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there's still a lot of work to be done.

i'm not finished with it yet.

i can't give up just yet.

there's nothing noble about working yourself to death.

you think i can't handle this myself?

there's not enough hours in the day.

i realize you think you have to do this.

working like this helps me think.

i'll sleep when i'm dead.

your work ethic scares me sometimes.

i don't need your help.

do you ever sleep?

they need me.

no matter how hard you work, it won't bring them back.

do you realize how crazy that sounds?

i'm not stopping until this is done.

you need to slow down.

i feel like i'm wasting my life.

have you ever taken a vacation?

i can handle this on my own.

i'm nothing without my work.

you're going to get sick if you keep going like this.

you've proven your point.

you're going to work yourself to death.

there are worse ways to spend a life.

you can't keep going at this pace.

i don't have time to rest.

it needs to be done.

do you have any healthy coping mechanisms, by any chance?

there's no time to waste.

i think it's time for you to take a break.

everything was going great until you stopped me.

i can't sleep yet. not until this is done.

i'm the only one who can do this.

at least let me help you.

if i just focus on my work, i don't have to think about anything else.

i'm not asking you to take a break, i'm telling you.

did you really have to interrupt like that?

i'm not budging.

it's my life's work.

you're not going to convince me otherwise.

when was the last time you slept?

i'll help you finish the job if you promise to get some rest.

you're practically falling asleep standing up.

you can finish this in the morning.

let me get you to bed.

don't you get it? it's over!

working yourself to death isn't going to fix anything.

if i don't do it, no one else will.

i wish you would take some time to rest.

i'm not taking a break, if that's what you're asking.

you just broke my concentration, thank you very much.

i'm not going to bed.

i don't know how to quit.

they're counting on me.

too many people rely on me.

i can't disappoint them.

you need a vacation.

i wish you would just listen to me and slow down.

your eye bags have eye bags.

all right, that's it. i'm putting my foot down.

no more excuses.

what do you get out of this? this overworking thing?

without my work... i'm nothing.

no one else is going to step in.

i don't care about me. i care about them.

we have unfinished business.

if i stop now, it'll be like giving up.

i'm a perfectionist. it's in my nature.

better to pour myself into my work than something else.

i wish you would go easy on yourself.

Or, rather, it wouldn't be.

This confession of his sounded a little too eager. Weak, vague, cryptic as always. But there's... something in there.

A lie so obvious it might as well be a truth. A truth he wanted to admit so badly it sounded like an obvious lie.

Shaw fixes his glasses, squinting. Was that tree an action or a reaction? A consequence, or the reason the Aristocrat died?

Fuck Ukulele and his goddamn improv quiz shows, for real.

"...welp, good for you!"

At the end, Elias figured he might as well play along. Act as the detective wasn't his thing, after all. You do it once, and suddenly you're given that title, after all. Those introspections can be post-poned for later, when he, too, lies awake in his shitty bed.

« Told you already... » he whispers, hiding a hiss of pain. « Security breach, I misread the pills, and took the wrong one... Ta-daaa. ». He waves vaguely at the apple blossoms, then his hand falls on his chest, trembling and without much strength, his face contorted in a grimace that he can't hide anymore. His own breath becomes much more difficult all of a sudden, the roots moving uncomfortably close to his lungs, unable to rest. He almost got used to their movement under his skin by now, he could even make the pain tolerable with enough conviction - but now he's suddenly realizing that this is... too much. They are moving too much, they are too much restless. This is more than finding a place for them in his body, they... are they. nervous? He forces his eyes open as a deep breath in is forced out in a pained cough. He looks for Shaw, and can't really recognize his eyes in that blurred spot beside him.

« Sh...aw...? » he wheezes as a doubt suddenly pushes forward. It's not possible, is it? He told them... he told them that if they touched her, he would...- « Where i...s C-Cla--? »

Not like her. Not like her who murdered and killed. Not like her who hurt her father.

