Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An identity is an odd label.

It’s a perfect box. A silicon mold. A way to glean immediate answers from something without asking questions. Names, categories, serial numbers- it’s easy, convenient. Permanent.

The ocean gurgles, whispering its secrets and humming its broken melodies for no human ear to listen.

There is no available or safe way to take a glance at what’s outside, but it doesn’t take a genius to know it’s pitch black. Plummeting into the abyss with increasingly lethal pressures lacks the appeal of sight-seeing, really. Windows mess with pressurization. As for the inhabitants of these particular submarines, it better serves as demorale.

The chill of the marine rusted-metal coffin seeps into his skin, as the loud whoosh of water surrounds him. The submarine’s pressurization is brilliant, for the most part. Timeless enough that it’s survived multiple descents into the abyss. Robust enough that even the semi-frequent hiccups that result in occasional hissing leaving him reeling for a couple seconds, keep him alive. Leave it to the people topside to reuse their equipment repeatedly until it deteriorates.

Two hisses per seven minutes, he observes. He must be barely over sixty-seven thousand studs deep, then.

He rechecks the worn satchel given to him one final time, unzipping its small compartments and digging his hand into side pockets. Empty. He frowns; as expected, he supposes.

The submarine begins to resurface, the pressurization briefly failing one last time. He grips his thighs to ward off the fresh wave of vertigo. The splash echoes louder than it’s supposed to- maybe due to a damp metal hall.

NAVI’s voice rings, clinical. "Submarine has arrived. Please stand at a minimum of 5 studs away from the hatch until it's fully opened."

He rises from the creaking seat, schooling a wince back to neutrality as his spine sends an ordinary shriek of pain up. Gait usual, he enters the Hadal Blacksite, big fluorescent lights immediately blinding him. The salt-metal ambient odor is traded for bleach, rot, and marine.

Adjusting to the best of his ability, the first thing he notices is that his boots echo off the floor louder than he anticipates. Another easy, yet primitive, way for Urbanshade to locate personnel. He’ll have to keep that in mind.

The second thing he notices is the sheer amount of miscellaneous audio ambience. Urbanshade personnel aren’t exactly trained to be spooked at the sounds of distant screams, but the implications of the sounds are, of course, important to assess. In the event of danger, they must be ready to report first, then engage in combat second.

That, however, is not his job. The crystal container rolls around discarded on the submarine floor.

He rummages through drawers, trying to find any piece of information labeled. The files were mostly useless; carrying logs for substitute shifts, the errant scribbles of a sleep-deprived worker, or the things he already knew. Of value is anything that contains records of contact with the outside world- logs depicting sources for vending machines and drugs, submarine ins-and-outs, and things alike.

The obvious major threat is… that anomaly everyone is equal parts furious and fearful of.

The elusive Saboteur.

According to what little information he gleaned from the intercoms back at the lobby and from past word circulated, Z-13 is one of the most dangerous entities to have ever been manufactured in the labs. And if that thing managed to seek the personal vengeance of even that old decrepit fool…

Well, there’s good reason to be weary then.

However, he has to give it to him: Z-13 is unnervingly intelligent. It's no fluke he managed to bypass Urbanshade, even with their flimsy security. There's no hope to hiding anything from him for too long— Z-13 will catch right up. Be it somewhat comforting, or unsettling.

A long as he has nothing to do with cubicle twenty-seven, he shouldn’t pose too much of an issue.

If luck has it, and Z-13 is actively looking for ways out, perhaps he could qualify as a worthy ally. But that’s wishful thinking.

He ducks under boxes to find a familiar blue keycard. Snatching it up, he pockets it for the locked door behind him.

The reoccurring odd itch in his back flares up again. He scratches his shoulder, bitten nails catching the patchwork that boasts a serial number- his new identity.

And with a new identity, comes a new mission.

“You are Expendable.”

“You are not expected to return.”

[EXR-P / ██-██:  ██████ ███████ HAS BEEN DISPATCHED.]

Chapter Text

Plip, plip, plip.

Sebastian’s yet to go insane because of that noise alone. And in this place, the choice of ambience to do precisely that… isn’t exactly narrow to begin with.

Fuzzy static and blips of morse spill from the radio on the desk near him. Muffled clangs of metal and the creaks of rust yawn from a couple floors above. The smell of deteriorating and rotting flesh suffocates every room and hallway, overlaying the already nose-wrinkling ambient odor of brine. The distorted jingles of the intercom come to life, either guiding or misleading the poor fools sent down here. A shrill shriek reverberates in the far distance. A whirr and a couple stifled bangs later, Sebastian is told Painter’s having fun. The humidity down here is horrendous, but that was, unfortunately, a given.

Point addressed: there’s a lot to go insane to. Pick your poison.

Plip, plip, plip.  

Sebastian’s eye twitches, he clutches tighter his still smoking rifle– from emptying away at a flock of ill-mannered Expendables. His shop now also reeks of gunpowder. Lovely.

Plip, plip, plip.

He could so easily aim for that damn leak in the ceiling– but it would blow a hole in it and all that stale-ass water might come crashing down and ruin the data assets he painstakingly collected. So maybe that’s not a smart idea, Sebastian. Also it would be another bullet wasted.

Briefly, he entertains the look on his boss’ face when he figures out Sebastian let the keys to his freedom drown because he was… annoyed at a leak. He’ll surely think he’s lost his mind more than he already has.

He shakes the thought off. He’s not that far gone. Yet. Besides, the green bastard would never let him hear the end of it. Or worse, he might not say anything at all. Or maybe, Sebastian really wants to make sure he and Painter get out of here; the quicker the better.

Because usually, silence is a green light for Sebastian— as if the posh contradiction of a man isn’t a piercing green traffic light himself. And if Sebastian’s greeted with the hypothetical silence around hypothetically messing this up… he decides not to dwell on the implications of that.

Plip, plip, plip.

However, it’s a miracle he hasn’t shot it anyway; his patience has been wearing thin enough to warrant a bit of blind rage as a treat. But… he keeps his cool, of course. He needs to actually stay sane in order for this to work out, after all. And he’s been doing a damn good job at it.

He can’t really say the same for the others sent down here, and he has zero reservations expressing how blatantly funny it is.

From afar, the Expendable Program just seems like some morbid episode of Tom and Jerry , filled with equally cartoonish low-IQs darting aimlessly around the Blacksite.

They’re laughably easy to read, too. High security prisoners tend to bring forth a striking polarity– Sebastian noticed it quite early on. 

It’s either the most vile morons on the planet, or… people like him.

The divide between emotional ranges in the two is so wide, you can shove an expendable in either category with literally just a glance. So far, the success rate has been a humble ninety-nine percent. And the ratio between the two is predictably split on a high tilt: for every thirty or so of the former, there’s one of the latter.

It doesn’t matter. Neither group belongs here: one’s too high up, and the other’s too low down.

Sebastian huffs louder than he should’ve.

He brings his hands up to his hair, threading his fingers through them, claws scratching and tugging at his roots. It stings enough.

In. Out. In… Out…

The scent of brine and vague smoke fills his nostrils, along with the occasional whiff of Paranoia’s Gas. The concoction tumbles inside his lungs, into his bloodstream, into his bones. The sounds around him fuzz out, making room for that shrill ring of tinnitus. At least it shut out the dripping water above him.

In…

Sebastian sighs out.

He stomps out whatever omnidirectional fury that may have bubbled up. His coil throbs dully where it presses against the cold concrete floor. He takes a deep breath and goes back to re-organizing the piles of data. He counts whatever he collected off from that group, and it’s much less than he expected. Irritation flares up in his throat again.

He must hone it, forge it into his tools, and weave it into how he wields them. His job is far from done. Right now, there isn’t room for pity, or sadness, or blistering, branding, raging —

Nope.

He’s cool. Cool-blooded even. Hypothermic, in fact. No more of that rumination bull. Stay focused.

The stupid group was all high and mocking with their flash beacons, and yet they carried not even a dime’s worth of data. Or any other items for that matter.

Sebastian clenches and sighs through his nose, shoulders sagging with the weight of something eternally heavy. He may be surrounded by rabid, vicious dogs and kicked puppies, but at the end of the day, they signed up for this. His assistance can only take them so far. They may not have understood the risks, but they sure as hell don’t have time to spare for adjusting. Not that anyone would want to spend another extra second down here anyway.

‘However…’ Sebastian’s thoughts are interrupted by a familiar gait echoing through the hallways. It’s slow and stuck-up, just as Sebastian recognizes. Certainly more efficient than any other hot-headed prisoner stumbling through here.

‘It’s like this guy wants to take his time.’

Like he’s merely taking a stroll to watch the anglers and sniff the acid, and almost always solo, trying to be as quiet as possible. Sebastian scoffs, a small smile on his lips. Not quite quiet enough for him, of course.

Sebastian puts his file out of sight, takes a deep breath, and recollects himself. He prepares the nastiest groan he can muster when that head of obsidian hair pokes through the vent.

“Ugh, it’s you…”

The Expendable doesn’t even spare him a second glance.

“I’m joking,” Sebastian cheers anyway, voice lilting artificially high, “welcome back!”

First, The Expendable swipes the keycard in front of the radio. Next, he unloads the worn messenger bag he’s been equipped with, revealing Urbanshade’s rouge data. He’s arranged them infuriatingly neatly; files, USBs and vials all collected and segregated into separate pockets. How does he even find the time to do all this?

