept you. You. Charming, wonderful, and in-over-your-head you!
“You.” A filtered voice behind you stated, and you lagged slightly from the repetition of the word in your internal dialogue. You quickly turn around to be faced with a guardsman. “You’ve been dallying around for the past thirty minutes. Get in a sub.”
You frown. “It hasn't been thirty minutes?” It had been ten, tops. “Just five more minutes. I need to find a partner.”
The guard's form stiffens with irritation. “No-one wants to be with you so far, and that won't change.” He slightly raises his gun. “I have half-a-mind to explode your PDG for giving me orders. In the submarine, expendable.”
Um. What? You glance between the guard and the sub, seemingly weighing your options, before biting the bullet. Oh well. He's probably right— if you hadn't found a partner thus far, odds are you wouldn't find one soon. You walk into the submarine, solo, and thus concluding mistake number two.
Mistake three was not bracing for impact.
It had happened too fast— the electrical sparks from the console, the hull creaking, the rapid alarm blaring— and before you knew it you were plunged into darkness and thrown across the submarine. It rattled you around, like a child shaking a container with their toy inside.
You woke to a water droplet landing on your eyelid.
Disheveled, you wobbly shift to your bottom, trying to take stock. You definitely have a few bruises, but no broken bones that you could tell (although you suspect adrenaline may be a factor in masking your pain). One of your hands has a tiny cut from the sharp metal of the sub. The bottom of your pant leg is frayed. Your shoe is untied.
All in all, pretty good!
You sort yourself out, making sure to tie your shoe, before standing to your feet. Something rattles in the equipment on your back. Confused, you raise a hand to your back to feel around for what might be broken. The diving tank is okay, and you twist your arm to feel the top of it. Sure enough, the shotgun mechanism on the back of your neck is intact—
—and falls off when you touch it.
You freeze. You grasp the air of where it once was, closing and opening your hand. You're met with the bare skin of your neck. While the relieved weight is satisfying, it's also terrifying. You're pretty sure most of the papers you signed were permission for them to put this thing on you. If they found out you didn't have it…
…you stare at the dislodged piece of tech on the ground. It didn't immediately explode upon removal, so you're assuming the tamperment-detection on it broke when you crashed. Or something of the sort. You're not going to stick around to find out whether it can still explode— you haphazardly speed out of the submarine wreckage to observe your surroundings.
The submarine spills out into a long hallway. There's a door on each end, both accompanied by a tiny monitor beside it. The monitor on the left displays a red dash, and the right displays a green number zero.
You try each door, and only one opens; the red dash is locked and the green zero is open. You figured as much. You enter the unlocked door tentatively.
It opens to a long hallway. There's a door with no monitor to your right, a long expansive window to your left, and a door at the end of the hallway with the same type of monitor you just saw. Much like the door you came from, it has a green zero on it.
You enter the door to your right. It opens to an office, with spilled papers and stationary littered throughout the desks. A few books lay on the ground near bookshelves. On a desk in the back is a messenger bag that's half-zipped.
Intrigued, you investigate the bag. You unzip it to find that it's stuffed with various documents, all plastered with a red ‘CLASSIFIED’.
The lights flicker. You pause, glancing up at the bulbs overhead, before shrugging and continuing your perusing.
You lay out the folders on the table. Much to your surprise, there's an item other than data tucked away in the corner of the bag; a mp3 player and a pair of cheap earbuds. It's a fancy touchscreen one, no bigger than the size of your palm. Let's go!
You're about to open a file when you start to hear a faint roaring noise. Confused, you glance around to try and find the source. You don't see anything from the office.
The screaming keeps getting louder. The lights are swelling in brightness. Adrenaline propels you in and in a flash you're ducking under a desk, shoving your limbs into the cramped space.
The roaring zooms past. The lights pop with shattered glass littering on the floor. You hold your breath, eyes wide as they try to adjust to the lack of light.
