Archive of Our Own

Dante doesn’t make it a step out the door before people are yelling at them. It’s not an unusual occurrence, of course, but the sudden eruption of noise means they’re unable to figure out exactly what is being shouted at them. Only Faust is able to cut through the clamour:

“Where are you going, Dante?”

<Huh? I’m going shopping.>

The main body of the bus erupts into noise again; Ishmael somehow manages to speak slightly louder over the following outburst. “You- Dante, you can’t go out there alone. Do you know how many people are- are kidnapped, or murdered, or tortured for their prosthetics? It’s a miracle you’re even alive!”

“Correct. That is why Vergilius has been with us off of the bus in the vast majority of our excursions during our time in P Corp.”

“Ah! That’s good!” Sinclair exclaims. “So Vergilius will go with Dante?”

The man in question doesn’t even bother to fully turn around. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?!”

“Do you not think my presence would draw more attention to ourselves on top of the manager’s… striking appearance? Ah, I suppose these evil robbers will take my eyes along with their head.” Vergilius shrugs. “Just kidding. I don’t get paid for the time I spend out of Mephistopheles.” He clears his throat. “Don Quixote!”

“HO!”

“And Heathcliff.”

“Hwuh?”

“Off the bus, you two. Your manager needs some bodyguards.”

✹ ✹ ✹

With the party three times larger than originally planned, Dante finally manages to make it out into the streets, their posse trailing close behind as they cross through the large parking lot Charon has managed to park Mephistopheles in. Don Quixote swings her lance merrily over her shoulder as she walks, Heathcliff twisting his bat in his hand. 

All in all, though, they walk in absolute silence.

Dante does their best attempt to break the ice. <Wow, guys, we haven’t really hung out like this since…>

“Ahh…”

“Mm…”

Yep. Not the fondest of memories. Dante rubs the back of their neck, fidgeting with the handles of the plain black bag in their hand. <Ah, well, I’m sure we’ll be fine, right guys?>

“Forsooth!” Don Quixote clears her throat loudly before speaking another word, “In fact, I have been training myself in the art of holding my breath so that such a situation shall not occureth again!” 

Heathcliff ducks his head as he matches his stride to Dante’s pace. “Right, so where we off to?”

<Well, I was eyeing up that big shopping centre we keep on passing by.> Dante points to a tall, white building in the distance, the outside dotted with storefront signs all the way into the sky. To their surprise, though, Heathcliff physically recoils in disgust. 

“Eh? That place reeks!”

<It looks pretty clean to me…>

“No, that’s the bloody problem, Clockhead, if there’s a market that’s squeaky clean, who d’ya think is paying for all that? Not them, that’s for sure.” Heathcliff shoves his hand into his pocket and walks in front of them, looking around before his eyes light up and he begins walking down a different path. “See, that’s what they’re tryna do, they’re preying on people like you, mate, who don’t know any better. They try looking better than they are to sell ya shite for more. Sheesh. ‘S like you were born yesterday or something.” He casts them a sideways glance, and they shrug, gesturing in front of themselves.

<Lead the way, then.>

“First you gotta see where the people are actually coming and going from, not just the big ol’ entrances. Look, it‘s like the flow of traffic outta the hotspots of a neighbourhood…” 

He weaves through the streets, Dante and Don Quixote following him close behind, down alleyways that become more downtrodden as they go; the streets become lined with vendors, the presence of vehicles growing sparse as lines for market stalls crowd the sidewalks and force people onto the road, large yellow-and-red signs dotting displays of produce out in the open. Dante notes that these kinds of bustling markets are mostly seen in the Backstreets, and rarer in the Nest that they find themselves in. Maybe it’s the proximity to the border; maybe they just don’t have the kind of instinct Heathcliff has to sniff it out. Don Quixote trails a few steps behind them — they don’t question why she doesn’t walk next to them, but as the crowds become busier, to the point where they walk shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, she grabs their hand to stop them from being separated. Everything seems to be sold everywhere, from market goods to fresh produce, colourful banners strung up as if to entice people to stop by at every stall — especially Don Quixote, who stops every few steps to gesture to something in excitement. They can’t hear her well over the crowds, her hand on theirs the only assurance that she hasn’t wandered off entirely. Curiously enough, she only points out inanimate objects and trinkets alike, and Dante nearly misses the next fresh produce stand as they’re trying to discern the direction of her excited pointing. 