Next, The Expendable takes one long sweeping glance at the wares on Sebastian’s tail. For some reason, that’s always creeped him about the guy. Ebony bangs obscure his gaze, rendering him effectively unreadable. Sebastian shifts uneasily, squinting at the man. He’s just another expendable; it shouldn’t remind him of… never mind.

He watches The Expendable approach and pluck a code breacher, a SPR-INT and a med-kit. Those black steel prosthetic fingers briefly graze his scales, and Sebastian fights everything in him not to flinch. The Expendable’s left ring and pinky fingers are both missing, and Sebastian can’t help but wonder: Was it an accident? An infection? Torture?

Whatever. Sebastian absent-mindedly fixes the band on his own fingers.

Again, no light sources were taken. Sebastian initially shrugged it off; there are plenty of expendables who try to go lightless for at least one run… but this guy constantly never picks up or uses a light source ever. And that’s enough to prompt him to speak more than his usual thanks and jeer.

“Your luck graces you with both a blacklight and hand-cranked flashlight in stock together, and yet…?”

The Expendable raises his head, bangs veiling his gaze yet again. “I do not need them.”

Well okay, smartass.

Sebastian flashes a tight-lipped smile and clutches his hands together a smidge tighter. 

The Expendable, instead of heading out as usual, however, pauses a bit after his purchase. He approaches the radio, and tweaks it every so slightly, Sebastian frowns a little. The Expendable stuffs everything but the SPR-INT into his messenger bag and sets it aside. He moves to the corner slightly away from the radio, fiddling with the needle of the SPR-INT.

Sebastian raises a brow. No expendable has ever wanted privacy for… using a SPR-INT of all things. But, as soon as the guy uses the needle to reach for the hook on his PDG, Sebastian catches on.

“It won’t work,” he singsongs.

The Expendable doesn’t look at him. “I have seen it done before. Yes, it will.”

Sebastian scoffs, “No, it won’t.”

“Yes, it will.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Yes, it will.”

“If anything, it’ll be funny watching you blow a bloody hole in your head.”

“Watch.”

The Expendable very carefully pokes around, accidentally pricking himself once, but definitely searching for something. After a few moments or so, The Expendable finds what he’s looking for. He inserts the needle into a tiny crack in the waterproof silicon coating the edges of the Acoustic and Signal Receiver. He makes no extra movements. Just one tiny, surgical press, and boom. 

The LEDs that indicate an activated PDG all dim out, turning it into just another hunk of eighty-something pounds to carry.

The Expendable shrugs the thing off and gently sets the twin oxygen tanks aside.

“Forty units of research hourly, for you to keep these safe,” he says, staring very pointedly at Sebastian. 

If he squinted, maybe there actually was a glimmer of smug pride in the man’s eyes. And perhaps- just maybe , it’s warranted. It was elegant.

And extremely suspicious.

But he’s not squinting.

Because he’s pretending not to pay attention.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I seemed to have missed all that because of this conveniently gun-shaped spritz in my hand.”

BANG!

The Expendable dodges the bullet. Sebastian grits his teeth. In hindsight, he’s probably this riled up and predisposed to lashing out because of that ceiling leak. Yep. Mmhm.

“One wasted.”

Sebastian grimaces, “You must be very brave, or very stupid, to not only figure that out, but to also somehow exploit it. I tried for mine and it didn’t end well.” He sighs heavily and adds, “So credit where it’s due, I guess.”

The Expendable blinks. “That’s because yours was different than ours-”

A weary snort. “Damn, I never knew-”

The Expendable continues, a smidge of irritation lining his words- literally the first instance of emotion Sebastian’s ever gleaned from this man. “They cooled obsidian under the silicon. They couldn’t exactly have a high-value experiment figuring out an exploit.”

Sebastian stiffens, and his smile falters. He knew that of course, he’d be an idiot not to. It’s the entire reason why he’d secretly tweaked a scrambler in the first place, eager to rid his own dead-weight equivalent of a PDG before replacing it entirely with it. Sebastian’s both surprised… and alert.

Perhaps The Expendable took note of this change in demeanor, because he begins to shuffle out the vent to leave. Not before placing forty “units” of research by the radio.

The footsteps echo out into the seemingly infinite corridors, and Sebastian’s alone again. The leak has miraculously halted.

Sebastian’s face falls back to that same frown of suspicion– he finds himself wearing it for the guy a lot lately. He knows it’s pointless to investigate expendables for information, since most of what he needs to know has already been blasted across the intercoms, and of course, sourced from Him anyway.

However, this guy in particular… The boss didn’t seem to have any information on him either… nor did he seem too worried about it.

Sebastian’s frown deepens.

It’d be really annoying if a small fry like him ends up impeding on his hard work. 

He’d kill for a break. He probably already has. 

But that one…

Maybe he’d need to keep an eye on him for much longer than he thinks.

[ Z-13: SEBASTIAN SOLACE ]

Chapter Text

“Y’know, you look really strange without that huge backpack making you hunch like a fairytale witch. I’ve almost mistaken you for a Wall Dweller at least six times.”

The Expendable pays him no mind, as usual. He’s busy tending to his wounds. Or, just deep scars, in his case. He never seems to sustain major injuries. Shame.

The gurgling of the ocean sounds a little louder than it should be. Maybe a big iceberg sheet collision or something. It’s supposed to be winter, right?

“Is that a more polite way of saying you’ve nearly shot me six times?”

Sebastian grins, all teeth. “Yes.”

He’s tinkering with the radio, idly matching the frequencies he knows from memory. The static chafes his eardrums, but he grits his teeth and goes on with it, as always. Once, when a barely discernable shrill unearths in the noise, he accidentally knocks over the extra research the guy pays. He quickly turns the dial down.

The shorter male simply goes back to trying to stitch his leg up. “That sounds hazardous. I should put the PDG back on to avoid the hassle.”

Sebastian snorts, “Yeaaah, you should. Hunch like a dumb little grandpa.”

It’s nice to finally get a rise out of someone. 

The telltale snap of a metal string is heard, and The Expendable bandages the closed wound. Placing the clips in place, he heaves himself up—uncaring for being ginger about it, and heads straight to the corner where his oxygen tanks are. 

That is when Sebastian realizes The Expendable was being genuinely serious.

“There’s a thing called ‘dark humor’. Dunno if you’ve ever heard of it, let alone humor at all.”

“The less I die, the better, that’s all.”

“Well, duh, but I’m not exactly a scare-and-shoot kinda guy. Plus, that extra forty research is always nice.” He says that last part quickly and shamelessly.

The Expendable pauses mid-motion and scrutinizes Sebastian’s expression. Another creepy thing about the guy: he can read Sebastian all he wants, but Sebastian can’t glean a thing about him.

“C’mon, I don’t bite,” Sebastian croons, his grin sharp. A flash of what can only be described as petulant doubt crosses The Expendable’s face, but he relents. Slowly, the man backs away from the oxygen tanks, grabs his stuff and leaves.

Sebastian rolls his eyes, a small smile still playing on his lips. “See you soon!”

He sees him exactly two hours later. So he guesses it was soon enough.

It happens in one of the narrower rooms. The ones with nothing interesting going on except for a couple drawers and maybe a void locker.

Sebastian hates this so much. He hates it every time he has to do it, and he’ll continue hating it forever and ever and ever until he either escapes or rots with them.

The stench of lifeless bodies is pungent in the air, fixing a permanent scowl on the hybrid’s face.

He’s already got quite a sensitive nose, and he’s already especially apt at sniffing out blood. So, to have it surrounding all corners of his stance— yeah, it makes things murky. If there’s a scent of danger he should be looking out for, he won’t be able to sense it until and unless he’s done with this place. Even then, it’ll definitely hinder him with the residual sinew and blood staining his coat, until he washes it all off.

He better make this quick. He turns one of the bodies over and checks the contents.

Painter eyes him in a way that strikingly resembles a designer looking at their apparel creation up and down. Their scribbly eyes narrowing in focus on the display screen near the door. “You should ditch the coat.”

Sebastian snorts, “Kid, it’s the only thing keeping me warm in this place.”

“Aww, and not the fire of our friendship and love?!”

“Get outta here.”

Painter eyes him again, and they seem so perplexed they almost look distressed. “I mean, come on! How did you even manage to get one that big? If I didn’t know any better, I’d have asked you a very specific thing.”

Sebastian raises a brow. “And that would be...?”

“How does a bastard, orphan—”

Sebastian bursts into laughter, “Oh, fuck off.”

Painter pauses mid-laugh— something seems to have caught their attention. “Oh look—!”

They disappear from the screen, and blip back into the one a couple rooms forward.

“Haha,” they mock, “guess even the drone can screw up sometimes, huh?”

Sebastian hums inquisitively, turning to the body to close their eyes before standing back up to full height.

The room is a large one, its overhanging lamps being Sebastian’s third least favorite type of light. The second is a flash beacon, and the first… well.

The windows are large and overarching, the abyssal oceans on full display outside, free of mines or obstructions of any kind. Perfect for Green-eyed Missy to peek through.

Sebastian slithers a little further and immediately recognizes who Painter is talking about.

Obsidian mussed hair, tawny skin littered with scars, fringe always shielding his expression. Now, he’s fallen on his front, a pool of blood dried around his face, along with what seems to be little spaghetti noodles of his brain. He seems otherwise uninjured even having made this far, and there’s no indication of him having used any med-kits or anything, so props to him, Sebastian supposes.