Then… nothing. Quiet. The emergency red lights kick on.
Huh.
What the hell.
~♫⋆♪~
You adjust pretty fast.
You've always been efficient at adapting. Whether or not your adaptations are good is another story, but you've always had a knack for making due with whatever circumstances you're in. It's partially the reason why you got so sucked into a life of crime.
It's entirely the reason why you're still alive.
Turns out, the files you found were on the entities patrolling the facility. After scribbling notes and spending a few hours scraping every last fact you could into your mind (there's no rush when you don't have a shotgun shell on your neck anymore), you were prepped and ready.
You made sure to take the messenger bag and its contents. At first, it was used solely for rations and data.
Now, you store a plethora of batteries, pairs of earbuds, unhealthy snacks, and the essentials (water bottles, data, tools that can't be clipped to your belt) inside of it. The Hadal Blacksite is dangerous, but that doesn't mean you can't relax.
You found out pretty fast you were on your own. Urbanshade never contacted you regarding your broken execution device, crashed submarine, or directions for the crystal. As far as you know, it's just you and an endless amount of rooms. Each unlocked room is displayed with a green zero, and each locked one is with two red dashes.
Occasionally, you'll encounter multiple unlocked doors. After verifying neither of them are the Good People (whom you awkwardly stumbled into once, but barely managed to escape by the skin of your teeth), you like to make a game out of which direction to go.
Spin a pencil! Meeny-miny-moe it! Open each door and choose the one that doesn't lead to a creepy dark hallway! You have your fun where you're able.
With an earbud in your ear, you enter the next room with an electric guitar riff echoing through your eardrum.
As required, you throw your might into your best air guitar. You haven't heard most of the songs on the mp3 player prior to your arrival, but you like to think of it as a blessing. Every second spent in the Blacksite is with a new song blasting in your ear! Your music taste is expanding to new horizons.
You've already worked your way through two pairs of earbuds. The current pair you're using has been your favorite so far, with them perfectly fitting your ears without slipping. You're able to tell the time with them, too! When you wake up in the mornings, you put the earbud in a certain ear; when you start to feel tired, you put it in the other.
It's like a placebo effect! …or something! (You're grasping at whatever you can get.)
You carry the electric guitar riff into the hallway. You stick out your tongue as you strum the last chord dramatically, signaling the end of the song. You raise your arms above your head and take a bow, silently yelling out ‘thank you! thank you!’ to an imaginary audience.
Once you're done, you take stock of your surroundings. It's all typical of what you normally see, except for a pair of double doors to your left.
You raise a brow. Cautiously, you enter the room and absorb as much information as you can. It's an employee kitchen. There's a fridge, sink, microwave, cabinets, and tables similar to those you'd find in a school cafeteria. Excitement pulses through you and you stumble towards the fridge.
Ripping open the handle, you find a covered platter of food for at least ten people. It takes up an entire fridge shelf. Crossing your fingers, you peel back the cover…
…and find unspoiled crappy chinese food.
You've never served yourself food so fast before. You quickly pile a bunch of greasy chowmein and teriyaki onto a plate, and shove it in the microwave. The timer ticks down as you grab a soda from the fridge and pick a song that you like to listen to as you eat.
Once it's ready, you impatiently carry the plate over to the corner of the room, where you can easily see the door. You go through your pre-eating checklist; unclip the Flash Beacon and place it next to your plate, make sure the messenger bag is zipped up and ready if you need to run, loosen the diving gear on your back… et cetera.
When you take your first bite, the taste that fills your mouth can best be described as heavenly. You savor it for a whole two seconds until you're shoving more food into your mouth, relishing the sensation of warm nutrients.
Something creaks outside.
The hand unoccupied with the fork flies to the Flash Beacon. Your hand remains poised over the handle as you chew the food in your mouth, your free hand tapping the beat of the song in your ears. You're about to swallow when the door opens.