<Oh, Heathcliff! Wait!>

Heathcliff attempts to backtrack through the crowds to reach them again; Don Quixote disinterestedly slips her hand out of theirs at the prospect of staring at vegetables for any longer than she has to. With both hands freed, they pull their shopping list out of their coat, slowly going through each item one at a time. Heathcliff looms over their shoulder — someone bumps into him, and he yells at them to watch where they’re going, his voice blending easily into the busy streets.

It doesn’t quite help with the headache they get when staring at unfamiliar words. <Heathcliff, can you… quiet down?>

“Mm.” He squints at their empty hands. “You alright, mate? What’s takin’ you so long?”

<Well, it happens to be that if you don’t need to eat and you also lose all your memories, you tend to forget what the name of… a lot of things are,> they say, clenching the list tighter in their hands, bringing it up to their face like that would help. <Uh, or I thought I could relearn while I was shopping. Didn’t exactly realise I’d have a council watching me.>

Heathcliff scoffs. “Alright. Just ask for help if you need it.”

<Okay… easy ones, easy ones…> Dante reaches out hesitantly, finally putting away the list that they’ve read enough times to have memorised letter-by-letter. <That’s a tomato. We need those. And we need onions, the red kind, or, well, purple. And that’s corn, but usually we get it in those frozen bags, so I’m not getting that…>

“Yep. You got it.”

<...Uh… that’s. That’s, uh…> Dante hovers their hand over a vegetable. They’re always so bad with the green ones. <That’s, um…>

“…Are you being serious with me right now?”

<That’s a cucumber?>

“That’s a zucchini, Clockhead.”

<They’re basically the same thing, right?>

“No? One’s good for cooking, the other I’ll cook you if you try and fry it…”

“Sir Heathcliff…”

<Which one’s which?>

“How long you’ve got that head for? Look, a zucchini’s soft and absorbs sauce up-”

<So you don’t cook that one? So you can… sauce it?>

“What? No! Cooking makes shite soft so it doesn’t matter if it’s soft already. Cucumber’s crunchy so you eat it raw, if you cook it, it becomes soft so there’s no point in the difference in the first place!”

“Sir Heathcliff!”

<What? How am I meant to know that?>

“SIR HEATHCLIFF!”

“WHAT?!”

The two turn around to finally face the source of the noise — Dante nearly drops their wallet. <Don Quixote, why are you covered in blood?>

“T-‘tis not blood!” She does a once-over of herself. She is, in fact, covered in blood. “…’Tis jam?”

Dante stares at her. After a moment’s contemplation, evidently deciding that an interrogation would be far too much effort on top of learning the difference between fresh produce, they sigh and turn back to cross-reference their grocery list with the vegetables on the market stand for the fiftieth time. Heathcliff pulls Don Quixote aside, just out of earshot. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“Fie! Whilst thou were doting upon Manager Esquire, I supposed I smelt the presence of those treacherous villains Young Ishmael spoketh of! I only wished to part for but a mere moment to vanquish these foes, but upon which I came the strangest revelation!”

Heathcliff takes closer note of the blood that covers her lance and her uniform. It’s not hers, that’s for sure, but rather drier and filled with sinuous tissue. Small pieces of rock-like debris are caught in her hair, a murky yellow — her eyes squeeze shut as he dusts it out. “Peccatulum… Pigritiae?”

