Pablo
?
Don't know how the fucking shrew knew it, but the inside of the building confirmed what Garrett said. Outside, there wasn't an airplane in sight. Inside, they were everywhere. Pictures on every wall with those enormous steel birds that could fly anywhere they wanted. Couldn't do that shit anymore. What would it be like to fly like a bird? Who knew, really? Too bad Pablo was born as a bony, wingless meat sack.
Miles had to be around here somewhere. Pablo pushed the barrel into a lobby that had counters and gateways, doorways with no doors. Had to be some confusing maze-like limbo or a fucked up rendition of hell. No Miles, though.
The barrel clipped the laminate and scraped along the floor. Didn’t roll as well on the smooth floor. It started to make a sharp turn to the right like it were running for its life. Damnit. He was already inside, might as well let it.
"Errghhh." He pushed the barrel as hard as he could, which wasn’t saying much at the moment. It rolled into the empty lobby floor, then turned sharply to the right and smacked into a counter as if magnetized to it. The barrel had the right idea, but the approach was wrong. If that were Pablo, he would have rolled right out the exit. It was partly tempting already, but Cass would lose any ounce of respect she had for him if she saw him rolling around on the ground.
Pablo pulled out his phone and opened messages to no notifications. Still waiting.
Shuld I hert a bitch?
Sent 2:10 AM
Maybe Pablo said something wrong. Miles's idiotic frowny face could have been anything. Might've had nothing to do with Emi. He could've just found a rock in his shoe and wanted to whine about it. Both would be like him, but Miles was probably just ignoring Pablo altogether and fucking off somewhere.
Damn, Miles just needed to reply.
Pablo's nose prickled and burned with a fiery rage. He quickly wiped it across his arm like a slob and left a wet booger trail that left it cold. Gross. It was the damn smell. The smell of old, or more likely mold, but it smelled exactly like Mrs. Huetz. That's one thing Pablo didn't miss about Amal. This stench might’ve had her beat, but Mrs. Huetz's could still hold the record for time spent idly staring at goats. Neither Pablo nor Miles wanted to challenge that record.
That nasty, wet carpet stink was overwhelming. Probably had even made it upstairs. There was a giant staircase in the center lobby with railings fencing both sides and the second floor stairwell. Anyone up there could have a pretty good view of Pablo. Creepy.
A flash of grey darted by the railings on the second floor and disappeared.
Miles?
"It won't turn on." A familiar voice echoed quietly. It was the type of voice you wanted to shove your fist in their mouth before they even started talking. Further down the east hall of the lobby, the Vocate was standing next to a broken screen and glancing at something on the floor, muttering like he was talking to someone down there who'd already given up standing near the prick.
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That nerdy creamsicle looked back at Pablo like he knew what he was thinking. Shit. Then he rolled his eyes and kept muttering. Wait. Was he talking about Pablo or something? The fuck was he saying?
"Pablo."
The stairs. Why did Miles sound like that? His voice was soft. Pathetic. Weak. Breathtaking. Literally, was Pablo breathing? The fuck was wrong with Miles? He was on the staircase, sitting on a landing between the first and second floors. His legs were apart, both hands in fists under his chin.
His dark hair was a disaster, sticking out in all directions. That wasn't the biggest problem. Seeing his hair was the fucking problem. He never took his hood off on a mission or his mask to catch a breath. Always took it seriously for some stupid Emi reason.
"Damn. You done already?"
What the fuck else was Pablo supposed to say? If he was already like this, Emi probably rejected the poor sob. And he looked so damn small. There was nothing Pablo could say to make it better when his head was suddenly so damn light. Felt like his brain was a balloon that got hit with a brick, whistling and spinning around until it dropped dead.
Miles was about 20 steps up. Shit. Pablo was so done with inclines. Couldn’t Miles come down here? Miles still kept his hood down, tapping a foot, but refusing to look Pablo in his eyes. What’s one more hill?
Pablo fixed his coat, evening it out by tugging under his arms. His hand came back wet. Fuck. Forgot he was sweaty as balls. He quickly pulled his arm over his shoulder and faked a stretch to catch a whiff of his coat while Miles wasn't looking. Not that bad. Just the normal odor expected from all that barrel rolling. Revolting. Goddamnit.
"I'm done." Miles flung his hand out, twirling scissors around like he did with knives. Not sure how he could sulk and show off at the same time, but that was Miles.
Had to have found the scissors around here. Odd for a Supra Depot, considering the usual supplies in depots were plytech shit- If this place had steel that was as useful as that, Twin Blades must’ve missed it somehow.
"No shit? Figured you'd be filling your pockets still. You find anything for me?" Half joking. Miles found magnets once that Pablo had fun with for days.
Miles finally looked at Pablo, "No. I mean it. I'm done." His face was red. Eyes shiny and pink like they were when he accidentally squeezed pawp juice in them. "I don't know what to do, Pablo."
Poor guy. Pablo took another step. "You'll be alr—"
"Can you just fucking stop?!"
What? Stop what? Pablo froze on the steps like he was waiting for permission to move and needed the green light. Miles was staring at him, holding those scissors. Pressed into his neck. What the fuck was he doing?
"I just want everything to stop." His voice was crackly. What’s going on? Miles got emotional sometimes, but it usually rolled off him pretty quickly and never got as bad as this. He couldn’t really be about to hurt himself, right? Pablo started to take another step.
Miles opened the scissors. "Stay down there!" He squeezed his neck’s skin. It protruded between the blades like a red balloon.
Shit. Chills crawled from Pablo's stomach to his chest.
Pablo raised his arms at his sides, showing he wasn't armed. Not with weapons. Not with sanity. "Okay. I'll stay down here, so put those goddamn things down."
Miles moved his lips, muttering to himself or something, then looked back at Pablo. "No, I told you to stay down there!" He started to grunt from pinching so hard, the scissors twisting his skin. But Pablo hadn’t even moved. Why the fuck was he doing that? Miles’s whole neck started turning dark shades of red, eyes shiny with water.
"STOP! Fucking mother fucker, Miles. Put those down!" Couldn’t help it. Pablo started to rush up the steps faster than human capability.
Miles whimpered like an injured animal, his arm dropped to his side, and his head flopped onto his shoulder. The hell just happened?
Pablo stopped when he was only a few steps away. Something wasn’t right. On the landing, Miles was still sitting in the same position, eyes closed.
Miles?
Miles’s foot started tapping slightly, like he does when he’s trying to sit still. That asshole was pulling Pablo's leg. Wasn't he?
Miles must have caught onto Pablo's suspicion because he stuck his tongue out and held it there like it was something dead things do. His lips curled into a grin. The worst acting Pablo had ever seen, and he fell right into it. Another obnoxious prank.
Pablo tightened his fists at his sides. “You goddamn idiot.” Pablo’s steps were loud, and the staircase shook under his feet. Didn’t matter. Nothing was stopping him now.
Like it was a game, Miles still sat there motionless when Pablo stood in front of him. Small. Huddled up on the stairs like he wasn’t even alive. Guess that was the point.
Fucker.
Going to be like that, huh?
"Stand up." Pablo nudged Miles’s leg.
*** Character-specific extras included in post author's note*
More Miles and Pablo in the next one.
Thank you for reading!
[Extra] Pablo polls:
You thought Miles was going to hurt himself too, didn't you? Never mind. Keep that shit to yourself.
Let me know what you think I should do so I can not do it. I mean, it all depends, doesn't it?
?: What should I do? (Post-Chapter authors note)