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Otto rarely left his lab in mid-May, when the regret grew strongest. It always felt like the world piled things on his plate at that time anyway, so he didn't much mind the lack of fresh air. Even the tiny breezes from moving around were welcome, though-- He needed the feeling of someone around. The new lab was so quiet compared to the chaos of the one in Green Needle Gulch. The tiles in the Motherlobe made nice sounds when he moved his chair around on it, though he didn't like the noise of his shoes clicking on the same floor-- He'd have to try different shoes, find some that were comfortable and didn't make that clicking noise. Levitation helped, at least, but in mid-May, he couldn't muster the positive thoughts to force himself off the ground. He'd noticed the same issues with others, but he didn't say it. Heavens, no.
Small steps. Progress, one step at a time.
He rose from his chair, looking at the Brainframe. It had been a project between him and Ford, something created for when they were old and grey, when their bodies gave out. Now, instead, it felt like a mistake, a memory of the people who wouldn't live long enough to see it.
Of people like--
Otto had to bite his tongue and squeeze his eyes closed, counting slowly until he could think clearly again. The memories of that day still haunted him, still stuck around at night when he tried to sleep. Every time it returned, he had learned ways to handle it. Counting. Numbers helped. Numbers, figures, things he could quantify, things that made sense. Numbers didn't ask him how he messed up. Numbers didn't run away at the first sign of conflict. Numbers didn't shatter mentally and forget his name, numbers didn't hide from the world, numbers--
Deep breaths. One step at a time.
Otto turned, looking away from the machinery, looking at the things he had kept nearby-- More automatons, more ideas, pieces and tools he was going to use someday, dozens of blueprints and ideas that were tossed mostly to the back burner when he was expected to design ten new Psycho-portals. They hadn't even bothered to give him descriptions of what the agents in need were like-- How was he supposed to make them match when he didn't even know what he was matching? Designing machines was an art, and it felt like no one else cared to think about his art, or what he'd need to work with it. Most people wouldn't even listen if he tried to explain.
Most people, unlike--
Another deep breath. Five. Six. Seven. Seven, like the group. Like the others. Now, they were down to four-- Or was it five? Or three? Only five were alive, but only three were still agents. Ford's mind was gone, though he had once been brilliant. Now he didn't even have any memories of Otto, or any of the others. Even her name hadn't gotten much of a reaction, even though Otto had tried to poke into his mind. That had been a bad idea, as he was shoved out of the barbershop without a second thought on Ford's part. Cassie had gone away to do god-knows-what, making it impossible to find how to contact her once more. Compton had tried a few times before giving up, which had taken hours of persuasion on Otto's part. It had been difficult, but he knew how to talk to people who needed that sort of motivation. He was good with words, after all-- Otto's charisma was something he could forever be proud of. He could keep going. He could continue. He could do what he could to help them, and slowly, he could piece things back together once more.
One step at a time. Little by little.
The other two who were around were easier to speak to, at least-- Compton could be difficult, as his hypersensitivity to noise made it hard to talk much. Otto tended to leave him little notes, reminding him he had a friend around, no matter what. If he needed help, he could always ask, and Otto would be there. Not that he ever received a response, but he was fine with that. It would take time. It would take effort. That was fine. On the other hand, Helmut tried his best to branch out, to talk to people. At least he made an effort to try, even if he and Truman had drifted apart faster than opposite polarity magnets. The two of them had taken it the hardest after the battle, but they had pushed themselves to continue, even if Helmut's attempts to teach Truman had suffered. At least Otto could help with that, whenever he wasn't busy. It always got worse in mid-May, when it finally registered again.
Bob was gone.
His birthday was coming up soon. According to Otto's watch, in less than an hour. He stared at it, pausing, trying to find the right thing to do. That was when the noise stopped him, leaving him blankly staring, trying to register where it came from. After a couple of seconds, it repeated-- A knock. Otto walked to the door, hitting the button, and he watched the walls slide open, gliding on new rails. It took a moment for the person on the other side to adjust to the change in lighting and scenery, but Otto would have recognized him just as easily if he were moving at a hundred miles an hour. After all, no one else could make as much of an impression as Helmut.