If it weren’t for the sickly pallor of his skin, and the way his nose is all messed up, Sebastian would’ve mistaken him for being asleep.

“Ew,” Painter emotes. “Usually anyone who dies to Big Shark does so staring at her saucer-eyed. Kinda weird he still died with them closed. Is he really that bad? Moron.”

Sebastian leans down to begin looting. It’s not even something he thinks about anymore. He just sucks it up, makes a face, and searches. Then has a fit about wanting to rip his skin off.

The moment his hands meet The Expendable’s side, Sebastian hesitates. He presses again, this time sliding under his waist to feel at his back. He feels there, once, then twice.

‘…That is so weird.’

There’s an extra bone here. And here. And another here. Some disarranged muscles that are definitely not from an injury or rough healing.

…He recognizes this structure, but also not? Sebastian furrows his brows. He can’t put his finger on it.

‘That is so fucking weird.’

Sebastian laughs a little, eyes never leaving the man.

“I hate this guy so much.” He doesn’t realize he says it, murmuring under his breath.

“Oh, he gets special treatment?” Painter perks. Sebastian’s face twists into a disapproving, disgusted frown.

“Woah, guess not,” Painter giggles.

Sebastian hasn’t pulled back just yet. Maybe he misjudged. Maybe his knowledge about the human body has blurred in some way.

But then again, he’s seen shredded human bodies on a regular basis these past twenty-four hours, and they don’t have this weird bone structure. So, he’s back to square one.

Birth defect? No, there are too many and too big for it to be a coincidence. Maybe another guy’s bones got shoved in there and they got stuck? …Right, yeah, no.

Sebastian’s eyes widen a little. Or, maybe, it could be a—

“So… should I keep doing a great job as usual?” Painter’s voice cuts through the room, and it reminds Sebastian he’s not alone.

He sighs and just mugs the dude. He heaves himself back up, and hoists his bag full of items on his shoulder. “Just meet me at the shop in a couple hours. We’ll try tinkering with the radio transmissions again.”

“Yessir, see you there!” And just like that, Painter blips out.

Sebastian casts one last glance at The Expendable’s corpse, before he too, begins his trek back down to his shop.

It’s quiet. Much, much quieter than in the Blacksite, and while it should be peaceful in that regard, it comes off unnerving.

In that familiar abyss, Sebastian pulls himself closer to the desk. The Expendable emerges from the darkness like water, bleary-eyed and breathing uneven. It’s a little satisfying to finally see him disoriented, but then Sebastian remembers that he did just die again, so he cuts the guy some slack.

“I’d say it’s a learning curve— but you’re clearly flatlining.” Doesn’t mean he won’t have his fun, though.

Sebastian slides forward a manila folder. Inside is a document detailing the accounts and entity history for Eyefestation.

The Expendable immediately blinks out of his haze, and gets to reading. He skims the words like a student skimming instructions; he’ll come to regret his haste later.

Or maybe he won’t. Who knows with this guy, really.

When The Expendable pulls back, Sebastian snickers.

“Just don’t look at the big eye and you’ll be fine.” He brings a clawed finger to close the file and retrieve it. “I know it’s kinda forcing you to— but still,” he adds as the guy sinks out of sight again.

He runs into the guy yet again by a half disintegrated dock. 

Sebastian had been looting around, as usual, when he entered a large submarine port that had broken apart from below.

The maw of the facility gapes into the endless abyss, the barely intact glass display overhead simply black with the lack of sunlight. It really hammers home how incredibly deep into the ocean they are, and Sebastian tries not to think about it. The Expendable’s sat in a corner surrounded by large boxes, feet dangling into the water in the docks. He’s tinkering away at something, turning it over and tightening screws.

Sebastian had nearly missed the dude; and he’s sure the Anglers — and even that ruckus of a thing called Pandemonium — would’ve failed to notice him through all the boxes.

The dock creaks as Sebastian slithers forward, his tail sinking slightly into rusted metal. He grimaces and pulls back, kicking off a half-detached metal plank that splashes into the depths with his tail. The sound echoes strangely around them.

“Careful,” The Expendable says mildly, still not looking up. “That one was load-bearing.”

Sebastian squints. “Yeah, one step and I could tell. What are you doing, playing with Legos?”

The Expendable furrows his brows, not looking away from the dock. “Legos?” It’s genuinely curious, like he doesn’t know what Legos are. The guy leans towards the edge, and dangles the little contraption into the water. The depths surrounding it bloom with bioluminescent krill, a gentle blue adorning the areas around them.

A second passes, the contraption beeps, and he retrieves it. He turns it over and raises it a bit towards Sebastian. The latter leans down and recognizes the thing: it’s a simple water sampler. Made to measure temperature, pH, purity, and pressure. Cute.

Thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit, slightly acidic, salty and a bit impure– as to be expected. And exactly one atmospheric pressure.

“The acidity increased,” The Expendable remarks. He lowers the sampler thing toward himself. “Perhaps a gallon warehouse collapsed?”

Sebastian shrugs. “Painter did say they heard a loud bang somewhere in the ridge. Maybe filtering this water would produce something safe to drink,” he grins. “Think you could try it for me?”

The Expendable doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just dips the sampler again, and more krill twirl into view. Sebastian watches the glow catch on the guy’s knuckles— scabbed, scarred and steady.

It reminds him of scalpels. Or maybe piano players. Depends on the day.

“Y’know,” Sebastian drawls, half to himself, “Isn’t it a little annoying that it all looks this pretty?”

“Hm?”

“The glowing krill. The depths. The oxygen gardens, and stuff.” He crosses his arms, exasperated, but there’s a humorless smile tugging at his lips. “They dressed the coffin up real nice, didn’t they?”

The Expendable finally looks up. He doesn’t smile, but something twitches— annoyance or amusement. Hard to tell with this one. He swings his feet sluggishly in the water. The krill illuminate again; tiny nightlights twinkling in the abyss, tumbling around.

Sebastian presses on, “‘Cuz we’re all meant to die beautiful deaths.” He feigns wistfulness. His snark’s starting to chafe at The Expendable’s edges— he can tell.

“How optimistic,” The Expendable drawls in similar snark, placing the sampler into his bag. “I don’t plan on dying, if that’s relevant at all.”

“Oh, it is! Remember, we all—” he makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arm, “are just tools in their eyes. Military this and that. Just little experiment cases refined again and again in order for us to hope to be of any use to them.”

The Expendable averts his gaze, hands busying themselves with the little contraption. Sebastian grins. Gotcha. So he is a tool.

“But… y’know,” His voice slips lower, a lethal mischief shrouding it.

“It’s fun to see the look on their faces every time we do something to disprove it.”

That probably struck something in the guy. Because when he looks at Sebastian, his ebony gaze peeks through his hair– this time, his expression is undeniable. There’s a glint of something profound in there. Almost dangerously close to hope.

And maybe it is contagious. Because Sebastian stills; it worms something unexpected into him that he needs to smother down for the sake of his own survival.

The Expendable slowly shifts his gaze back to his hands. “ ’Fun’ , huh?” It’s not mocking, nor is it accusatory. It’s simply curious; like he just learned a clever solution to a tricky problem.

“Well—” He heaves himself back up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “it’s certainly one way to look at it.”

The harsh noise of radio fills the shop, bouncing around a couple times to amplify it.

The microphone is sort of dingy, and it took Sebastian a lot of redundant hours to fix the damn thing in the first place, let alone encrypt it. Big clawed fingers aren’t exactly suited for dainty electronics. But with Painter’s help, he got the job done, and it works.

Painter’s checking the surrounding areas, turrets ready and loaded for if an eavesdropping expendable decides to trespass.

Sebastian twists the knob ever so slightly, switching to another frequency channel he knows is occupied by Urbanshade’s rivals.

“S.O.S,” he says into the mic. “This is Sebastian Solace. I am currently stranded eighty-thousand studs deep in the Norwegian Sea, trapped in Urbanshade’s Hadal Blacksite. I am a discarded subject of Project Matsya: their ambition to give humans gills…” He trails off. 

It’s almost intuitive now, these words. He’s said them so many times in these past hours alone, that they’ve left their aftertaste well onto his tongue. But sometimes, the more he talks, the more the pit in his stomach inexplicably grows.

This facility is powered by a dead god’s thumb. There is literally an angel trapped and tortured down here. They’ve made a deal with the literal devil .

Sebastian shakes his head furiously.

No. No. Snap out of it. Now’s not the time. It’s never the goddamn time.

Sebastian took out a good majority of their junior fleet without breaking a sweat. Their mid-ranking goons took him about five minutes more, but at least he got some exercise out of it. His scuffles with their highly trained operatives were a bit more of a challenge, but at most they took fifteen minutes more to butcher.

And all that with just this body and his trusty rifle.

Not to mention, he’s made progress too. He’s narrowed down useful channel frequencies, everything that’ll actually be paramount to his communication. And it’s all thanks to the classified reconnaissance data of rival companies, jotted down nicely for him in a document in a supervisor’s office. With their key on their desk. How sweet of them.

He breathes a little easier again. Dissociation prevented.

Sebastian shifts focus to the surveillance instead, trying to see whether the path to a heavy containment site is clear. He needs to look through a few more boards from a specific module in order to make the encryption a little stronger. 