You grip the handle.
There's a fish-man-hybrid standing in the doorway. You remember reading a file about him, but you're rusty on what his designated name was.
The two of you promptly make eye contact. He deadpans at you, his eyes wide and his lips parted as he watches you simply… chew. You swallow your food and take a sip of your drink.
“Truce?” Is the word you use to break the silence.
“Uh.” He glances at the food you're eating. “How the hell are you here?”
“I’m an expendable.” You take another (small, since you're still talking) bite, quickly chewing it enough where you can swallow it fast. “I'm supposed to get a crystal, or something.”
“Or something.” He echoes.
“You didn't answer my question.” You stab a piece of teriyaki with your fork and wave it at him. “Truce?”
“Tell me where you got that, and I'll be your best bud.” He pauses, his ear-fin flicking. “That was an exaggeration.”
“I guessed so.” You turn on the display of your mp3 player and skip a song, removing your hand from the Flash Beacon. “It's in the fridge.”
He doesn't give you a verbal response. Just a raised brow as he slinks over to the fridge. Carefully, he opens the door with a clawed hand and removes the platter just as gingerly. He peels back the platter cover, and you hear him mutter a small ‘hell yeah’ under his breath.
“How did you get here?” He asks as he opens up a cabinet. “There's no Navi-Path close to here.”
“Navi-huh?” You question between a mouthful of half-chewed noodles.
He glances at you over his shoulder, and squints. “...never mind. Where's your bomb?”
“Bomb?”
“The shotgun shell that's supposed to be primed to explode on your neck, dumbass.” He seethes as he places a large plastic bowl on the countertop.
“Oh. That uh…” This is weird. You're actually talking to someone. “...broke, when my submarine crashed.”
“Well, that explains how you got here.” He dumps the platter of food into the bowl. Some of it spills, and the bowl is nearly overflowing.
He picks up a stray piece of teriyaki that fell on the countertop and pops it into his mouth. His esca flickers as he tastes it, and he wipes his fingers on his dusty coat. He moves the bowl to the microwave, shutting it with a bit more force than needed.
He tries tapping the buttons to input a time. It doesn't work. His clawed fingertip doesn't mesh well with the surface. You hear him grumble under his breath as he keeps jamming his claw against the buttons, one of his fists curling at his side. At this rate, he's going to break the microwave.
Clipping your Flash Beacon back to your belt, you take your plate and soda over to him. You hop over the smaller portion of his tail that's currently strewn around the entrance. You place your items on the countertop beside him, a healthy (two feet) distance away.
He turns to you, his pupils burning against the blue of his eyes. “What.”
You shuffle over and type in ‘6:30’ into the microwave, careful to avoid the claw he has poised over the buttons. His tail twitches.
“This might be too long. I'd check on it when there's about two minutes left.” You walk over to your food and hop on the countertop, holding your plate and fork in hand. “Microwaves are finicky. I put mine in for about forty seconds, but that would've been no-where near enough for my old one back at home.”
You take a sip of the can beside you. You can feel his gaze placed against you. “Sometimes those ones are better though, y'know? Heats up slower, but it's more evenly heated. No frozen middles.” You kick your feet in beat to the song in your ears. “I’m no microwave scientist, though.”
He glances away from you and at his food in the microwave. He watches it spin once, twice, before speaking.
“Microwave scientists aren't a thing.” He shifts back to you. You make eye contact, and you see his pupils have nearly completely faded into the background blues of his eyes.
“Then who made the microwave?” You counter.
“...normal scientists, or engineers. No-one goes in for a degree in microwave-ology.” He shifts the straps of the device on his back.
“Wow. As someone who loves microwave-ology, I'm hurt.” You tease.
“Didn't you just admit that you aren't a microwave scientist?”
You grin with your teeth. “I'm willing to learn!”
That earns an eyeroll (and a subdued chuckle) from him. He goes back to watching his food rotate.