“Right on, Young Heathcliff! We shall alert the manager at once, as I did wish to clean myself off lest I scare them or the lovely townspeople, but now that they hath seen me already-“

“Wait!” Heathcliff covers her mouth as she squeaks in protest, already halfway through her jaunty walk back to the market stand. “C’mon, it’s their first time outta the damn bus doing normal shite after everything at La Mancha- no, ever since we came to P Corp. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them outta the bus not managing fights in two bloody months- GAH!”

He immediately lets go as something wet touches his palm, immediately wiping it off onto his pants; Don Quixote makes a show of spitting the taste of his hand out of her mouth onto the corner of where building meets concrete. “I see! so Sir Heathcliff truly does have a compassionate heart after all.”

“Oi you-“

“With our combined combative prowess, I with my mighty Fixer strength, and thou with thy… Backstreets Brutality, we will be a truly unstoppable force! No more will we fail in protecting our Manager, yet we shall still control the scenes from the sidelines! O, this is reminiscent of a tale I once heard of a highly cunning King and his entourage of companions: I shall be the intelligent sorcerer Prospero, and thou shalt be my servant Caliban-“

“I ain’t a fuckin’ Caliban!”

“My loyal servant Ariel, then!”

“You calling me a fairy?”

“My dutiful daughter Miranda? Ho! Nobody shall see it coming, Miranda, my dear child. Sir Heathcliff! Sir Heathcliff?! Wherefore art thou walking so fast away from me, Sir Heathcliff?!”

✹ ✹ ✹

There’s not much for Dante to pick up — most of their shopping list consists of perishables and consumables. All things considered, Heathcliff is a pretty good acting advisor, and Don Quixote a very willing porter (less willing when she discovers that there’s nothing immediately edible in the bags they hand off to her, although that might be for the best). With the basics taken care of, they scan for anything interesting that could amuse the Sinners in the lengthy process of crossing the next border. Heathcliff looks more comfortable than he has in the long time since they’ve arrived in the Nest as a company, his broad shoulders and metal bat over his shoulder sticking easily out above the crowd, with Don Quixote still just a few steps behind, looking around with wide-eyed interest at the stores and sky-high buildings alike.

Somehow, through the chatter of the crowds, there comes the spatter of cheering and applause from a nearby alleyway — Dante nearly trips at how suddenly they’re suddenly yanked to a stop as Don Quixote raises her finger and points. 

Completely ignoring the person behind her that nearly walks right over them, she shakes their sleeve and grins. “Mayhaps some sort of competition is going on within! Shall we have the chance to spectate, dear Manager?”

<That… sounds fun?>

Heathcliff shuffles back around towards them once more, before looking in. “That is the shadiest alleyway I have seen in my life. Come on.” The moment he attempts to walk away, dragging the two enraptured spectators by their arms, a person from the crowded alley emerges and sidles up to the group.

“Hey there!” they say with a friendly smile (or, the imitation of one — their eyes squint and the burn marks around their cheeks stretch under their mask-like prosthetic covering their mouth), “We’re having a little competition ‘round here, fifty-thousand entry! Chance to win it all! Just have to beat some of us in arm wrestling. You interested?”

Dante nudges Heathcliff. <You should take a shot at it.>

“What? That’s obviously a scam. They probably got some intra-venous prosthetics or some shite hidden in their human arm,” he mumbles in return. “Just gonna put us in debt.”

The stranger’s eyes light up when they fall on Dante’s head. “That’s a pretty thing you got there! How much for it?”

“It’s not for sale,” Heathcliff snaps.

<…Excuse me?>

The person almost seems to pout, but takes a step closer anyway. “Ooh, it makes clock-sounds too! How much for the entire cutie?”

<...>

“Are you daft? I said the head’s not for sale.” Heathcliff frowns, lowering his bat to cross both his body and Dante’s. He stares down the person, expression unreadable, before patting Dante on the back as he turns around. “I said come on, already, Clockhead-”

“I REIGN VICTORIOUS!” Don Quixote suddenly announces, notably from some distance away; she sits in the middle of a crowd gathered around a beat-down table, her hand atop of someone else’s. The alleyway has become eerily silent. “Hoho! I believe thou sayest ‘twould be one hundred thousand Ahn for the victor?”