He switches through the working surveillance footage, simply looking for vague inexplicable static that would indicate an Angler or something. 

[Urbanshade-CCU-027]    HC-ZONE/029    2025-10-16 01:11:15 CET    LIVE

[Urbanshade-CCU-027]    HC-ZONE/031    2025-10-16 01:11:24 CET    LIVE

[Urbanshade-CCU-027]    HC-ZONE/032    2025-10-16 01:11:37 CET    LIVE

[Urbanshade-CCU-027]    HC-ZONE/035    2025-10-16 01:12:51 CET    LIVE

[Urbanshade-CCU-027]    HC-ZONE/036    2025-10-16 01:12:59 CET    LIVE

He skips over footage, routine and unintrigued. He spots a wall dweller trying to be slick. Painter sings to himself. The Big Guy stomps around in the dark. And then–

[Urbanshade-CCU-027]    HC-ZONE/037    2025-10-16 01:13:09 CET    LIVE

Sebastian does a double take, eyes widening.

“Painter,” Sebastian murmurs.

Painter appears on the comms. “Yeah?”

“Come look at this.”

“Is it radio time? I thought that was in twenty minutes–”

“No, no— shh— look .”

The grainy footage makes it impossible to discern specific details, but the display is undeniable.

The Expendable is crouched over three other lifeless expendables, their throats slit, and the blood on his hands.

The Expendable’s gaze shoots up when the lights flicker, and he tosses a bloodied glass shard away. He pauses to listen for a second. It’s Chainsmoker. Sebastian knows because he can see the blobfish a room or two away in the footage. The Expendable wipes his cheek on his sleeve, and nicks two code breachers from the bodies. He then heads into a nearby locker, just in time for green smoke to envelope the room.

Smart fella.

Painter waits for the smoke in the footage to dissipate, and as the Guy exits the locker, catching his breath, Painter lets out a baffled “what?!” .

 “A mutiny?! Oh this has gotta be good.”

“That’s not what a mutiny is called, Painter.”

“Still!”

They watch The Expendable move onto the next rooms as if nothing were amiss. Sebastian moves the footage to the next few rooms, annoyed with himself. He watches the guy duck under a beam, flip a switch behind his back, and navigate a collapsed hallway like it’s a morning stroll. His jacket doesn’t even catch on the debris. Sebastian’s does. Every time.

“He doesn’t have his PDG, which basically gives him free reign to do anything,” Painter remarks in a cartoonishly nervous voice. But Sebastian knows Painter; they’re genuinely worried for themself.

The blood staining the man’s body still clings to him; he makes no effort to wash it off. Sebastian furrows his brows.

They’re absolutely right. But still… Why did you do it?

He doesn’t have his PDG, that’s true, so he’s not following Urbanshade’s orders. That makes Sebastian and Painter’s lives a lot easier. But he still reacted to what Sebastian said back then, like something had resonated with him. Does this have something to do with that— with being a tool?

Sebastian flickers back to the bodies once more, and snorts, a little uneasy. He deflects, “Wait, what will I show them? There isn’t a file for that.”

[ Z-13: SEBASTIAN SOLACE ]

Chapter Text

It’s been a couple hours.

The shop buzzes in the darkness. Sebastian had turned all the lights off, including his esca just so his brightness-induced headache calms down a bit. The monitor with the surveillance footage had been long shut off– they had nothing more of use there.

Sebastian’s holding his head. His head’s pounding.

Of course.

Of course this had to be this place’s last ‘fuck you’ to us.

Painter’s popping in on the talkie every now and then, swinging between moods as they do. They pop in asking about that seabunny that had followed Sebastian. Then about hacking into NAVI’s systems and taunting her a bit. And then about how they maybe played a very cartoonish splat when an expendable got squished under Lucy’s foot.

But the ones that tug on Sebastian’s heart most are when Painter’s facade starts to slip. They ask for how much longer, and how horrible they feel about hurting people. Their voice, usually full of chipper, slightly mischievous cheer, softens into something brittle, almost hopeless. It's a huge case of moral injury, Sebastian knows that better than anybody.

And Sebastian can’t help that nagging voice in his head announcing that he’s inadvertently encouraging the split in Painter’s personality module. That he’s making them worse. That he’s no better.

…But they also don’t have the luxury to be lenient in any way possible.

Sebastian spares a glance to the radio, the established connection to Innovation Inc. pulsing with their periodic check-ins. Even thinking about what just happened makes him want to blow this place apart.

Sebastian takes a deep breath and collects himself, again. He’s been doing that an awful lot lately.

It’s just another three days.

We’ll be okay.

“Drone ditched his pals—!” Painter whines through the talkie like it's the climax of a subplot in a mediocre story. “That’s so horrible! What does that even say about him? Unstable? Yeah, he sticks out like a real sore thumb, that one.” They quip sarcastically.

Sebastian leans back on his tail, the coils shifting uneasily beneath him. He brings the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“He doesn’t have his PDG, which basically gives him free reign to do anything.” He repeats Painter’s words slowly, and the latter makes a noise of agreement.

“So we need to figure out whether or not he’ll go weird and crazy on us, right?”

“Right,” Sebastian says with a little less conviction than he’d hoped. And here is another strange occurrence, because God said so.

The pieces are right there, but Sebastian, for the life of him, can not figure this guy out.

All logical thinking should surely point to trying to get rid of him as soon as possible. Common sense dictates Sebastian should absolutely not make any contact with him, track his movements, stay with Painter, and replay every interaction he’s had with him in the past hours to make sure he didn’t let anything slip.

But things aren’t falling into place.

Upon reviewing the heavy containment surveillance footage, Sebastian found that The Expendable was actually in the vicinity of Painter’s room. In fact, he was merely a door and a left turn away from it.

And yet, hours later, there’s not a peep from him messing with something. No panicking Painter. Nothing bad, nothing at all. Thank God.

Sebastian’s eyes narrow at the oxygen tanks still in the corner of his shop.

An expendable who kills his fellows without a blink, but leaves his adversaries alive. At this point, without the PDG, calling him an expendable doesn’t even seem fair anymore.

Is he a neutral party? …Is this guy asking to be tortured for all eternity?

“Hey, Seb?” Painter chimes, a little apprehensive. Sebastian hums in acknowledgement.

“You okay..? You’re zoning out.”

Shit, Sebastian blinks back into the room; he thought switching trains of thought would help with that. The little screen on the talkie flickers with Painter’s doodly face.

“I-I’m fine, kid, really–”

“You’re lying. You’re not great at that, y’know.”

“Painter, it’s nothing, it’s just–”

“Is it about Innovation?”

Sebastian’s mind stalls for a moment. Painter catches on.

“Gah- Sebastian! I wanna know what’s going on! I’m just as much of an active player in this plan as you are, right? With keeping the Blacksite from the big guys and stuff? I can take it! So stop treating me like a kid! ”

Sebastian freezes.

‘Stop treating me like I’m just a kid!’ 

A young voice blinks itself into Sebastian’s mind. He recognizes it brokenly, like a poor noisy radio signal, but it’s undeniable. That was Gabriel’s voice.

He remembers it.

Some deep part of him exhales in shattered relief.

Painter blinks. They’ve perhaps taken his silence for hurt instead, because they immediately backtrack.

“Sorry, sorry– I know you’re really stressed right now. I shouldn’t have lashed out, that wasn’t fair of me.” Painter’s voice turns meek, “But… It surely couldn’t hurt to tell just a little?”

Sebastian clenches his jaw, a hand running through his hair.

“Innovation–” Painter’s eyes widen, and it destroys Sebastian how hopeful they look. “Innovation’s sub got intercepted, somehow.”

Painter’s expression crumples. “What…?”

“It wasn’t an active threat,” Sebastian says quickly. “Nothing involving the intercoms or NAVI. Just an old underwater test missile the morons here didn’t bother to regulate.”

“Are they alright?”

Sebastian melts a little. “Yeah, no major injuries. But… it also means the shipment will take another two days to arrange and send.”

A thick silence settles over the shop, the radio’s whispers dimming. Painter deflates, and then makes a noise of thinly veiled frustration.

Sebastian chuckles bitterly. “Go empty some turrets somewhere.”

“Oh, I will. Preferably aimed right at that smug woman’s–”

“ Painter ,” Sebastian warns sternly.

“... Alright, fine . I’ll vent out my frustration at something very similar to NAVI’s face: an empty void.”

A snort. “Atta boy. Go annoy the mutiny drone through the intercoms while you’re at it.”

Painter coos. “Ooooh! Good idea.”

The Expendable’s in the Oxygen Gardens. 

There’s little to loot here, so Painter isn’t too surprised that expendables just breeze through this place. It also has the added bonus of being really creepy, so naturally, everyone would rather be done with here as soon as possible. No amount of great quality air can keep them here.

Painter sneaks up on him.

“Sooo… Whatcha in for?” He blips onto the display monitors. The stubborn moron doesn’t even flinch.

“I am an expendable,” he chimes like it’s an obvious fact.

“No, I know that,” Painter says, staring him down with one eye open. “I mean to ask… got any uh… violent tendencies or anything”

The Expendable actually looks at the display screen. He says in all honesty, “None that can compare to yours, I can assure you.”

‘Ooh! That one actually hurt!’ Painter thinks, giddy for some reason. “Though personally, I wouldn’t murder a few of my fellows for whatever motive.”