You're nearly done with your own food. The chorus of the song in your ear finishes, and you open your mouth to speak.
“Hey.” You break the silence.
“Hey?” He repeats.
You give him your name.
He pauses, furrowing his brow before giving in. “...Sebastian.” He crosses his arms. “Sebastian Solace.”
“‘Kay. Cool. Sebastian.” You test the word.
“Don't overuse it.” He comments.
You only hum in response, opting to finish your food instead.
~♫⋆♪~
“You're insane.”
“I prefer the term optimistic.”
Sebastian looks weird upside down. You hang from where a giant spider-monster cocooned you, probably to eat you later.
You hadn't seen him since the chance encounter at the employees kitchen. Judging by your circadian rhythm, it's been a couple days since then. You honestly hadn't expected to meet him ever again.
…but a giant spider had caught you off guard, and brought you to a path that Sebastian just-so-happened to be walking (slithering?) through. Humiliating.
There’s a single strand of web dangling you from the ceiling. Thick silk constricts you in enough layers where Sebastian can’t even see the outline of your body.
You stop cutting the web with the switchblade in your hand. With Sebastian's claws, you can get out of here much easier.
“It's hard to believe you even made it this far.” Sebastian shifts his weight back and rests a hand on his waist. “You were bound to bite the dust sooner or later.”
“You say that like I'm already dead.” You force a playful frown. “I'm still alive and kicking.”
Sebastian shoots an unimpressed look to your trapped legs. “Kicking?”
“Well. Wriggling my fingers, at least.”
He traces a claw down the side of your coccoon, splitting some of the thinner strands. You can faintly feel the touch against you. “That's hardly living.”
“I can live more if you cut me free?” You ask.
“We're at odds, expendable. You need to get the crystal, and I need to leave.” He removes his hand. “You dying is a win for me.”
“Sebastian, buddy, I think we both know I'm not getting the crystal.” The earbud is starting to fall out of your ear. You press your shoulder against your ear to put it back into place.
“So what? Your plan is just to wander until you die?”
“Hmm.” You tilt your head in mock contemplation. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Like I said. Insane.”
“Optimistic!” You counter.
Sebastian raises a hand, and easily slices the string holding you to the ceiling. Gravity immediately pushes you towards the ground—
—before he grabs the string he cut and holds you in the air, your face near inches from the ground. He raises you to be eye-level with him.
“I could kill you.” He supplies. “You know that, right?”
“You and everything else in the Blacksite.”
“...and that doesn't bother you?” He tilts you closer to him, leaving barely any distance between the two of you.
“Never said it didn't.” The song in your ear ends, and there's a moment of silence. Your voice has never sounded so loud. “I'm just used to it.”
He scrutinizes you. His esca flickers.
“Insane.” He repeats, before lowering and dropping you to the ground.
“Ow.” You roll onto your back to look at him. “Rude.”
“Freed you.” He grins. “Have fun.”
“This is not freedom.” You counter. You wiggle slightly for emphasis. “I'm cocooned! I'm… like a bug going through metamorphosis!"
He waves his hands in a ‘shoo’ motion. “Then inch away, little inchworm.”
“Inchworm.”
“Should I leave a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow? My little hungry caterpillar?" He teases, and the roast is so good you can't help but laugh.
“I’m struggling. I'm struggling and you're laughing at my torture.” You wave your bound legs up and down.
“It's aaall a part of the circle of life.” He coos, leaning down and tapping your forehead.
“This butterfly needs to break free.” You roll onto your stomach, since your hands are trapped behind your back. You press your hands out as far as you can so he can see them through the web. “Just cut my hands? Please?”
“I dunno…”
“I said the magic word.” You pout. A solo starts pounding through your ear, and you mourn the loss of your free hands. A silent pretend solo (starring: you) sounds so beautiful right now.
