Valerie's office looks no different from yesterday: plants, grandchildren's trophies, eclectic furnishings. Valerie herself... she's mad. Not that she wasn't mad before, but Albert's transgression then was old — scabbed over. The events of the past night are a different story.

Seated across the desk from her, Albert drums their fingers along the seam of a plush armrest. They study her. Underneath the anger lurks something that should be imperceptible. Especially so, given how little time has passed since the two last parted.

Aging.

A year, a day, a minute. It doesn't matter, even for a woman harboring hundreds more years than she should. Albert can feel it: imperfect cells, damaged through poor choices or nature's own flawed regeneration. Like worms writhing underneath her skin

Albert lists their head about the room. It's already been a day, huh? Ever faster does it crawl.

Valerie prickles behind her desk. "Well? What do you have to say? What kind of— of— of barbarians are you working with, Albert?"

Right. I shouldn't let my mind wander. Now: reframe responsibility. "She wasn't supposed to be here—" Albert starts.

Shooting out of her chair, Valerie slaps her palms onto the desktop. "But she was!"

Offer a flawed solution. Albert bats a hand. "Don't worry, I'll cut a check to cover any medical expenses."

"And have her owe you a favor? I never thought you'd sink low enough to suck life from a college student."

Tease, then provoke. Albert clutches at their non-existent pearls. "Goodness, who do you take me for? I'd never do something so dastardly! If anything, she the one who did me a favor."

Her voice resonates in her chest, taking on a dark tone."Don't you dare."

Resolve the tension, put her center stage. They lower their hand back to their lap. "Fine, I'll make this clear for you. Avery has plenty of life ahead of her. There's no reason for me to dabble and I swear to you that I won't. Not everyone is worth the guilt like you were, Valerie — the old you, at least."

"Oh? And exactly who was I?"

Establish a hero's call. "A light in a long, dark tunnel. You still could be if you wanted: it'd be shame to send you—"

Valerie collapses back into her chair, letting her head loll against the headrest. "Enough, I've humored you more than I should have. This is where I make my exit; let the curtains close for someone else to draw. Someone younger. Maybe with enough patience for your bullshit, if that's even possible."

Thus the scene ends. The fourth wall broken, the writer disgraced, and the play strangled in its crib by the would-be star. For a second time. All the calculations — all the fear and stress — disappear. Albert's lost. And for the rest of this moment, there's nothing left to do. Nothing besides saying goodbye to an old — albeit estranged — friend.

Peppermint creeps up Albert's nose, wisps rising from a delicate teacup in their lap. They cradle the cup to their lips and drink. "You know I had to try, Valerie. There will never be another to take your place: no one else can understand me or my reasons.

"I'll miss you.

"And our conversations, no matter how few or hostile they may have been. You're certain you want to go through with this? I'm not trying to convince you otherwise, but I have to be sure. I have to hear you say 'yes' to that question."

Her eyes dart to a picture frame on her desk. They linger there. After a moment, she clears her throat and refocuses on empty space. "Yes — yes, I'm sure. Tamika's starting to notice and I'd rather pass things on before she gets spooked. She deserves it. Don't fret too much, you'll find someone else. There are plenty of people at the Bureau with a conscience: you'd have chosen one already if you weren't being so picky."

"Maybe you're right; maybe I have been picky. Though, it's not just a conscience. I'd say it's more about—" Albert shakes their head. "No, sorry. I shouldn't ramble. You don't want to hear all of my caveats, requirements, and such. Anyways. Do you have your affairs in order?"

Behind teal, horn-rimmed glasses, panic flashes through Valerie's eyes. "Oh dear, we're not doing it now, are we?"

"What? Of course not. This would be a terrible place for it."

"Then why in the world did you ask it like that?"

Albert shrugs. "Chitchat; small talk. Though, to be fair, I was trying to segue into discussing your preferred timing. Keep it a tad more delicate than saying it outright. Not great at subtlety when I'm doing something out of the good of my heart."

There's a long silence between them. One of silent contemplation for Valerie. For Albert, the opposite. They close their eyes and wander through the halls of an empty mind. Paths packed minutes prior now pristine. Calm. No urgent plans; no onslaught of possible scenarios. Just silence and letting their thoughts happen. Letting them wander from nothing to... more nothing.

Unease settles in Albert's stomach; each new nothing threatens their mind's footing. Like they're teetering on an existential slope, slicked by rain. They drum their fingers upon their armrest and pull themself back into the present. Maybe relaxing just isn't for me.

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Valerie plucks her teacup off her desk and cradles it to her chest. She goes to sip, but — with a quiver of her lip — she stops midway. "Are you scared of it?"

"If you're going to ask me a question like that, I'll need something stronger than tea." Albert digs a flask out of their dress pant's pocket. They start to unscrew its cap, but hesitate. "Oh, sorry. May I?"

Managing a sip, Valerie glares past the rim of her cup. "If you must; a waste of quality tea."

Albert wrenches the cap off. "I must."

It's a single malt from the now defunct Chichibu distillery — made just before they shutdown. Two hundred years ago, about. Albert pours it into their teacup and — hovering their nose inches away from the mixture — breathes in: dried orange and caramel rise upon trails blazed by peppermint, both tailed by a pleasant woodiness. Oak, but a species specific to Japan. Mizunara.

Nerves tingle up Albert's nose at the familiar scent. They savor it; they sip. Caramel apples frolic from taste bud to taste bud, leaving behind the visage of vanilla — walnut. They swallow. Peppermint lingers in their nose and the alcohol's heat spreads through their chest: images of snow and a warm hearth.