The Expendable doesn’t falter. “They’re not my fellows. I don’t know them,” he says, but it lacks the venom Painter expects.

“Huhhh, so do you just murder for fun, then? Conducting experiments in that neat little brain of yours? Riiiight, ‘cuz picking fights will definitely work in your favor.”

That manages to tick him off. “Painter, please don’t pretend you understand. If mimicking people is what you were built for, then you’re not doing a very– mm…” The Expendable trails off, stiffening immediately.

Painter’s expression sours, and they push, “Yeah? Finish that sentence, I dare you.”

He pauses, conceding. “That wasn’t fair. Sorry.”

“Haha– yeah– wait. What?”

The Expendable slows a little, as if he’s weighing whether he should talk or not. “Don’t immediately jump to conclusions. It won’t be as bothersome for me as it will be for you.”

“...Oh.” Painter’s actually stunned. That didn’t take a lot. It’s actually a little awkward; they haven’t exactly heard an apology in ages. Manners where they matter, they guess. “Uh… Thank you?”

“Don’t mention it.”

‘?????????????????///’

Suddenly, a loud, distant noise echoes behind the walls. It sounds like a cross between a retch and a groan. Another identical sound follows. And another.

The Expendable perks in alarm. “What was that?”

Painter snickers. “Only the most horrific sound you’ll ever hear up-close from an entity,” they murmur theatrically. The Expendable looks puzzled.

“The Saboteur’s sneeze!! ”

“...Oh.” His shoulders sag a little.

Painter drawls in approval. “It probably scared away any Wall Dwellers and/or Anglers around his vicinity. You’re welcome on his behalf.”

The Expendable blinks, and keeps trekking forward.

The ambience shrouds them in the Blacksite’s flavor of silence. Pipes leak, the Vultus moans in the distance, clangs and bangs echo occasionally outside the hallways. The gurgling of water hangs all around them.

It is killing Painter.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” The Expendable perks up. Painter’s grin turns devious.

“Wanna play a game?”

“What sort of game?”

“It’s called-”

As soon as the guy steps into a new room, several turrets whir from the ceiling. The Expendable braces.

“- Dodgebolt !”

Painter flickers back on the screen, their scribbled face tugged into a petulant frown. “You cheated! That turret was aimed square at your jugular!”

The Expendable dusts himself off, unfazed. “Then I suppose I have a very persuasive jugular.”

Painter opens their mouth to quip back– when their talkie blips.

“…Hold that thought.”

They vanish from the screen. And instantly start complaining to Sebastian.

“Sebastiannnn, why's this guy so good at Dodgebolt?! Is he a Gary Sue or something?”

‘Gary Sue..?’ Sebastian’s whisper is heard in the fuzz, but then he continues. “We’ll deal with him a little later. Painter, can you watch over the surveillance around your area? If you see anyone come by, just–”

“Swiss cheese ‘em. Boom ‘em. Shark ‘em. I know.”

Sebastian huffs in amusement. “Thanks, kid.”

Painter giggles into the talkie as they blip out. They open the surveillance footage again, and upon first glance, nothing seems to be amiss.

The same sterile, fishy rooms. The same flicker of lights followed by a brief camera malfunction.

It’s kinda similar to how Sebastian’s SCRAMBLER works, in a way.

They flicker along individual screens, and eventually do a double take on a particular room.

Ah, yes. The scene of the crime.

In fact, Painter’s curiosity had been eating them alive ever since them and Sebastian witnessed The Expendable slit the throats of three seemingly ordinary expendables.

There’s always a motive , Sebastian had told them during the initial hours of their alliance. There’s always a reason behind someone’s kill. You just need to figure it out.

So Painter searches the logs. The exact room, the exact minute. The scene is exactly how they had watched it unfold. Painter furrows their brows and rewinds.

The Expendable is in a side-room. 

The tiny observation area that comes with a heavy sealed double-door. The glass shield of the room is shattered, likely from the Breach. He’s clutching the shard in his hands, gaze trailing elsewhere. He’s hidden perfectly from view– a spot Painter’s usually seen expendables use to hide from Anglers, or sometimes Pandemonium.

The group of expendables passes through the gate and into heavy containment, and the events of the scene progresses as Painter knows it.

Okay, so The Expendable was definitely waiting for his kill.

Hmmm… Painter checks on the group instead. They rewind again, and this time switch to the footage of the three expendables, trekking out of the corridors. They look a little shabby, wounds and torn clothing, but that’s to be expected. They seem like any regular group that traverses down here and perishes.

Until… Painter cues in the audio.

…

“That fringe guy’s super weird.”

“Forget the fringe guy, I’m starting to get sick of getting mauled by Good People.”

“That’s ‘cuz you have the audio sensory processing of an infant. The thing was literally panting through that door.”

“Not to mention the very obvious spark–”

“Okay–! I get it! I’m bad!”

“I mean, it can be pretty annoying. Along with Painter trapping us with Eyefestation.”

“That one’s like, kinda tolerable, I guess.”

“The turrets, though. I swear I die just by witnessing turrets in the same room as that giant parasite worm thing.”

“Yeah… Painter really has our work cut out for us, don’t they?”

“I kinda really wanna punch them.”

“We could try. I found a keycard to their containment once.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah!”

“...You might actually just be a genius–”

…

Painter stops the recording. Cold, dreadful anxiety floods their system, and upon sheer instinct, they ring up the talkie.

“Sebastian–?”

He immediately recognizes something’s off. “Yeah, Painter? What’s wrong?”

“You– you know that group we found dead in the footage?”

“Y-Yeah? What about them?”

“They were going to hurt m-me.”

The line on the other end goes silent.

“...What?”

Painter panics. “I was really curious so I looked at the past footage and I saw drone doing nothing so I wanted to check out the group and they were talking about how much I annoy them and hurt them and they said they know where the keycard to my containment is and that they were gonna plan on–”

“Painter.”

“Y-yes?” Their voice trembles.

“Recheck your perimeter. Now.”

Fraying, Painter obliges. The footage is clean; no group, no laughing faces, no danger. Except for that Pinkie.

“Clear,” they murmur hoarsely, and Sebastian exhales in relief on the other side.

“Okay, okay.”

“Sebastian–”

“Listen. I hate to say this, but… that drone did you a favor, I guess.”

Painter’s eyes widen. Of course– that’s what they wanted to find out.

“Right!” Apprehension overtakes them a little. “Should I uh… thank him, or…?”

“No need. We just need to figure out whether that was a coincidence, or if he meant to do that.”

“Monitor him?”

“Monitor him.”

“ Sebastian!”

Sebastian startles, nearly dropping a flask. “Wha-?! Painter, what’s wrong?”

Painter sounds a little apologetic. “No, it’s-... it’s fine, I think.” They hesitate, “It happened again. Server farms, camera sixty-one. Five bodies.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen. “Five?!” He boots up the laptop to access the footage.

“They were armed. Drone took care of them but I went back to make sure why this time and this group managed to get a malfunctioning Redeemer revolver that wouldn’t summon the knife lady thing and they wanted to test it out on you and–”

Sure enough, there are five bodies where Painter told him. Two of them flung into a corner from what seems to be a smoking mine. The other three had bullets shot through their skulls. The gun in question lays a couple feet away from the group, broken into pieces.

And sure enough , a couple rooms further in the live footage, The Expendable walks like he’s continuing any other ordinary run.

Sebastian sinks his head into his hands, watching The Expendable go into one of the bathrooms to wash his hands. “What the fuck is this guy’s deal.”

Painter presses, “I’m gonna throw your words back at you, Seb, but Drone kinda did you a favor.”

Oh and Sebastian hates it. Since when have revolvers like those become faulty? Besides, it’s not like those teeny tiny things could lay a mark on him, but it’s a threat! Especially if the hand that brandished it was a malicious one!

…And since when has he needed someone else to warn him about it?

And as if on cue, God knew exactly how to ruffle his feathers further.

The intercom’s broken jingle echoes throughout the site.

“Attention to all EXR-P: Should you encounter the individual designated ‘Guard Dog’, do not engage. Do not attempt communication. Do not follow.

This unit is non-communicative and operates outside standard protocol.

Deviation from this directive will be considered a deliberate act of insubordination and may result in execution.”

“‘Guard dog’?” Painter questions, almost intrigued.

Sebastian snarls, “...That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Eventually, The Expendable finds out.

It’s in one of the side-rooms in the Trench Hallways.

“You’re monitoring me,” he notes to a somewhat suspicious looking screen display.

“No duh!” Painter exclaims, revealing themself. “You’ve got enough bodies to your name to decorate a church ceiling!”

Painter’s exaggerating, of course, and is being hypocritical. Maybe they expect violence because of it— but The Expendable instead sits with that information, and responds evenly:

“That’s a fair reaction, I suppose.”

Painter grumbles something and goes back to ‘hiding’. “Rule: You don’t kill anyone unless you clear it with me.” 

The Expendable quips not unkindly. “I don’t answer to you.”

Painter quips right back. “No, but if you’re on my floor, you do.”

The Expendable falls silent. Gottem. 

Painter grins to themself; they have unlocked a valuable method of communicating with the guy: witty logic.

The Expendable huffs a little, and mumbles, “...Fine.”