Sebastian doesn't say anything; but he leans down and cuts a rough outline of where your hands are pressed against the silk. Once the thicker strands are broken, you easily break the remaining webbing with brute force.
Sebastian stares blankly as you begin to cut the rest of the webbing.
“You had a knife.”
You cut the silk off your torso and place it neatly in a pile on the ground. “It's pretty handy.”
“You had a knife.”
“Yeah?” You remove the last of the silk from your legs. “What's your…” You aim the switchblade at him. “...point?”
A beat of silence. He blinks dumbly at you, who’s currently sitting on the ground, with stray strands of silk strewn across your figure. You keep the blade still pointed at him with a goofy expression on your tired face.
He opens his mouth, closes it, and glances away with a sigh so exasperated it nearly sounds forced. “Nevermind.”
If you look closely, you can see a small upward tug at his lips.
“I'm off, then.” You fold the switchblade and clip it back onto your belt. “Wanna come?”
He flicks some hair out of his eyes. “To where?”
“I dunno.” You shrug. “Wherever seems fun.”
“You're a walking and talking accident-waiting-to-happen.” He places his hands on his hips(?).
“So you'll come?” You beam at him.
“What, are you lonely?” He sneers. “Poor little expendable, trapped all by yourself in the big bad Blacksite. Shouldn't have taken that deal with Urbanshade.”
“Well, I mean,” you gesture to his figure with the wave of your hand, “Everything's little to you.”
Sebastian loses some of his swagger and opts to cross his arms. “I could kill you. Don't forget that.”
“That's the second time you've said that.” You shift the earbud in your ear. “Are you coming or not?”
“I…ugh. Fine.” He rolls his shoulder. “I’ll entertain you for a little bit.”
“Awesome!” You give him a double thumbs up.
He slides over to the door and opens it, his massive body curling around the doorway like a vine. He waves an arm into the next room.
“Expendy's first.” He grins.
“My good sir, I am honored.” You joke as you walk into the next room.
Your gaze promptly searches the room, looking for any threats. There's the typical sign of wear and tear— scattered documents and deep claw marks in the walls— but no apparent danger. Sweet.
“I want snacks.” You kick a paper by your feet as you walk. “Let's find a vending machine.”
“You lead the way.” He grumbles, ducking into the doorway.
You use your index fingers as mock drumsticks as you go through the chorus of the song. The drums increase in bpm and you represent it by fake-drumming more violently, much to the confusion of Sebastian.
“Do you ever take out that earbud?” Sebastian questions.
“Uh.” You stop your drum solo. “I swap earbuds?”
“Jeez.” He combs a hand through his hair. “How'd you sneak in an mp3 player anyways? Your bosses are pretty thorough in their searches.”
“Bosses?” You question as you open a drawer in a nearby desk.
He doesn't dignify you with a response. When you glance at him for explanation, he simply looks at you with a ‘how are you this dumb’ glare.
“Oh. Urbanshade.” You put two-and-two together.
Again: no response. But the squint of his eyes tells you he's both unimpressed by your stupidity, and amused by it. It's a pretty good combination that you like to think will ward off his tendency for death threats.
“I didn't sneak it in. I found it in this bag,” you lightly tap your messenger bag, “Along with a bunch of files.”
“So that's how you've put off your death for so long?”
“I did my research. Memorized all the important facts…” You pull a stapler out of the drawer and wave it in the air, clicking it open and closed. “...I found your file, too.”
A silence chokes the air, and for once the ambience of the Hadal Blacksite seems to have fallen into a lull.
“You what.” Sebastian's pupils are a harsh contrast to the now dark blue of eyes (which only seem to be growing darker).
“Do you want it? I might still have it.” You open your messenger bag and begin digging through it. “I had a pretty good idea of who you were when I first met you. Although I didn't really remember the name— Sebastian certainly wasn't my guess.”
You place a few of the items from your bag on the desk so that it's easier to search through. “I was thinking Gabriel? Gianni? Something with a ‘G’.” You ramble.
