Solinis stands. “Well! I think I’m okay with handing you over to Lucifer now.” The two of them had kept each other company through no less than two apocalypses.
“I don’t get it. Who are you?”
“It’s okay,” he says with jagged exhalation, clutching his chest in response to cardiac palpitations that now occur. “I’ll just spend my next cycle of death paying for the pretty things I bought you, and then it’s done.” Things had always been strange around him, but it has only been in recent days that his overall nature had become actually absurd. Although the love for Fred had been arbitrary, the mania that had overtaken Solinis at various points resulted as honest expressions of a broken heart; the intermittent, intense forebodings of a final and total loneliness of his soul prompted his frivolous nature as a defense mechanism.
“You’re not Slyat, are you?”