"Physically, I'm looking at a crime of either passion or calculation."

The man stepped out from the shadows, further into the dim neon lights. He sported a comedically silly plastic coffee cup in one hand, filled to the brim with light brown and whipped cream. Once his face came into full view, with dark circles under tired eyes and enough worry lines to give elderly folks pause. What might be more telling is how familiar it is.

Grigori grimaced, only sparing a glance at the fresh corpse now at her feet. She was the one that owned a bar. The one Grigori had to watch. Very poorly, but it hadn't burned down. It wasn't a stranger, at least. He didn't have to either play vigilante or play the dangerous game of 'assuming they are Rocket until the mask falls to the floor'. He loathed the game.

"Metaphorically, I'm gazing straight into my own history. Watching it replay in real time," he took a sip. Unfortunately, the metallic tang of blood wasn't enough to make the sugary concotion any less delicious. He'd long grown out of letting the crimson stains dissuade him from sustenance. 

"May I ask who this once was?"

---

Absinthe Blackwood

“And sometimes, people actually know you,” Grigori set the cup down on the ground, as far away from the trash and refuse, and maybe even a Rattata. “And they know that by seeing you, their fates are sealed. As much as you wish for the comfort of familiarity, too much time has passed to allow it to continue, as it once might have.”

His eyes only portrayed the weariness nestled deep within. It'd feel like he saw straight through hers, though. A facade ready to be cracked and dissected until there was nothing left to learn. Slowly, the grunt closed the distance between them until they were almost within reach. Then, he knelt down. Slowly. He winced. 

“Construction work is hard on the knees. Do you plan to leave him here, or would you like to deposit him elsewhere?” He looked around. Slateport dumpsters were usually filled to the brim, but there was always one that had less than others. “As is, the police will find him in…”

He looked down at his watch. “Half an hour, perhaps. A full one if you’re lucky. Too much blood, and too open.”

She’d have a target on her back: it did not take a scientist to put ‘bloody corpse’ and ‘blood-covered girl’ as a connected situation. And at this point in the war, she’d be lucky even to get brought in.

A bullet between the eyes was much safer, faster, and cheaper amid war. "You might buy yourself the time to escape with a little clean up."

---

Absinthe Blackwood

Grigori had followed the woman as she dragged the corpse away, a permanent wince on his face. How many did this make for her? The way she moved and acted painted an image of newness. Confusion only showed in those unsure of their actions or in a daze. Maybe it was both for her.

“For future reference,” he started as he bent down. The flesh was cooling, but it was by no means ‘cold’. Cold wouldn’t settle in for a few hours. But definitions like this were best left for the coroners. “Blood tends to follow a corpse along the ground. Lift with your knees, and go one dumpster down.”

With a heave, they lifted. Whichever dumpster they chose, and no matter how full of refuse it was, they managed to get the body secured within the container. The grunt hefted the lids down, careful to ensure they did not slam into the metal.

“Did you bring a fresh set of clothes?” He glanced towards the woman. “You will not get very far in that state. And wherever you touched the dumpster, make sure you give it a wipe with your sleeve. I’d hate for you to rot in a cell because of sloppiness.”

Meanwhile, he backtracked to the neon light. First, for his drink. Untouched, thankfully. Second, the scalpel. A glance further into the open space revealed naught a single soul. Good.

He returned, drink in hand and scalpel held with a sleeve. “Here. Don’t forget this either.”

---

Absinthe Blackwood

Grigori mused, if only for a moment, how much nicer his life would be if that were the case. He was mere the janitor, rather than a perpetrator. But, yet again, that'd carry its own guilt and weight.

A little lighter, but damning all the same.

"I have experience in cleaning up after people like myself," he corrected. Most would've snapped out by now. He tilted his head likewise. 

"Who was he?"

---

Absinthe Blackwood

Ah.

Carefully, cautiously, Grigori stepped forward. Step by step, until he was actually in reach of her. He set one hand on her shoulder, as if that would make everything better. It wouldn’t. Not even close.

But it was what he would’ve liked, in that garage. Upon the oil-stained floors with nothing but the cold to wrap around his frame with hands covered in blood. Mired in sin. Just the presence of another soul that understood what had occurred.

How much it had hurt, maybe even the desire to change it all. But they had only conquered death and all its methodologies. Life was still out of grasp, and he suspected that dichotomy would never change.

“I wish the words to soothe your soul existed,” he whispered back. In the sleepless city of Slateport existed a mere two souls who wished for anything but. “For there exists a million ways to trouble it, Ms. Blackstone.”

“My condolences."

---

Absinthe Blackwood

“Neither do I,” Grigori said. “They are reserved for those more in need, I suspect. Those whose mistakes will not leave such an impact. There is no undoing of what we’ve done– only moving forward the best we can.”

Even if he sailed into the foggy sea, bereft of lighthouse, land, or salvation, he still sailed onward. Dragged behind were the countless souls hurt, broken, slain by his hand. Try as they might to sink him, he would not allow it. That would be to deny that their existence had ever mattered at all.

And that was the most unforgivable of sins.

“Would it help if I shared with you my greatest mistake as well? Or do you only need the comfort of a fellow soul?”

---

Absinthe Blackwood

Grigori’s mind stopped for the briefest of moments, as she sank to the ground and further into despair. He knew how that twitch worked. howard slayte had it down well by now. His heart jumped into his own throat for a half-second, before it returned to his chest.

All she would find at the bottom of her flask was a reflection.

“He had been my best friend, when we ran from Hoenn and to Kanto,” he started. “He was the only one to understand my troubles. My plights. He was the calm and cool, while I raged like a storm. We kept each other in check.”

“Then he ran,” he almost spit out. Instinctual, but he sighed the anger out all the same. “And left me behind.”

That girl. How many problems she’d inadvertently created. How unaware she’d forever be, removed from their lives by her own departure.

“And after twenty-seven years, a war, an invasion, and several world-threatening events, I finally saw him again. Here. He was… happier than I. More fulfilled in life. Content. All the things I had ever wanted.”

“I do not know what I expected when I decided to meet him that night,” his voice dropped to the coldest, quietest manageable. As if he wrestled with the sound of infinitely distant stars for decibels. “Unannounced in his own garage. Revenge, confrontation, him to beg for forgiveness…”

He could still remember it perfectly. How he wished he couldn’t.

“Already I ramble on when you struggle more than I currently,” he knelt down once more. His bones still argued with the motion, but now most of all, it was important he ignore the complaints. “My story ended the same as yours is the importance of it.”

---

Absinthe Blackwood