Oh God. Oh God forgive her. Oh God please forgive this sinful lamb.

Their hands - two of hers, one of his, God oh God please God what did she do?! - connect, and his grip, as weak as it was, is still enough to keep her mind from getting lost again, panic completely. His voice still don’t reach her ears, however, busy as she is praying under her breath, each word coming out faster than the one that proceeded it, trembling and terrified, for herself, for him, for their souls, for the attack, for for for for--

–and turn into a yelp as the door of the room opens once more. She lifts her eyes. Recognize the white labcoats and bulletproof vests. One of them recoils. Another lifts his weapon, taking a step back as the first branch comes out from it, pointing it at her, then her father, then the monster.

Too late. They came too late. …Too late? God, don’t let it be too late.

“Please…!”

Prayers turn into a whisper, a shaky sob, as she lowers her head, tightens her father’s hand as it grew colder by the second.

“Forgive me. Please– f-forgive me…!

They're saying something, one of them even to him, but he can barely even make out the words. He blinks slowly, one of the blurry figures getting closer to them but still at a safe distance ( though, too short of a distance, too fucking short, who the fuck taught this guy? It wasn't him, that's for sure, he teaches safe distances way better than that ), seems to check on their situation. Suddenly jumps and points the gun.

Clef doesn't care if he was pointing it at him or at Claire, or what even made him react like that - the missing arm, he guesses. His reaction is immediate, his hand leaving Claire's to catch the guard's weapon ( too fucking short of a distance, too fucking short ), his palm covering the barrel, uncaring if the other shot and made a hole in his hand. His freezing skin can feel the heat of a gun that has already shot numerous times under his grasp, almost burning him, and yet he only grasps it tighter and pushes it down.

« Touch her with one finger, » he hisses. « and I'm going to kill every single one of you assholes. »

“–when–!”

-and then the prayers stop, her eyes finally leaving the stump to look at her father, wide eyes filled with pure fear.

“When they’ll find us- …t-the breach…!”

She’s an anomaly, no? An anomaly out of her cell. That she injured an agent and killed someone.

They’ll take her belongings again when they’ll find them. They’ll put her in isolation again.

Not even a father has the right to make your life a living hell.

Claire jumps in his broken hug, her eyes suddenly darting to meet his own, a new fear shining painfully in them. Her voice shakes as she starts sentences that get only halfway through, they cover each other with too many worries, too many directions going on at once. Her hand grabs his and attempts to push him up, but he doesn't have the strength to follow her, not in a rush - but as her grasp is terrified and trembling, his is calm and gentle. His fingers tighten softly around her palms, hoping - somehow, someway - to give her his tranquillity.

Blinking and getting used to his new body as quickly as he could while Ukulele explained way too vaguely who he is now, Shaw's first reaction is nothing more than a quick, yet impressed "Huh.", especially when the pat on his back doesn't seem to hurt. They never let him bodyhop in some hunk, at Site-19, let alone into someone with power.

Wonder why.

Lifting his eyebrows and shrugging, Shaw realizes he'll have to default to roleplay as a much more aggressive Gears for a few minutes… at least until his nose works properly.

And smells burnt flesh.

"…hey real quick, what the fuck--", he starts, before clearing his throat. Robot mode on "--agent Ukulele, what the fuck did you do, back there."

Oh, yes. Guess we got it. The tone is still a little too lively, but he could work with that.

This is wonderful. He loves it!

« Got a distraction. Duh? » he answers, all his robotic and stiff movements gone in favor of a tranquil, soft walk through the corridors, hands rising for a quick stretch. « I needed the chief to turn, didn't I? You didn't need that other body anymore anyway. »

What a charmer. How casually he just remarked that the burnt flesh belongs to the anomaly ex coworker. Ukulele didn't even use an ominous tone - he said it as if talking about the shopping list, while casually massaging the back of his neck after the stretching made it do a soft crack.