In rather terrified silence, the poor soul across from her slides her two banknotes. 

“I thank thee kindly, my dear lady! Now,” she says, turning back to face the crowd. “Would anyone dareth to challenge I, Don Quixote?!”

Murmurings arise from the small crowd that has formed around them. Someone nudges the loser and hisses to her — “How’re you gonna lose to a girl? Look at her, she’s built like a twig! Here, let me have a go.”

Heathcliff slowly turns back around to the table that Don Quixote sits at triumphantly. “…Clockhead, can we stay a little longer?”

In roughly the span of forty minutes, Don Quixote amasses an earning of one million Ahn; Heathcliff has moved to stand behind her and her newly amassed fans, the unabashed exchange of bets rising rapidly in Don Quixote’s favour. One of the spectators is outright flirting with Don Quixote even — at first, Dante watches in alarm as the curly haired woman slings her arm, split off at the elbow into two metal forearms and wrists, around Don Quixote, which quickly fades into amusement as she coos, “You’re quite the ladykiller!”, to which Don Quixote cries out in rather pertinent horror as she effortlessly wins another round: “I would never kill a lady!”

The alleyway once more erupts into whistles and cheers, Heathcliff the loudest of them all — money is exchanged and Don Quixote lets out a laugh as he collects her winnings for her. The latest loser, however, simply stares at Don Quixote with thinly veiled anger, attempting to squeeze the life of her hand still grasped firmly around theirs. Don Quixote does not seem to mind at all, instead blabbering on to the only person who will listen to her about the appeal of the design of their prosthetic arm that can also turn into a chainsaw, completely unfazed by the live demonstration they give her, admiring the effectiveness of the length of each tooth attached to the blade. The competitor swallows, and still trying to put up a decent front, gestures towards Dante and Heathcliff. “Oy, you there, good man, with the clock! You came here with these two, yeah? You should take that boy and the kid out of here before they gain too much attention.”

<...I’m not a man though?>

“Don’t call me boy, old geezer…”

“I AM NO CHILD!!!”

They shake their hand free from Don Quixote’s grasp — “I mean it. I knew you lot were all sorts of trouble when you walked in here. Don’t know what kind of thing I expected from such a group like you.”

“...Excuse me?” Don Quixote says.

“You’re fine, I guess. But look at you,” they stand up, gesturing to Dante, “flaunting yourself around like you’re hot-shit. And I don’t like you sort of…” they pointedly look at Heathcliff, “… low lives hangin’ out around here. Scram.”

Before Heathcliff has the chance to open his mouth for his retort, there’s a sudden clang of metal against concrete. The table clatters to the floor; Don Quixote strides forward and grabs the competitor by the collar, yanking them up to her eye level.

“I will not make your death peaceful for those who end their lives by their own hand are not permitted to a peaceful afterlife, yet you will dream that I had ended your feeble existence before I am even half-way finished with delivering proper justice unto you. If you do not wish to be subjected to such a fate, apologise. Now.”

They swallow and nod frantically. “I-I’m sorry-”

“Not to me.”

The person slowly turns their head towards where Heathcliff is standing, frozen in place over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, uh, sir! Y-you can stay… And…” With shaking hands, they raise the hundred-thousand Ahn to Don Quixote. She snatches it from their hand and drops them in one smooth movement. 

“Excellent! Now, if ye shall permit me, I, Don Quixote, shall be off!” She picks up her lance from the wall and gestures it vaguely towards her former challengers, as if tipping a hat — only Chainsaw-Arm has the courtesy to bow back. “‘Twas a pleasure playing with ye! May we meet again! Fare ye well!”

Exiting the alley, Don Quixote shoves the money into Dante’s hands before skipping down the street, merrily bulldozing her way through the crowds. Dante flips through the corners of the cash, following her close behind. <...Did we just… rob someone?>

“Eh,” Heathcliff shrugs, “they were gonna rob us anyway. I think that woman wanted to buy you off of us.”

