#vers4.0

❝I need you to tell me exactly what you know.❞ he had been waiting all day, for them to be alone, or at least as alone as they could be in this building  ❝If we are to...cooperate, we need to be honest with each other. Do you think you’re capable of that?❞

 "I…“ He glanced down, simply refusing to look the man in the eye, why would he even ask Tyrell if he was real? He confuses himself so much..   What would you do? Would you believe this? Is this a trick played by Mr. Robot? What did even happen that time? Plan… I hope you remember we had a plan.. but.. I deleted it; didn’t I? “I don’t know.” He finally admitted, his shoulders dropped down and his gaze went straight to his feet, he felt unsure now, as if the question he’d ask the man was a sudden regret the instant it left his lips.

Another sharp breath escaped him and as he ran his hand to his face, he wondered why he didn’t just leave him. Elliot obviously didn’t trust him enough to confine in him about his…condition or his change of plans, he didn’t need him, he didn’t care about him, so why the fuck was he still here?

❝I am real. Always have been.❞ Even if there were moments Elliot really thought Tyrell was just a fragment of his imagination, it was no longer Tyrell’s job to convince him he wasn’t.  And yet he didn’t walk away from him. At least now he wouldn’t let it go that far as it went last time this Elliot took over, he wouldn’t shoot him and he wouldn’t let him destroy anything either. He let out another sharp breath and cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back, stood straight and tried to look professional ❝Does that mean you don’t remember what we agreed on? Last time we met? ❞

Smoking weed was the last thing he thought he would do. But then again he did not think he would end up here, in an apartment next to an empty crib. When was the last time he had ever done that? Must have been almost fifteen years ago with Alicia.  He heard the backdoor open, but he didn’t really bother putting the weed—the cigarette, however the fuck it was called. He was laying on his couch, wearing just a t-shirt and jeans, just what he wore when he bought it.

That was the last thing he needed right now. Irving or anyone else from that fucking Army, giving any kind of order or threat or both. They couldn’t even let him grieve in peace. 

❝No, I can’t calm down. One of these days I am just going to kill him with my own hands, I swear to God.❞

At least this time, it was something much lighter than before. Which meant he could control it better, couldn’t he? And he had tried that before, long long time ago. It was relaxing and it made him feel like he was no longer worried much about anything. Now he could see why some people did that quite often. Still, he hated the smell. The television was on, playing a movie he was meant to be watching, but for now he was satisfied with the background noise it created and staring at the ceiling. He heard the door open — he should really lock that thing and when he saw Angela he tried to clean the air around him with his hands, forgetting for a moment that he was actually holding a joint.    ❝It’s not what it looks like.❞ he was trying not to laugh as he said this and got up to walk to her  ❝You have to admit, it could be worse.❞

❝Where the hell have you been?❞ he was’t worried about her, he didn’t care about her enough for her to do so, but she was supposed to be a call away  ❝You don’t look well.❞

❝Yes, I’ve gathered that.❞ he murmured. He was getting better at telling the difference between Elliots, despite not understanding how it worked or what either of them really wanted. But he hated that. Not knowing. Not knowing him as well as he thought, perhaps not knowing him at all. Most of their interactions so far after the cyber bombings, was with the other one, so maybe, this Elliot didn’t know him either. And he certainly didn’t love him, neither of them did.