Lowering their teacup, Albert exhales through pursed lips. "Exquisite. Far from a waste, I'd say."

"Well? Enough to give an answer?"

At her prodding, Albert's chest shifts. Amidst warmth a void blossoms; a core of all consuming fear. A black hole. Practice keeps their voice calm. "Oh, yes! Your death question. I'm scared of it — more than anything, I think. Terrified."

Valerie lowers her teacup, placing it back upon its dish. Her hands tremble and porcelain meets in a jittery clatter. "You have a way with words, Albert. Always knowing just how to scare an old woman."

Drinking more whiskey-infused tea, Albert flushes that void to the back of their mind. "Ah, mm— Aren't you Catholic, though? You've got an afterlife to look forward to."

"Sure, I'm Catholic. As much as I can be in a world as— as messed up as this one." She hides trembling hands in her lap. "But, what if I'm wrong?"

"A hero brought to tremble by something she used to face every day? Second guessing, too? Never thought I'd see Locks shies away from death and its many questions."

"I'm not second guessing my decision. It's just... I don't know. Doing it for other people was easier; this feels selfish. Wrong. Like I've lost."

"Nor did I predict a future where she shares such personal struggles with me! What's gotten into you?"

"Oh, quiet. Who else would I be able tell?"

"And how would you like me to respond? Offer some advice? Admiration? My condolences, maybe? Honest question, as terribly as I've worded it."

"Just tell me it's okay. That I'm allowed to make this choice. That, even if this life is all there is, dying isn't a bad thing."

"Your time is yours to end. Though, can I say that dying isn't bad without hesitation? I don't know; that's a hurdle I haven't overcome." Albert turn's their thoughts inward, toward the void they tried to drown under whiskey. "There's this feeling I get when I merely think of what waits beyond life's final curtain — contemplation of endless nothingness. It's petrifying."

There it is. A sharp intake of breath that leaves Albert's lungs empty. They claw at their chest, nails scrabbling over their shirt's mesh fabric. "My heart stops; my mind clears in an instant. The Grim Reaper themself is there next to me, skeletal hand reaching to pluck away my very existence. Then, it's like you said: I'll lose. I'll have done something wrong. So, can I tell you that death is good? I think not — unless you'd prefer I lie to you."

There's another silence. Albert forces their focus to stray in between sips of tea. They search for any visual stimuli to occupy their mind. Behind Valerie, next to a cracked window and resting upon the cluttered windowsill, snowdrops rise from a pot. Blooming snowdrops; odd for early winter. Wind whistles in to rustle their stems. Drooping bulbs filter cold air as it flows, brightening its bite with the flower's smell of honeyed almonds.

Albert swirls their tea around their cup. There might be meaning there: renewal, hope. If I were lucky, but am I?

Pushing off her desk, Valerie struggles to her feet through age's aches. Pain unerased despite a gift of two hundred years. "I don't want to know when you're going to do it. I want to go to sleep one night and never wake up." She takes a stance near those snowdrops — back to Albert — and gazes over the aquarium's parking lot. "Soon, though. Promise me that."

Albert rises out of their chair and slides their teacup onto Valerie's desk. "Then that's that. I promise, it'll be soon. For what it's worth: I'm sorry that I wasn't able to find a favor big enough to offer until now."

She cocks her head to the side. "That's how you're spinning it, huh? Offering me the opportunity?" Sighing, she looks back to the parking lot. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Before you go: why is that man worth so much to you?"

Albert pats wrinkles out of their faux suede pants. "Who?"

"Waylon."

A switch flips in Albert's mind. They freeze in place, thrust into the spotlight of a scene they didn't plan. "You've been snooping, I see. Too early for an article to be out. Who'd you get his name from? Barclay? The hospital?"

"Ronan. I invited him for tea and he was more than happy to come. Ecstatic, I'd say."

Heart races; sweat christens. Regret, fear, and something else. Why did they let their guard down? This woman isn't just an estranged friend: she's a hero.

A paragon.

That feeling of something else though; danger and a will to overcome intertwined, both thrumming in unison to form what can only be described by a single word.

Life. The reason Albert exists. To—

Valerie interrupts their thoughts. "Now, now: I can hear your waters churning. I'm not planning anything. Don't be mad at him, by the way. He only told me because he knew you visited and I was pestering. Even then, he put up quite a show trying to convince me that he didn't know what I was talking about."

Oh. That makes more sense.

Albert unfreezes and finishes patting away their suit's wrinkles, paying close attention to the two wings of teal, faux suede fabric that dangle from either side of their belted waist. "The downside of your understanding me; all the buttons to make me panic, lain bare before you."

"Then we're even for earlier. I'd still like an answer, though — about Waylon."

Wrinkle free, Albert works toward the door. They shuffle around a velvet couch and a matching pair of armchairs. "It's nothing grand, Valerie. He's just a bit like me. Burned by a system unwilling to change, its bloated and archaic and cruel self acting by design. He's come to understand that we need to move beyond it. Just like you did. Unlike you, though, he'll decide to do something about it."

"Then by helping you I've damned another's soul to save mine." She sighs, long and drawn out. "What a hero I've become."

"You won't have to live with it, at least."

The remaining maze of plants and furniture stretches with the silence. Albert thinks that'll be the end of it, but just before they cross beyond the room's threshold, Valerie speaks. "I hate you. By god, have I hated you."

The words are nails. Not freshly driven, but rusted and bent; embedded long ago. Still leaking poison throughout Albert's body and mind. They hesitate in the doorway, letting their fingers linger upon its frame. "I know. I wish I was sorry."

With that, they leave.