<...Okay…> Clasping their hands together, they increase the pace of their stride to match Don Quixote’s, waving it in a tempting offer. <Are you guys hungry? How about lunch? We can go all out.>

✹ ✹ ✹

If there’s only one thing Dante can get Don Quixote and Heathcliff to agree on, it’s finding a place to eat — Heathcliff all but drags a very willing Don Quixote, excitedly following the smell of meat, into a nearby barbecue joint, and Dante follows suit with no say in the matter. The two make their order in record time, and with the crumpled banknotes in their hands, pay off three plates of meat, the accompanying sides, and a drink. And then:

<I saw a tobacco store nearby, so I might just pop out and->

“Egads! We shan’t be leaving you alone, Man-uh-gerrrrrr Esquireeeeeehhhhh…” she gasps mid-sentence in half a sob, “Didst you not seest the way in which those deplorable villains hath treateth you?!”

<Look, it’s right there — you can see the inside of the store from here.>

Heathcliff dismisses them with a wave of his hand. “Alright. See you.”

“Sir Heathcliff?!”

<Thanks,> they say, before turning their back on them.

“O- wait, Dante Esquire!” A bell jingles as the door shuts behind them; their red coattails disappear into the crowd as they cross the street, the beacon of flames emanating from their head still managing to distinguish them.

Don Quixote gets up from her seat — “Hold it, lass!” Heathcliff grabs her by the collar, her entire coat jingling at how quickly she comes to a stop. He spins her around to face him, but she grabs him by the front of his harness and begins to shake him violently.

“Dearest Heathcliff, wherefore hast thou allowest our good manager to leave on their lonesome?! ‘Tis our appointed duty to guard them at all times!”

“C’mon, we get enough free time of our own, but they’re always cooped up in the bus.” Heathcliff sighs, peeling her hands off of him. “Who knows. They’ve been itching to get away from us lately, you know? Always lookin’ around like we’re the ones about to creep up on them. Maybe they’ve gotten sick of us. Just let ‘em be.”

After a moment’s contemplation, she slowly sits back down again. “This doth remind me of another story that had been harken’d upon mine ears! There once was a noble warrior-”

“Do you ever stop speaking like a fucking loon?”

“Excuse me?” Don Quixote says quietly. Heathcliff stops fidgeting with his ring, mouth falling open in silent rebuttal — she suddenly raises her voice as if it never lowered in the first place. “L-lunacy befalls me no more, Young Heathcliff, but if thou should ever findst that I speak as such unbefitting of clarity-”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

“Enlighten me, then, good sir?!”

“I- well I… Hey, I was asking you a question here!”

“Well I shan’t have a reason to respond until thou answerest my question first!”

Heathcliff pauses, figuring out a retort, before coming up with the eloquent reply of: “Nuh-uh.”

“I beg thee pardon?!”

Their soon-to-be argument is interrupted by the waiter bringing over their order. Heathcliff quietly sits back down as Don Quixote utters out their thanks as the food is placed in front of them, and the waiter lights the grill in silence. As they set down a pint of beer in front of Heathcliff, Don Quixote reaches for the raw meat on the platter curiously; he slaps her hand away before she can reach it and, presumably, put it in her mouth. As the waiter leaves, Heathcliff grabs the tongs and begins tossing meat into the fire.

“Oi, uh…” he tries again, quieter this time. “I’m really asking, here. You ever get tired of doin’ the whole fancy-speak thing?”

She sits up straight and glowers at him, ever-present smile disappearing and voice dropping low with a small tilt of her head — “No. Why would you think that?” Then, catching his bewildered expression, she grins at him again. “I am I, Don Quixote of Limbus Company, nothing more, nothing less. Is it so wrong to be an actor in a stageplay pretending to be who I truly want to be?”

Heathcliff furrows his brows. He didn’t quite expect her to respond in her usual accent without the regular pitch or volume. “...Sounds like a lotta trouble to me.”