His claw twitches.
“Here.” You extend his file towards him.
Sebastian's gaze locks on the manilla folder. The red ‘[CLASSIFIED]’ that's plastered on the front cover has long since been void of any meaning. You hold the information flippantly— yes, you read the entire documentation of his existence— but there's a glint in your eye that tells him that you respect him, and his privacy.
…or something. He doesn't know. He's mad. You're odd. And weird. He wants to claw your face off. Probably. Dude.
He tears the file out of your hand, and rips it in half.
“Oh.” You watch the shredded pieces of paper fall to the floor. For once, you're speechless. He isn't.
“That's private information.” He extends a hand and the world seems to freeze. You stare at the palm, outstretched in front of your face.
Despite what Sebastian says, you aren't that stupid. You understand that your final days are most likely going to be in the Hadal Blacksite. The odds are stacked against you. The oxygen in your diving gear is limited, only being able to be replaced by the rare O2 tank you find. The food you find rarely serves as a good enough source of nutrition.
Of course your blabbermouth is what caused your death. There was a naive part of you that thought you could trust him. Just another mistake in the long series of Your Life.
You await the sensation of his claws tearing through you.
…
…
…okay, you know people said adrenaline numbs pain, but you didn't really expect death to be this painless.
His hand extends further and snags something on top of your head. When he brings his hand back to himself, you see he took a leftover piece of silk off of you.
He flicks it to the ground. Smooth jazz is playing.
“If you find a vending machine,” He blinks and his eyes have returned to mellower blue, “Get me an almond chocolate bar.”
“Uh.” Your gaze flicks from the torn file and his strangely neutral expression. “You got it, boss.”
“That's what I like to hear.” He leans away from you. “Good luck, expendable. You'll need it.”
He takes his leave.
~♫⋆♪~
You grabbed five chocolate bars.
You know he said one, but looking at his… size, you think it'll be better if he has a larger portion size. He might be able to actually savor the chocolate.
You stuff the last cookie from your tiny plastic package into your mouth. It's stale, and hard to chew through, but you've long since eaten all of your protein (beef jerky). At least it tastes good. Whatever fills your stomach works.
You crumple the wrapper and toss it in a nearby trash can. Score. It makes it in. You quickly check to make sure there's no double doors. Sure enough, the only available doors are the one in front of you, and the one you came from.
You open the door.
You are looking back at you.
Wait. What? Huh?
On the other side of the doorway, waiting for you, is you. It's obviously not you, seeing as how you're very much you, yet it's identical. Same skin, ears, eyes… even the uniform and messenger bag are completely alike. It gazes at you, and turns its head slightly to the side.
The bags under its eyes grow a shade darker to mimic yours.
Okay. Rude. You're sure they aren't that bad.
The Not-You takes a step away.
“Hey.” You greet, walking through the doorway. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that's my skin you're wearing.”
“I could say the same.” It repeats, a perfect copy of your voice.
“I'm sure you can say and sound and look the same,” Your muscles are poised to fight as you approach it, “But you aren't me. Sorry. I know I'm pretty awesome.”
It stills. The Not-You twitches once, twice, before its posture relaxes. It shifts its weight on one foot and adopts a flippant expression.
Wait. Hey, that's your flippant expression!
“Aren’t clones supposed to start out supportive to the original? Help out with the chores before the clone uprising?” It crosses its arms.
Damn it. That's totally something you would say.
“Life isn't a movie. Boohoo. Sad.” You take another step, and you're now merely a foot away from it. “If you don't mind, I'll be on my way— and seeing as you're apparently me, and I don't mind…”
“...I do mind, actually.” It furrows its brow. “I don't like leaving loose ends when I shift.”
“Aha! So you do admit it! You are a clo—” You're interrupted by it charging at you.
Luckily, you're ready for its attack. You pivot to the side and dodge, leading its haphazard attack to fall short. It stumbles past you, obviously not quite used to wearing your body.