There's that instability in Ukulele's words. There's still his ego, there's still his security, but something is missing.

...something more than his goddamn arm- Jesus Christ that must've been brutal. Having one eaten is never fun.

... mh? What is he saying, by the way...? "I heard that we're dealing with one aristocratic less." He suddenly bursts into an extremely weak laugh. Not even the roots stirring inside of him manage to suffocate it.

« One less... » he muses, the words rolling viscous on the dry tongue - happily, somehow. Relieved? Enjoying.

It tried to hurt Claire. « One. Less. ». He died, then. He remembers right. Good. Good. « H-hahah. »

He tilts his head wearily, Shaw's words distant. So distant. What is he saying now?... "was it you?" Clef smiles with a pained moan. The roots near his stomach make him want to throw up so bad.

"I told you I heard someone talking!"

A silent comment from her, followed by a gasp from the statue.

"I know you said there was no way the voices came from outside! I'm just saying that we were both right! No need to be so aggressive!"

Well, this is what happens when you go around kicking random doors. You find another statue, and then a half cat, and then some mask who yells at you when you ignore it, and eventually you're bound to run into one of those scientists. A human.

…no. That's not human at all. They usually scream and shoot on sight, in here.

This one feels like him.

"Sorry. Guess staying here makes her cranky." Karl kept on talking, as calm as possible "You don't happen to know where an exit could be, right? She really needs to stretch her wings."

« Well, it doesn't surprise me. Who doesn't get cranky in staying here? » he comments flatly, absent-mindednly reading about the villa of an important someone burned down by someone else of little interest for everyone up to that moment, and the miracolous saving of said important someone who was found tied on the kitchen table just to make sure they would actually die; all of this was immediately followed by an article that celebrated the new record for the biggest omelette ever cooked. Seriously, who thinks of the layout of this thing...? A sigh, and he turns the page, not once lifting his gaze to the anomaly. The phone rings, and he lifts the receiver only to put it down immediately after without even glancing at it, much more focused on reading about a nun turned candymaker.

Or, maybe, he's still getting used to having respawned for the umpteenth time in just a few minutes and got it wrong. Superpowers or not, he's still human. No matter what those freaks in labcoats say.

"...My left.", he answers after a second of silence, used mostly to readjust his breath than anything else.

"I guess we're not done yet, then."

In. Out. Relax. Let yourself slide on the chair. What's the worst he could do? Kill you?

Hah.

Focusing his eyes on Clef, Ben stiffened, feeling a shiver go up his spine, reach for every vein in his body. File successfully saved. At least he won't have to repeat that whole thing again. Thank you for giving him the time to actually save.

« Nice comeback! » he chirps happily with a wide smile, pen beating on the clipboard a few more times before taking another note. « And nnnnope, I'm afraid we are not done yet. Sorry. ». He's not sorry. « We have a full hour together after all, and in the normal time - you know, not in our perspective, the one they're perceiving outside the room, you get me yes? - it has been... ». He checks his wrist watch. « ... ten minutes. Well, nine and a half. Much longer for us two, but for them at the window we have barely done anything. »

Yeah, sorry, 9341. He is not, in fact, getting a move on.

Shaw just kind of… stares. An eyebrow up, a hand on his hips.

"…dude.

There's a tree where your arm should be."

A little exaggerated, that's barely a tree, but the sentiment is the same.

"I know of the breach, I was there, but-- unless you decided to play karaoke with 407, I don't see how the aristocrats could-"

…record scratch. The aristocrats breached containment. And Clef had no arm now.

« ... way too exaggerated, anyway. » he continues, like that pain isn't there at all, the usual smile painted on the lips, and his eyes wandering more than looking at the other, Shaw's figure getting blurred in a different way every passing second. It's almost funny. « This is barely a tree. It's... barely a branch. A few leaves. Nothing like-- »

He's suddenly interrupted by Shaw's words, and they manage to make his smile even wider, and his eyes find the other's figure, though for just a second.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer