[Lobelia hums on the other end of the line, giving his question some genuine thought.]
I suspect a man so unfamiliar with the concept of happiness like you would kill not because it pleases him, but because something else wills you to. Am I correcte?
The place where I come from is awash with blood on a regular basis. If you were a Fixer and you didn't kill, that would be almost an abnormality in and of it itself.
[His hand clenches over the shell, almost unconsciously - a crack moves over it from the strain, but he doesn't go all the way. An unfortunate predicament...]
[Ah! He can hear it cracking!! Lobelia can't resist a brief, delighted laugh... but hey, at least he's attempting to hold it together. That's more than he'll do for most.]
You've yet to answer my most pressing question, but it seems you're not feeling inclined to at the moment! Peut-Γͺtre you'll feel better in the morning? More... amicable?
I'm like a weapon. A weapon feels nothing. I kill if it gets me to where I need to go. [His voice is quieter.] It all comes down to the flow. Nothing more, nothing less. The hells and high waters one goes through. The flow cannot be stopped.
[Nothing more than a weapon, eh? That certainly doesn't apply to Lobelia himself, but to a certain something in his possession. He knows the feeling through their connection, if nothing else.]
But you speak as if you have no choice but to go along with the flow. Even a weapon has a choixβ the right to be happy. You are not beyond redemption!
[So very final and so very sad... It's not the conclusion he was hoping Vergilius would come to, but the one he expected. Still, there isn't an ounce of judgment in Lobelia's voice, nor any pity.]
Then why go on living? If you truly see no value in yourself, what reason do you have to persist? Don't tell me it's for the sake of others.
My friend, I fear you may already be in l'enfer. You're living it.
[Going through each day bound in shackles, suffering through the tumult of day to day life as a weapon meant for nothing but destruction... If only Vergilius could see the value in that, then he might just know happiness as Lobelia does.]
That's why you would be better served casting off your shackles and living as a free man while you still draw breath. Know paix in this life until you are nothing more than a withered husk! You are alive, so why do you refuse to live?
I see... So you caught a glimpse of salvation and looked the other way. In that regard, we're contraires.
[Vergilius must've never believed himself worthy of happiness, unlike Lobelia who has believed himself more worthy of it than anyone else. Still, an ill feeling settles in his heart, but it's brief and fleetingβ something like jealousy, he supposes, not paying it much mind.]
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[You can tell him, Vergie. There's no need to be shy.]
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[A long pause. He could've given a blunt answer, but once again, he doesn't like giving people what they want.]
What do you think, Lobelia?
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[Lobelia hums on the other end of the line, giving his question some genuine thought.]
I suspect a man so unfamiliar with the concept of happiness like you would kill not because it pleases him, but because something else wills you to. Am I correcte?
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[A scoff. Obviously not answering the question.]
The place where I come from is awash with blood on a regular basis. If you were a Fixer and you didn't kill, that would be almost an abnormality in and of it itself.
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Ah, so I was correct in suspecting we had something in common! Still, how curious that one who breaks others would be granted the title of "Fixer".
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Welcome to my world. Maybe I should bring you there. You can rub one out before a pack of Sweepers comes to take you out with the rest of the trash.
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[What a vulgar man!!! Lobelia can't relate.]
You seem well-matched with your vocation, and yet you're so unhappy! What an unfortunate predicament you've found yourself in...
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[His hand clenches over the shell, almost unconsciously - a crack moves over it from the strain, but he doesn't go all the way. An unfortunate predicament...]
Are we done?
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[What happened to this being their last conversation? Don't worry about it.]
I'll give you some time to se dΓ©tendre and enjoy your vacation before I ask you my second question.
[HE'S ALREADY ASKED MORE THAN """A COUPLE,"""]
Try not to fret over the miserable existence waiting for you back home!
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[Another crack forms over the shell.]
Get it all done now. I don't want to deal with you.
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You've yet to answer my most pressing question, but it seems you're not feeling inclined to at the moment! Peut-Γͺtre you'll feel better in the morning? More... amicable?
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[Practically a command, not an answer.]
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[And who knows what Lobelia's measure for honesty is?]
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[A long pause.]
I'm like a weapon. A weapon feels nothing. I kill if it gets me to where I need to go. [His voice is quieter.] It all comes down to the flow. Nothing more, nothing less. The hells and high waters one goes through. The flow cannot be stopped.
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[Nothing more than a weapon, eh? That certainly doesn't apply to Lobelia himself, but to a certain something in his possession. He knows the feeling through their connection, if nothing else.]
But you speak as if you have no choice but to go along with the flow. Even a weapon has a choixβ the right to be happy. You are not beyond redemption!
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[The quietest his voice has been, but there's something simmering behind it. Like the heightened rush of blood.]
I'm not.
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You're not what, Vergilius?
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[It feels like a finality of a statement. Like as much as fact as two plus two always equaling four.]
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Then why go on living? If you truly see no value in yourself, what reason do you have to persist? Don't tell me it's for the sake of others.
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[As simple as that.]
Dots become lines. Lines lead to possibility.
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[Going through each day bound in shackles, suffering through the tumult of day to day life as a weapon meant for nothing but destruction... If only Vergilius could see the value in that, then he might just know happiness as Lobelia does.]
That's why you would be better served casting off your shackles and living as a free man while you still draw breath. Know paix in this life until you are nothing more than a withered husk! You are alive, so why do you refuse to live?
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[His voice is gruff as he speaks, as if the idea of that scene leaves a bad taste on his mouth.]
I admit, I saw her point. It was tempting. But I decided that my path would never go that way. So I left it behind.
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[Vergilius must've never believed himself worthy of happiness, unlike Lobelia who has believed himself more worthy of it than anyone else. Still, an ill feeling settles in his heart, but it's brief and fleetingβ something like jealousy, he supposes, not paying it much mind.]
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