"Almost Green"

"The Less I Know The Better"

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The familiar clicking took over the empty silence reigning over the office-container. Andy sat still, twitching a little in his uncomfortably rough and inexplicably tough chair. How could someone ever come up with such a torture device? And then decide it'd be a good idea to sell it to the public? And better yet, how could anyone ever willingly purchase this piece of garbage, that was completely unfit for human usage?

Every second spent on this monstrosity of a chair felt like being forcefully dragged across a seabed of spiky sea-horrors or mutated slugs. It felt worse than the beating. Worse than the desecration of Law, the light above his head.

It really didn't, but at the moment, he was willing to think of almost anything to get his mind off the chair. Anything, to wash away the pain.

Up until Duflot spoke, that is.

"... I see. You don't need to say anything else, Andy."

His reassurance was followed by a few haphazard combs across the balding plains of his once so great mane of gold.

"It was as much of a shock to me as it was to you, dear boy. That much, I can confidently guarantee." He coughed, bringing back the trademark smile onto his pristinely greasy face. "It seems it's true, what they all say about L.G.D. brutality, hm?"

And he chuckled, relieving some of the pent up tension. Or so he thought, at least.

"..." Andy did not say anything back. Sitting in the chair like a beaten dog, all snugly wrapped up in bandages and adhesives, he could only stare at the giant of cashmere. His halo kept clicking out an SOS signal with its glimmering lights, a habit it earned after being forcefully pierced by the flurry of rusty, old nails. While the removal was definitely possible, Andy decided to just leave them there, after a few unpleasant experiences starring Croissant in the main role. They tried prying them out, even managed to snatch one, but the splitting pain it brought was simply not worth it in the end, so he gave up hope, instead opting to rock this new (quite literally) metal-head look with pride. No one besides him would mind, anyway. It's not like his dad was there to reprimand him.

Even if he had been there, he probably wouldn't have noticed. Wouldn't care.

"... Andy?" Duflot cleared his throat, bringing the boy's attention back down to Terra. "You seem very distracted. The moment you stepped in, you almost bumped into my Durin-plant stand! Look at you, dear boy, you're a mess."

"... I know, I'm sorry." He mumbled back, unwilling to look the man in the eyes. "Rough week."

"Oh, "rough week." Andy, please. A rough week is when someone gets their boss to wail over their ear, or loses a hand of poker down at the "Devil's heel." What you've been through is not a rough week, not at all! It's much more."

"..." Silence. Duflot was right. He knew it, they both did.

"Andy, I feel like I owe you an apology."

"... An apology?"

"Well, yes, dear boy! What else? Officer SF01 was part of the union, after all. A part of the union, which I am in charge of." Duflot joined his hands together on the table to make his large disposition appear more professional. "So, I apologize. It must've been very traumatic for you, Andy."