Not missing a beat, you (quite informally) use both of your hands and push it to the ground. It yelps something that doesn't quite sound like your voice as it hits the ground.
You're quick to approach it and ram the heel of your foot into its stomach. When your foot makes contact, you notice it’s squishier than a usual human. The impact doesn't do nearly enough damage to it like you wanted. You wince at the sight of your foot sinking into your own stomach.
The Not-You moves to retaliate. Your gaze locks onto its hands that are quickly reaching for your ankle, hoping to pull you down. A beat of adrenaline pulses through you as you rip your foot away from it. Its hands grasp empty air.
Shit. Shit. You have to do something fast. It's recuperating.
You slam your foot against its skull.
Over and over and over.
Unlike before, you can now feel the impact. There's a crunch and crack with every hit, and blood pooling underneath its skull. A drop of blood falls down its forehead and lands in one of its glossy, open eyes. It's fallen limp. (If something inside you breaks at the imagery of killing your identical counterpart, you ignore it.)
Problem solved.
You let out a shaky sigh and unclench your fists.
A door opens close by.
You jolt, eyes wide as you snap your attention to the door. You take a few steps backwards as you strain your hearing to catch whatever is approaching. Not an Angler, there's no screaming. No footsteps either, so it's not a Wall-Dweller.
Sebastian rounds the corner.
Oh. You feel your stiff posture loosen. It's just him.
“Woah.” He freezes at the corner, eyes blown wide as he glances between you and your bloodied clone. “What the hell?”
He reaches for something under his coat, his eyes narrowing into three little slits. You sheepishly rub the back of your neck, softly tapping your blood-stained foot against the ground. You open your mouth to speak but are interrupted by—
“—Seb…”
Your head turns so fast it nearly gives you whiplash. Your relaxed fidgets freeze, fingers curled by the nape of your neck. An obnoxious pop song starts emanating from the earbud.
“...help!” Its eyes droop with supposed exhaustion. It slowly tries to sit up.
Firstly, you are still very much on a first-name basis with him. No nicknames here. Secondly, you are certain that you caved Not-You's skull in. The blood staining its temple is proof of it.
“I so killed you.” You lower your hand from its raised position. “Like, you're covered in blood. You did the whole dead body thing.”
You steal a glance back at your favorite fishy companion and oh no He Has a Gun Out. A full sawed-off double-barrel shotgun lies in his grasp like a pistol would in yours. You do not need him here right now.
“I've been told I'm resilient." It staggers to its feet.
“Really? I've been told the same thing.” You undo a clasp on the pocket of your bag and turn your attention back to it. “What's your secret?”
“Positivity.” It smiles at you with bloodstained teeth.
It was totally spying on you for information. How long is unknown. You hold the zipper of your bag, shifting your posture to be ready in case it charges again. There's a shuffling to your right, and when you glance at the direction, you see that Sebastian is pointing his gun at you.
You suck in a sharp breath. “You're making this worse, Sebastian.”
“No matter who I shoot, it's a win-win.” He sounds confident, but you don't miss the small shake of his hand as he speaks. “An expendable dead, or an entity. Just one more stain removed from this place.”
“I have this covered. I appreciate the help, really—” You unzip your bag. “—-but I'm afraid you're doing more harm than good.”
You pull out a chocolate bar from your bag, and wave it around. Sebastian lowers his gun slightly. His esca flickers as his gaze imperceptibly softens, if just for a moment.
“See?” You place the candy back into your bag and close it.
“How long have you been following me?” The Not-You retorts. It opens its own bag and also pulls out a bar or chocolate. “I didn't know I had such a big fan.”
“Fan? If I wanted an autograph, I'd just have to write my own name.” You narrow your eyes. “But you'd probably copy that too, wouldn't you?”
You should've shown Sebastian the chocolate outside the view of Not-You, so it couldn't copy it. You'll know better next time. If there is one.