"Hey." Helmut's voice was soft, as if it were mostly out of use. "...Thought I'd drop by. Heard you haven't been getting much to eat."
"I make do with what I have."
"Sandwiches don't make a balanced diet."
"Eh, depends on the type. What brings you here, really?"
"...Needed company," Helmut finally admitted, and he walked to Otto's desk, taking a seat on the floor with a quiet "thud." He managed a little smile, though it was fleeting. "...Almost that time again, you know."
"Yeah. I do." Otto looked at the chair he usually sat in, then at Helmut. After a few seconds of internal debate, he sat beside Helmut on the ground, grunting a bit when he hit the floor. "...Don't think we've spoken about it all that much, though. I understand why and everything, but... It could help."
"It won't," Helmut answered, shutting that idea down. Otto paused, looking away, then at his watch again. He wasn't entirely sure what to say or do-- He could try to find another conversation topic, but he wasn't sure that it wouldn't be shut down just the same. "...I miss him, you know. Every day."
"All of us do." Otto looked at him, quietly. "...What exactly do you miss? Or is it just... general."
Helmut opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had to shut his eyes to think, but finally, he spoke once more. "...Every time I woke up after him in the morning, he'd wait for me before he got up because he didn't want to wake me up before I was ready. He'd tell me about the flowers, and every time, I missed everything he was saying because I was caught up in that smile of his-- All... Swirls and peppermint candy. And he felt so warm all the time, so when it was cold, we'd huddle close together under my coat. He'd always borrow my coat for jokes, pretending to be me when we were alone. And... And I remember how he used to laugh. It was so hard to get him to really laugh. But when he did, it was... Bells and chocolate cake. Warm hot cocoa. All the best things in the world. And... now there's nothing."
"There isn't nothing. There are your memories." Otto looked at him, setting a hand on Helmut's shoulder. "They're important."
"...What about you?"
"Hah. I... I always focused more on other things. I don't have as much to say, and it's nowhere near as interesting--" Otto backtracked, avoiding Helmut's eyes.
"Nope, can't back out that easily. Tell me what you're thinking of."
Otto sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. About time he said it to someone. About time he got it off his chest. "...The last words I said to him were telling him he should take a shower because the helicopter ride over gave me a headache."
"...What," Helmut deadpanned. "You're serious--"
"Absolutely serious." Otto looked away, trying to avoid eye contact. "It was just how we interacted. He'd tell me to get a haircut, I'd tell him to take a shower, we'd laugh about it later. And instead..." He could already feel the Regrets buzzing around within his mind. "...We didn't get to laugh about that one. Sometimes, it makes you realize you've been taking a lot for granted. Being able to crack jokes with someone, or let off some steam by poking fun at them... and then it's over." Otto looked at Helmut. "I know. It's nothing compared to what you're dealing with--"
"Hey. It's alright. If you'd usually laugh about it later, then... I bet he was already laughing about it to himself. Or thinking up a comeback. I know my Bobby-- he'd come up with something."
"Probably another mullet joke."
"It's easy." Helmut shrugged, that smile returning. "What else can I say?"
Otto checked the time once more. "...Well, you could say 'happy birthday' to him."
"It's... wow. It's time already?"
"Sure is." Otto showed him the watch.
"...He'd be 30 this year, you know."
"Thirty. That's a good age." Otto finally stood after a moment, extending a hand to Helmut. "...I'm going to find some flowers for the memorial. Coming with?"
"...Nah. I'll meet you there. Don't worry about me." Helmut took his hand to get up, nearly pulling Otto down instead with his weight, but he stood, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. "...If I get a birthday cake for him, I'll make sure to save you a slice."
"Thanks." Otto walked him to the door, quiet once more. The sound of his shoes on the tile was deafening-- He'd have to fix that sooner rather than later. Helmut stopped him just before leaving the lab.
"Hey. Thank you."
"For what?"
"Listening."
Before Otto could react, Helmut was out the door, casually walking to the year-old memorial in Green Needle Gulch. Otto watched him go before taking his old, silvery coat from its spot on the rack. He would meet him there, no matter how long it took.
Small steps. One step at a time.