Back in his shop, Sebastian rubs the back of his neck. The scales around his eyes have begun to dullen, and he’s wary he’ll start shedding at the worst possible time.

When The Expendable ducks out of the vent, Sebastian doesn’t even greet him. He’s busy checking over the Redeemer’s entity file. The Expendable still swipes up the keycard first, then moves to his tail to nick the usual items. But every now and then, the man would try to discreetly glance at Sebastian.

“Careful, stare at me too much, and people might start assuming your territory,” Sebastian pokes. He is delighted to report that The Expendable’s expression tugs in disgust.

“I don’t appreciate the title,” he says.

“Oh, trust me, I gathered,” Sebastian drawls, restocking batteries. “I don’t appreciate having a guard dog either.”

The Expendable schools his expression back into neutrality. “I am not a dog.”

“No?” Sebastian’s smile is all teeth. “Then what, are you just enacting your savior complex out of the goodness of your heart?”

"Not to be callous, but no."

The conviction intrigues Sebastian. "Really? Then?"

“To put it bluntly, you two staying alive makes my own life a lot easier.”

“Does it, now? You’d rather kill for us than deal with the consequences of us being dead?”

The Expendable nods. “Though, I'm not entirely sure why that group targeted you first instead. Not only is Painter a much bigger threat to them than you are, you are also significantly more versed in combat.” He remarks like he’s critiquing a paper. “A severe lapse in judgement, perhaps,” he adds for good measure.

“A common occurrence in them, unfortunately,” Sebastian sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, I appreciate the vigilantism, but maybe leave the threats about us, to us, mkay? Painter and I can take care of ourselves just fine.”

“Will it guarantee your survival?”

“Are you questioning my own survivability?” Sebastian tries to agitate.

The guy just pauses, averts his gaze somewhere, then responds back. “Yes.”

Oh, he’s so annoying.

The conversation dies down by then, settling into that usual cadence of tense and unease . The Expendable retreats into a corner as usual to tend to his wounds. Sebastian returns to the file, trying to figure out anything about faulty Redeemer revolvers.

Sebastian will never admit it to the guy, nor will he ever allude to it, but…

“You seem anxious,” The Expendable says finally.

Sebastian snorts. “Talkative, are you?”

The Expendable tilts his head in inquiry. “Something went wrong?”

“Why does that suggest it was my fault?” Sebastian means it mostly in jest. “No.”

The Expendable goes silent for a while. Absently, he twirls the sprint as if it were a pen, pondering what to say.

“I… once had a test.” He begins hesitantly.

Sebastian raises a brow. “A test?”

The Expendable hums. “All I had to do was swim to the other side of a pool.

“If I completed my objective, I got a reward. If I didn’t, I got punished. Sounds easy enough, right?”

Something… dawns on Sebastian, his expression unwinding. But The Expendable fails to realize the shift in his behaviour.

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” he continues. “There are a million permutations of things that would possibly hinder me from getting to the other side of the pool. Things that are often outside of my control.”

“Yeah?” Sebastian asks, voice lower than he wants to be. “What would you do about it?”

“Prepare my best. Then add to it the things I hadn’t expected. That's all I can do.”

It’s such a simple thing. Hopeful and hopeless all at the same time. Ugh.

The silence that washes over the shop isn’t suffocating anymore.

“You should go,” Sebastian reminds, not harshly. “You have something to do, don’t you?”

The Expendable stills while wearing his bag.

A barely perceptive nod drums his head, and he moves out of the vent, slowly leaving the shop.

[EXR-P / █Z-██:  █A████ ██S████]

Chapter Text

The telltale footsteps of The Expendable sound through the corridor, and the guy– for the lack of a better word– stumbles into Sebastian’s shop. 

He tries to rise from the vent, but ends up accidentally tipping his balance. Catching himself on the boxes, his gaze roams the shop unanchored.

“Woah, dizzy, are you?” Sebastian greets.

The Expendable tries to glare, but ends up looking like a squinting baby. Sebastian snickers.

The guy just blinks blearily, and approaches Sebastian’s tail. He picks the same items as usual: A med-kit or one of those stims, a code-breacher, and a couple batteries. He trades the appropriate amount for those items, snatches the keycard by the radio, and retreats into the same corner to begin patching his wounds.

It’s a familiar routine, somehow, in this place of unpredictability. Sebastian knows he can disregard his shopkeeper persona when this one’s around, and turn to deal with any miscellaneous tasks on hand.

Instead of dumping the data and leaving to handle more pressing issues, Sebastian finds himself sorting the data before putting them in the crates, for some reason. He caught himself doing it for the first time, and realized it’s a habit he ended up picking up from The Expendable.

At first, it annoyed Sebastian, but now… 

It’s a harmless activity. Efficient. In-fact, it might help Sebastian later down the line.

There’s a small tear in The Expendable’s side, skin and blood peeking from the ruined fabric. Sebastian looks The Expendable up and down, watching the way his leg bends at an odd angle to keep the pain muted.

The guy sheds his jacket, the white tee underneath matted and stained heavily with crimson. He reaches the back of his waist, stuffs the jacket in his mouth, and prods the wound, trying to fish out the bullet with his fingers.

Painter’s comm blips. “Hey, Sebastian?”

Sebastian hums, “Yeah?”

“I just saw something really weird. Someone was doing the Jetsuit Evaluation Course, right? She gets through it and then I see her pet seabunny just following behind her after she’s done. The bunny did all that?!” Painter exclaims.

“I even see her launch her bunny across rooms all the time. Are they insane?!”

Sebastian snickers. “Nah, don’t worry. She loves the bunny, I’m sure. It’s just that those things are the hard equivalent of an invincible squeaky toy. Learned that literally two hours ago.”

Painter giggles, reassured. “That’s so… weird. I didn’t know animals could do that.” The intercom blips off.

Sebastian’s gaze returns to the man below. He watches him fish out bullets, gritting his teeth and being extra careful.

"Y'know," Sebastian drawls, low and contemplative, "I always bring the wrong set of ammo for Painter's fun guns. So I tend to... bring references so I can check then and there." That sickening grin returns to his features. The Expendable immediately picks up what Sebastian’s putting down.

The Expendable furrows his brows. "You can simply take one from the turret's holders."

Sebastian scoffs. "What? You scared?"

They're both deflecting.

“Don’t like making a habit out of dying, do you?” Sebastian points out eventually, and The Expendable looks up, gaze infuriatingly unreadable. “Correct.”

Sebastian narrows his gaze.

The Expendable begins fixing the torn strap of his messenger bag. Oh, that precious thing of his. His focus is sharp, those heavy-duty gloves of his posing little issue in some of the more intricate handiwork.

Sebastian’s gaze drifts, unbidden, to the sharp line of bone pressing against The Expendable’s side—an odd protrusion just beneath the exposed skin, catching in the light. He recognizes the shape. Not fully. Not yet. But the angle, the curve, the unnatural prominence—

It’s familiar. Uncomfortably so.

The suspicion itches at him, too persistent to ignore.

Sebastian turns to the bag behind the desk, the one he keeps carefully safe from grabby expendables. He retrieves a blacklight– an apt sacrifice to sate his curiosity, and to confirm or deny his suspicion. It’s not really a sacrifice, when it serves such little use to him. He can’t even see the damn light, despite having marine-adapted retinas.

He switches it on, letting the apparent light wash across The Expendable. Immediately, Sebastian raises his brows– The Expendable doesn’t react to it. He fails to notice the iconic, striking violet of a blacklight.

More than that, is what begins emerging on the guy’s skin.

The bronze skin of The Expendable’s face and neck begin illuminating with tiny, intricate patterns. They glimmer white under the blacklight, the brand awakening. Thick lines that cup either cheeks and his jawline. Patterns that curve around his ears, and tuck themselves under his eyes.

But most damning of all, are the three symmetrical lines on either side of his neck.

That’s all Sebastian needed to know.

It’s only when he lingers too long, flashlight fixed on The Expendable like a weapon, that the latter finally stills.

“What?” he murmurs, low and soft.

“Gloves,” Sebastian murmurs, and gives a vague gesture. No words. Just… look.

The Expendable frowns, but he does shed his gloves tentatively.

The moment is quiet. Breath-held.

He sees it. First on his palms, the thin traceries of light, then draws his sleeves up– and it’s on his forearms too. He drags his outer layers off with growing urgency, peeling them off until the full map of the pattern reveals itself: his entire torso, covered in those winding luminous brands. Across ribs, over sternum, curling near his throat.

The patterns themselves are abstract, but Sebastian can clearly discern certain motifs. The symmetrical lines on The Expendable’s neck and under his chest– gills. The hexagon that arches up The Expendable’s nose and reaches down to his throat– that’s a muzzle. Indicating a strong jaw.

The Expendable’s brows draw together. His expression is hard to read– curious rather than fearful– but there exists something brittle underneath.

Slowly, cautiously, he looks up.

Sebastian turns the beam on himself, the lines immediately disappearing from The Expendable’s skin. 

Sebastian lets the light catch across the twisted planes of his own scarred body. The marks there glow the same— bright white on the silver of his own scales. Some warped, distorted by older wounds. But unmistakably similar. The lines atop actual gills, the muzzle, the small ‘V’ on his forehead under his esca. 

“A readily available record,” Sebastian murmurs at last, voice low as if uttering a secret. “So to speak.”