“Seb,” and there it goes again using a nickname, “as much as I hate to agree with a Walmart knockoff of me, it's right. I got this covered.”
It knows you can prove that it's a clone. You frown at the bloodied, beat up version of you. You notice its stance has changed, inductive of readying up for something. Is it going to run? Without tearing your gaze from it, you talk.
“You're kinda devaluing my say in this if you repeat what I say, y'know.” You shift your stance. “I didn't make it this far just to die to… myself. I still say we can just part ways.”
“You tried to bash my head in.”
“Ehh…” You do a so-so motion with your hand. “Tomayto, tomahto.”
“I can hardly handle one of you.” Sebastian grumbles. “For the love of everything, just give me one to shoot so I don't have to be stuck with two.”
You look at Sebastian with an award-winning grin. “Y'know, there's a lot of bonuses that come with two of me—-”
—-Not-You charges. Fast. You hardly have time to turn your attention back to it before it grabs you with inhuman speed, pushing you back and shoving you against a desk. You startle at the unexpected movement, and are surprised at the abundance of strength it has.
There's a trophy depicting a pointed figurine on the desk. It grabs your upper body and rams you against it, shoving the mock gold into the muscle above your right shoulderblade. The searing pain stuns you for one, two seconds, before the adrenaline properly kicks in.
It shifts its hands to your neck, attempting to choke you out. You can vaguely see the shape of Sebastian aiming the gun in your periphery. At this proximity, he risks shooting both you and your clone (but he wants that, right?).
You can't tell if it's trying to crush your windpipe or simply stop your oxygen flow, but it hurts all the same. Instinctively, you raise your hands to try and pry it off, but you realize quickly that its strength much surpasses yours.
Weak. Weak. Where is it weak? Aiming for the stomach didn't do much, but the skull seemed to stun it. It’s still adjusting to being you, and as much as it's good at currently standing it's still supporting its weight awkwardly through its body.
Your thoughts are starting to get foggy. You need to do something. You can't die here. You need to get it off of you. The denouement of your fight or flight response is fight.
You kick at one of its legs with your own. Much as expected, Not-You isn't ready for the shift in weight and stumbles. Its hands momentarily loosen against your throat in surprise.
With the sudden burst in oxygen, you grab each side of its head. You stare into your own frenetic eyes as you see Not-You contort your face into fear. You reel back, and slam your head against its own.
That stuns it. You push it off of you and it falls to the ground, twitching as more blood pools underneath it. A normal human doesn't bleed that easily. A normal human doesn't have that much blood.
That thing writhing on the ground isn't you.
You take a few steps towards Sebastian, away from the clone. The song in your earbud has ended, and there's a moment of silence. Your own heavy breathing fills your senses, trying to get as much oxygen as possible after your body was deprived of it. You can feel blood dripping from the wound on your back.
You stare at it. Something feels wrong with its copy of you, and you furrow your brow as you search for it.
“The earbud.” You start.
Sebastian is staring at you like you sprouted a second head.
“Look. That isn't me.” You gesture with a nod of your head, but your neck flares at the motion. Ow.
Sure enough, the earbud in its ear doesn't match yours. It appears the same, but instead of simply resting in the ear, it’s melded to it. A disgusting blend of plastic and flesh makes up where the earbud meets ear. Now that you look closer, the wire connecting to it seems just as disfigured. Rather than simply shifting with Not-You's movement, it moves independently. The clone is controlling it.
It turns to face you, and it sees Sebastian's gun trained at it.
“...hey. Let's— let's talk.” Its voice is choking on its own blood. Whatever its internals are shaped like, it's not like yours. “Please Seb, I don't— I can't—” It's practically wailing. “PLEASE! Please, I'm begging, I don't want to die, I'm real, It's me, please Sebastian please—”
He pulls the trigger.
Your viscera sprays the floor.