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The waiting room is full of constants. It's the ticking of the clock, the padded carpet footsteps, the vague disgruntled sounds of its occupants. It's knowing that past that door, they'll bring you down a hall, and another hall, to a room. And then you will leave that room, and you will come back here, and you will leave. A waiting room; very simple concept, and equally simple execution.
So, Red knows it will end. It's the logical conclusion. I mean, obviously, things are gonna end. Everything ends. Everything will end.
"—They uh, sure are taking their sweet time with us, huh?"
Purple, seated right beside Red, lets out an weary chuckle. It might be next to nothing, but the familiar awkwardness of the phrase steals Red's breath and plummets their soul into cold water.
The clock tick, tick, ticks—Red thinks it sounds a lot like the click of a lock's undoing, metal on metal. A falling lock, the press of your hand to your chest, feeling the jackrabbit pulse thrumming under skin and bone and flesh and blood.
Purple is beside Red, and Red knows it will end. Because you can't stay in a waiting room forever. Because if it really is so simple, so logical, then why does it feel so complicated?
"You would think," says Red, an attempt at a joking tone rising and falling in their voice, "You would think we'd be higher priority. Considering the—considering what happened."
"I think they're scared," replies Purple, fingers curling into their fist. "We can take them down, with what we know. And they're trying to act like it's not true, but—I know. We know."
"Yeah," Red agrees, but it's a failure of a word. Red wonders how obvious it is that they don't believe Purple, and feels a crawling guilt for even thinking of such a thing. It was just one word—it shouldn't matter, anyway. Purple seems so lost in thought. As if being without Red never even crossed their mind.
It's idealistic, that's what it is. Purple. Purple, and their—thing. Their justice, their moral compass and all that. Purple can be stubborn, and Red knows this is something they won't listen to Red about. So Red is hoping, when they go in that room together, Purple will see it themself. They'll see everything MIRA lays on the table, every single odd stacked against them, and everything will click together. They'll see it, and they'll understand, and come to the right decision on their own.
So it all just comes down to the waiting.
With their diminished idle chatter, Red soaks in the tick-scattered silence. The ticks are really a constant thing, but Red's brain feels scattered enough to confuse the sound with the erratic sensation of their pulse. Their days of innocent internship are long gone, at this point. It's already over, but. But. A turning point, a cliff edge, a waiting room. It's the part where Red looks back and thinks, things really will never be the same anymore.
If that's true, then Red will cling onto this empty space and this ticking quiet. This must be the precious air that a drowning crewmate breathes. This must be the gentle grace of a walk home, the gaping view at the peak of a mountain. The pause between breath, the freshness of snow, the smoothness of a spread blanket. Licking wounds. Bleeding out before dying. Inhaling before crying. This must be it.
Maybe they're grasping at straws. Maybe there's better things to wish for than five more seconds with your best friend, still healing from nuclear injuries. Red could wish for their early intern days back, or a different life entirely—one where they didn't meet like this. One where maybe they go to school together, one where they find each other out of this hell. One where they're young and happy and smiling like they used to.
But—Red sighs—it's pointless. Why would Red wish for a Purple that no longer exist? This Purple is the one that matters most. So—so, they need them to understand. If Red's really right about this, then Purple will understand.
Yet! And god, yet. It's as if they're already too deep within the shadows of doom, which will grab their ankles from underneath these commercial grade folding chairs, drag them to hell, and shackle them to corporation. This sucks. A lot.
Purple is right next to Red. It feels much too early to mourn, and it feels too late to do something different. This is what has to happen, and this is what Red will do. Red heart sinks as they realize: patience is a cowardly virtue.
Maybe there'll be some delays.
The waiting will end.
My seat is comfortable. I hope they'll give us a few more minutes.
It will end.
…
I don't want it to end.
It's already over.
The door swings open, and a chartreuse crewmate stands holding a clipboard, pushing up their glasses. "Red and Purple?"
Purple stands up, a hard determination (a thing Red had admired so deeply about them) creased into their visor. "We're here."
There's nothing left here.
Purple just looks at Red, and shakes their head. There is anger, and there will be anger—but right now, Purple's face just falls, heartbroken disbelief painted at the edges of their processed shock. "Congratulations."
Barely bitter. Just… barely.
Red was expecting haphazardly-flung sarcasm and biting rage, not—not this. Purple is already gone, out the exit door. And Red worries, because they came here together, and Purple's leaving alone. Or maybe they'll still go home together? Is Purple that mad? But they must understand now, right? Especially after seeing what Pink can do. Red doesn't know. Just one look at Purple's face, and Red doesn't know anymore.
Hopefully Purple won't go home alone. Red will stand outside in case they show up. They're willing to wait.
In regards to the NDA, Purple will come around. They have to. This is the better option. This is the better life. This is something that has to happen, this is what they need to do, and fuck, why can't waiting rooms last forever?