The air between them hums with something heavy. The Expendable’s shoulders sag, and only then does Sebastian’s gaze trace the myriad of scars on the man’s skin. Some new, some much older than he expected.

Actually, no, Sebastian thinks darkly. This shouldn’t surprise him anymore.

“This opens a lot more questions than I’d imagined,” The Expendable remarks. There’s a fragile intrigue to the way he looks at himself– like he’s expecting something to jump out between the lines and swallow him whole.

“Yeah? Like, why you aren’t a flailing monster like me, perhaps?” Sebastian says, tossing the blacklight away. The lines on them both start to fade.

The Expendable pauses. “Yes, actually.” He says nothing more.

This fucker will literally not ever breathe a word of who is he, or what he’s doing here.

Sebastian snorts ill-naturedly. “No theories? Okay: were you just one that didn’t make it through?”

Sebastian knows exactly what he’s doing, and it’s working. The Expendable’s gaze tightens, an air of anxious indignation shrouding him.

“I’m just saying,” Sebastian backtracks– he’s already done the damage he wanted to do. “You seem awfully calm about something like this.”

“Perhaps–” The guy says, “I don’t need to be filled with resentment in order to get what I want.”

Sebastian grits his teeth, and grins. “Yeah? And what would that be?” He prods forward anyway, just to see what will happen.

The Expendable simply falls silent. Utterly, stubbornly quiet. The radio hushes a couple feet away.

Sebastian hums. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

The Expendable finishes wrapping up, and leaves with the keycard.

“‘Till next we meet,” Sebastian bids. He hears the next door crank open, and he slouches in place. Grumbling, he goes back to searching through his stash. Sebastian looks through manila folders, along with ancient floorplan blueprints that date all the way back to the 1960s.

Sebastian whispers to himself. “Sector B Labs… Sector B Labs… It should be here somewhere…”

“Hey… Seb?” Painter’s voice echoes through the shop.

“Myeah?” Sebastian mutters, a little distracted.

“I… I know this seems a bit much but…” Painter hesitates. Concerned, Sebastian fully turns to the comm, brows furrowed.

“What is it, kid?” He tries to ask casually.

“Can we… Can we check on the drone?”

That catches Sebastian off guard. “The drone? Why, what’s wrong?”

Painter stammers, “I-I dunno, I just… realized something as he passed by."

Sebastian waits for them to continue.

"I... don’t think he’ll be able to go back now, right?”

The silence holds over them heavier than it should. 

They continue, voice downcast. “HQ didn’t have to say it: The guy’s been expelled from the program. They’ll probably go after him, right? And… and if they get him, he’ll be gone for good. Is… Is he gonna be okay?”

Painter’s voice is strained. They know the common fate of all individuals sent down here, and it’s not at all sugarcoated. And they do feel awful about it, but that’s never been directed for a certain individual.

Sure, the guy got rid of two gaggles of threats coming their way, Sebastian supposes. The former one had actually posed a significant threat to Painter, the latter one, not so much. It was nice– and sort of creepy– that The Expendable got rid of them for them.

Sebastian’s expression melts into uncertain concern. It’s one thing to pretend a Sea Bunny’s fine. But disregarding an entire human, who cleanly got rid of harm headed for Painter, no less…

The guy truly is completely cut-off from the revival cycle, isn’t he?

Sebastian’s last Revive Token in his coat’s breast pocket welds itself against his chest, inevitable.

Ugh.

Sebastian sighs. He mumbles something the receiver won’t pick up.

“Y’know what, kid?” Sebastian says eventually, “You have a point.”

“Yeah?” Painter perks up, voice lilting a little in anticipation, almost surprise.

“Yeah. I’ll go check on him,” Sebastian concedes, pulling up the laptop for surveillance again. Flickering from wing to wing, he finds the familiar silhouette of The Expendable about to enter the server farms. The lights of the control room flicker, and he cleanly ducks behind a couple crates in order to hide from Froger.

She makes herself known, and the feed goes illegible.

“Just stay on the comms, yeah?” Sebastian says absent-mindedly, watching the feed flicker back to life after a couple moments. The Expendable is still hiding.

“You know I always do,” comes Painter’s smug voice. Sebastian laughs, warmth seeping into his voice.

“I know you always do. Thanks, buddy.”

“You got it.”

The dim lights flicker lazily. It’s not the tell-tale sign of danger, just a tell-tale sign of incompetent engineers. The ocean gurgles outside a large window pane. Sebastian’s face scrunches up. These stupid halls can be so cramped sometimes.

“I know!” Painter chirps from the intercom. “Lucky for me, I don’t need to worry about that.”

Sebastian pauses his search, grimacing at the humid air of the hallways colliding with his skin. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Painter giggles, “Yes, you did. You should really not do that.” Their voice morphs into muted concern. “Are you zoning out, or something?”

Sebastian jolts, “Hell no, I think.”

Painter fusses, “That’s not very convincing.”

“Well, I–”

Painter interjects. “It would make sense. You haven’t had a wink of rest in two days, and you’re quite literally strolling the halls of a hellish nightmare on a regular basis.”

“I can’t rest. Not now. We’re right there, and if it takes just a little longer, so what?” Sebastian mutters, simply picking up the pace. Painter makes a questioning noise.

“Come on, Sebastian. You’ve kept this up for two days! And importantly, now with the delay, you’ll have to stay even more high-strung!

“With how you’re looking right now, I don’t think you’ll be able to keep this up for much longer.”

Their last line makes him stop.

A distant rumble rolls through the ocean. The lights flicker twice, and the pair quickly backtrack to the nearest side-room.

Sebastian’s shoulders sag, air leaving him as he deflates a little. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. 

Not at Painter, no. They’re absolutely, one-hundred percent right about this. And that’s what’s frustrating.

Sebastian, curled behind a couch, breathes out as Blitz pummels through the room, leaving it shrouded in darkness.

“I know, Painter,” he mumbles, just barely audible, but it goes through the intercom.

“Just… think about it, alright? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The comm blips quiet once more. Sebastian thunks his head lightly to the back of the couch. He heaves himself up, dusts himself off, and continues.

He’s nearly at the server farms, and even a couple rooms away, Sebastian can sense something odd. There’s distant yelling, brief shuffling and loud thuds. Sebastian groans, speaking into the comm again.

“Your savior is such a prick, just so you know.”

Sebastian doesn’t bother to hear Painter’s response, because he makes it over just in time to see the next one lunge with a prybar.

The Expendable turns too slowly. Too late.

“Duck,” Sebastian calls, just quiet enough— and throws a tail whip that sends a couple attackers flying. They crash into a control panel. Sparks. Blood. A few less problems.

“You’re welcome,” Sebastian drawls, pushing himself upright again and throwing The Expendable a stink eye. “I thought you had reflexes.”

The Expendable just wipes his blade off on his thigh and turns toward the next threat. Not even a nod.

“You’re gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?” Sebastian hisses as he squeezes another guy bloody. He’s just babbling, easing his nerves…? Why’s he nervous? “Winning some war about not giving a–?”

BANG—!

A familiar bullet flies past Sebastian’s ear. It embeds itself in the wall behind him. The last attacker drops.

The Expendable finally faces him, hair stuck to his forehead. He’s breathing hard, sweat-slick and a little bloodstained. He steps forward. Sebastian doesn’t move.

Too many things are happening at once:

—They’re too close.

—He can feel the heat radiating off him.

—There’s blood on his collarbone.

—Those obsidian pupils are dilated.

—He’s not blinking.

It pisses Sebastian off more than it should. Or maybe it makes his skin crawl.

“Any more complaints?” The Expendable murmurs, voice like gravel.

“Gun back, please.” Sebastian manages, voice rasping more than he intends. His hands twitch— empty, useless without the weight of the weapon. His heart hammers too high in his throat, breath catching. Definitely because his gun isn’t in his hand.

The Expendable, thankfully, doesn’t fuss, “You possess a better aim than I do, anyway.” The Expendable tosses it back right to Sebastian, who clips it back to its holster extra surely. He begins a round examining the bodies, gaze occasionally flickering to the guy. He chalks up his state to adrenaline.

“What did you do to piss them off this time?”

“Nothing,” says The Expendable, and Sebastian raises a brow high.

“No, really,” The Expendable emphasizes, jaw ticking. “I didn’t target them at all during my past ‘vigilante episodes’– as you put it. I wager they likely heard of my reputation, and wanted me out of the way.”

“ Wow , who would’ve guessed? That picking random fights actually, in-fact, makes you a target,” Sebastian drawls.

The Expendable’s brows furrow. “It was not random. It was simply two instances. That makes no pattern.”

“It was two enough for your brand new title to be broadcasted to the whole program. Now, I don’t suppose they’ll even want you back at the lobby,” Sebastian says, voice carefully neutral. “Honestly, is that why you’ve been avoiding dying so much?” 

The Expendable actually falls quiet at that. The ambience of the Blacksite engulfs the silence, a rare moment to breathe before the inevitable dose of unpredictability returns. Sebastian nicks a flash beacon and an unused defibrillator.

The Expendable shrugs off his jacket and knots it tight over his bleeding waist. “Would you happen to have a med-kit or Perithesene back at the shop?”

Sebastian snorts, collecting any rogue items from the dead. “Literally only you would ever remember the name of that thing.”

The Expendable blinks. “Is that a yes–?”

“Yes, it’s a yes, genius. Come along.”

The guy’s gaze narrows, and he sticks around in the room for a bit, but eventually ends up following Sebastian.

They walk along the corridors in relative silence. Sebastian’s coil slithers next to The Expendable’s feet, so sometimes, just to mess with him, Sebastian slithers slightly wider for a moment just to watch the guy stumble.

In time, as Sebastian imagines, The Expendable catches onto him. Because the guy jogs to walk in front of Sebastian instead.

Above, the pair hears the sound of a round of muffled gunshots. It, yet again, serves to indicate that Painter’s having fun. Albeit for a short while, at least.

“That reminds me,” Sebastian begins. “You sure you don’t have anyone on your tail right now, right?”

The Expendable raises a brow questioningly. Sebastian shrugs, “I mean, it’ll be kinda awkward if the guy who wants to kill you for trying to prevent them from killing me had a meetup with us in the shop.”

The guy hums, “That’s a good point. Luckily, I have a small counterfeit measure.”

“Do you, now?” The Expendable nods.

“I retrograded this spare Splorglight to occasionally make noise on its own. We can place it somewhere, and it should suffice for temporarily throwing anyone off our trail.”

Sebastian huffs, ducking under a doorframe. “I never thought I’d hear the word ‘Splorglight’ come out of your mouth. Neither I— nor any other guy for that matter– have ever seen you use one. Good for me, bad for you. Others may immediately clock that it isn’t their Guard Dog. Are you sure it'll work?”

The Expendable straightens, face steeling at the title. "The dupe is not meant to mimic my specific behavior."

Sebastian shrugs, bored. "Then they could think it's literally anyone." The Expendable crosses his arms, twirling the Splorglight non-committally.

"Well, curiosity often distracts, so it'll buy us some time to make distance, at least. That’s what the ‘temporary’ means."

Sebastian rolls his eyes, mumbling, “That’s fair, I guess.”

A couple rooms later, The Expendable tries to do the thing. He hides the light behind a monitor in a side-room, flicking it once to check for the occasional noise he mentioned.

They wait a few moments. Nothing. Sebastian crosses his arms, the third one resting against his hip. They wait another few moments, and Sebastian raises a brow.

“Well, now who looks like a dumbass?”

The Expendable’s shoulders sag, the slightest bit of dejection coloring his voice. “Me.”

Sebastian wheezes a breath of laughter, and walks away into the hallways. “C’mon, we both can take a fight anyway.”

The Expendable follows along, grumbling under his breath.

A dozen unmarked rooms later, they enter an area that makes The Expendable pause.

Sector B.

The walls sing in wails, screams muted and bouncing off the facility. The lights are dim, eerie, and yet it’s never a concern in a place like this.

Sebastian’s gaze, perceptive of course, glints amusedly. “What? Recognize something?”

The Expendable frowns. “You… could say that.”

The low-lit area’s four pathways converge in the center, each quadrant of the room taken up by a sizable pod. Within each of them is a desk and a long clinical bed. The northwest one is destroyed, as is the case usually with the Blacksite. Gray walls, black doors. These pods may be open, but they’re designed to seal airtight shut.

These are the labs.

The Expendable’s throat works, and he seems to be suddenly regretting following Sebastian.

“What-?” Sebastian drawls, tone a little high, because coping with humor is his default around other people, apparently. “It’s just a bunch of pods, right?”

“It’s not just ‘a bunch of pods’ ,” The Expendable drawls. “We both know that, I’m afraid.”

Sebastian falls silent, a small knowing smile playing at his lips. Drat, he thinks. Coping with humor didn’t work. Because Sebastian himself is trying not to look around too much. Sebastian just turns and heads towards the next room, trying to progress as quickly as possible.

They pass a wilting greenhouse, a tube room, a table room (Sebastian especially averts his gaze on that one, and so does the guy), and finally, a console room that signals the end of the sector.

Sebastian blinks. He wants to say something like ‘Good speed, drone’ or ‘Never doing that again’ , but what comes out is unfortunately closer to the truth:

“I think I blacked out for the past two minutes.” The Expendable doesn’t laugh, he just keeps powering forward.

Sebastian tries to smother his hands to his face, forcing his mind to wake up to his surroundings. He can’t afford this, not right now.

BANG!

That does the job well enough for him. He whips around to the source, and finds The Expendable staggering back against a wall. His side blooms red. The console, previously lifeless, now blooms awake.

“Drone!” Sebastian exclaims. There are no turrets in this specific room, Sebastian knows that. A trap? Tripwire?

The man snarls, curling in on himself, clawing at the wound, and shakes his head once, then twice. 

Sebastian feels like a huge block of ice has slipped into his gut.

The guy's eyes morph from the usual critical stare to something more panicked, and before Sebastian can say another word, the man dashes away from the scene, bumping into things on his way out.

Sebastian immediately shoots the room’s power config before the console can do anything else. The entire room hums back into darkness.

Heart pounding, Sebastian dashes out.

“Attention to all EXR-Ps: XZ-09 has been confirmed to be roaming in the Blacksite. Exercise caution.”

The blackout’s temporary, as it always usually is. The flickering red emergency lights crawl back to life in sluggish pulses along the corridor walls.

The Expendable definitely made a run for Sebastian’s shop. There’s no other place he’d go when he’s presumably bleeding out from a concoction-laced bullet.

Sebastian rounds the corner fast, finding the walkway that leads to the roof of his shop, and sliding in. He’s half-expecting The Expendable frantically healing himself, half-expecting to find him dead. 

What he finds instead stops him cold.

The Expendable. Collapsed. Knees buckled under him, one hand braced to the floor, the other clutching his own chest like he’s trying to hold himself together. His forehead presses hard against the concrete, breathing raggedly through agony.

The bullet lays a couple feet away from him, wrenched out of him, washed in crimson.

The Expendable is changing.

The skin along his jawline has split open, tawny skin parting into glistening charcoal. His hands twitch violently, snowy fur and ebony scales emerge half-formed and useless. His breath is wet and shallow. He hasn’t realized Sebastian here yet.

Sebastian should walk away. This is none of his business. This is a nobody on the verge of snapping exactly the way he was supposed to. Whatever Sebastian went through in years, this man is going through in minutes. The Expendable should be grateful; he’s luckier than he realizes.

But inexplicably…

“Hey,” Sebastian says, voice low.

The Expendable flinches, bad. “S-stay back,” he croaks, voice thin. His hands shake so badly it’s almost pathetic.

Sebastian crouches. Not too close, but just low enough for his esca to illuminate the man. Sebastian’s own tail curls uneasily behind him, expression carefully schooled to be neutral.

“Stop fighting it,” Sebastian murmurs, slow and careful.

“‘M unstable–” The Expendable’s breath shudders, frantic. The steadiness that usually flattens his voice is nowhere to be found, tone quivering from the pain.

Sebastian studies him. The spatter of half-formed scales along his neck, gill slits fluttering, trying to stabilize respiration. The bone at the base of his spine elongates, monochrome tail shaking as it emerges down. His back swells under this jacket, and if The Expendable isn’t careful, the jacket’s collar will choke him. External gills sprout from his jawline and cheeks. It’s unfinished and asymmetrical; the change is not coming in smoothly.

The strange bones Sebastian kept noticing on this man finally explain themselves.

Sebastian swallows, uneasy. The memory of his own shifts and grafts press insistently behind his eyes like an irritating bruise.

He remembers unhearing faces. He remembers white-hot agony detonating his bones for hours at a time. He remembers screaming until his voice gave out. Sebastian inhales slowly, willing away the static vignetting his vision.

“...Breathe,” he whispers.

“Stay back!” The Expendable’s voice breaks, and he makes a thin, choked sound. His jaw grits strong, ticking in the joints. His spine arches as another shudder of pain ripples through him, a strangled groan tearing from his throat.

Sebastian doesn’t flinch. His voice stays quiet. “Let it happen.”

The Expendable’s eyes screw shut. “No- I’ll—”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Sebastian cuts in flatly. It softens just the slightest, “Come on, drone, get it together.”

The words breach. The Expendable swallows hard. He struggles to breathe steadily, trying to slowly hiss through his teeth.

“Breathe,” Sebastian repeats.

Something gives.

The panic burns itself out into stillness. The Expendable uncurls his fists, trying so hard to let the tension flow out of him. His bones shift with a sickening crack, then remake themselves into something smoother.

The wings come in— wet, heavy. They tear through his jacket, unfurling like a time-lapsed plant. His hands curl into claws, fists swelling into something thicker. His spine lengthens. His tail lashes once before curling around himself. His face finishes reshaping.

And then it’s over. Only The Expendable’s rhythmic deep breaths fill the silence. He’s willed his body not to shake, thumping his forehead against the concrete once. 

Sebastian exhales through his nose, and tilts his head slightly. “See?” he murmurs, quiet.

The Expendable says nothing. He blinks, trembling, hands still braced against the floor.

Sebastian straightens slowly.

“Sorry–”

“Get used to it,” Sebastian says. “Get up. There are things that want you dead here.”

And The Expendable does. Or at least, he tries to anyway. He stumbles a bit, trying to understand this bizarre new body weight distribution. But he clumsily heaves himself up anyway, obsidian eyes trying to refocus.

Sebastian, dissociated to hell and back, turns and slithers away. But he waits for The Expendable’s footsteps to start echoing behind him again before proceeding.

[EXR-P / XZ-09:  █A████ ██S████]