“It is,” she says rather callously. Heathcliff tries not to flinch at her sudden coldness, and watches as she almost seems to deflate into herself, posture still straight but shoulders no longer squared, head hung just a degree lower than before. “Since regaining my memories I find myself slipping into habits I wish to leave behind. Would the Don Quixote you know threaten people with torture? Would she abandon herself at the slightest ignition of anger?” Heathcliff shakes his head, and Don Quixote sighs with a deep weight, as if her heart were pulling on her throat.

“…You know,” Heathcliff says after the silence draws too long, “we do like the other you. Me, Dante, I’m sure most of the others at least. You’re still one of us, even if you get sick of playing the part.”

“I’m not ‘sick of it’, no. I am just… tired. So, very tired. But to live as you presently are without striving to be who you want to be is more misery than the change is trouble.” She stares at the table instead of holding her head up high; the grill fire catches in her glassy irises, flecks of red in a sea of gold. “Would you care to hear a story? A real one, this time.”

“...Sure.”

“Once upon a time, I lit a fire with the very intent to burn myself to ashes so I would cease to exist entirely, as if I never was before and never will be again. I believed it was the only way to end my infinite suffering — to embrace the warmth I was denied in my living existence.”

“...”

“It is my greatest regret. I still dread to think of what would have happened if I went through with that plan. And tell me, Heathcliff, what do you believe Don Quixote thinks of fires?”

“You’re afraid of ‘em?”

“I think that they are the most beautiful things in the world.” She smiles, close lipped, not strong enough for her smile lines to show. “Back in my day, there were no artificial lights nor electricity; no cities filled with neon stars as they are now. There were only fires and candles and lanterns. The only stars of which I knew were those illuminating the night sky, burning so brightly, their flames so incandescent as to be seen from so far away; fire was the only way to bring warmth to cold, light to darkness — without it, I would be entirely lost. Do you understand what I mean?”

Heathcliff flips the slice of pork. The fat drips off the sides, burns, and sizzles against the coals.

“You sound like an old hag.”

“I- well I- I beg your pardon?! I mean, perhaps, in the most literal term of the word-!”

“Ooh, back in my day…” He reaches over the grill with an only half-suppressed grin to grab the bowl in front of her before loading it full of meat.

“I SOUND NOT LIKE THAT!” she cries, slamming her fist into the table as she stands and points accusatorily. “Sir Heathcliff, thou bully-est me in my hour of need! Woe! Woe upon thee, the most Heather-wreathed of Cliffs! Woe upon thee for every year of my lengthy existence!”

He laughs as he sets the bowl back down in front of her, narrowly avoiding a flicker of the grill singeing the hair off his forearms — in an almost cat-like manner, Don Quixote sits down and inspects the charred meat over the bed of rice. Remembering that she would most likely forget to eat vegetables on her own terms, he plops a heap of green onions and cilantro into her bowl before serving himself.

“I get what you mean though, lass. I wasn’t born in T Corp.” With space freed up, he scrapes the other half of their order onto the grill. “When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time on boats. All sorts of noise. Storms, thunder, all sorts of sounds I was used to. But never clocks. You could never hear ‘em ticking over all the other noise goin’ on, chatter and waves and the like. So, when I was dropped off into T Corp. without so much as a warning, the sound of clocks and watches and pocket watches drove me down right mad. Wherever you go, it’s always ticking here, ticking there, everyone wearin’ clocks just slightly off time with one another. Nobody talks to each other there either, like they’re all bloody afraid of one another, so all you hear is just… ticking.”

Absent-mindedly, he brings his chopsticks to the flames, hesitating to speak his next thought aloud. The flames scorch the wood black, dancing under embers of smoke and sputtering as he presses the meat against the metal grill.

“Do you know what the last thing I heard when I distorted was?”

Don Quixote shakes her head.

“It was a woman’s voice. She had a nice voice; smooth and soothing. Said everything I wanted to hear at the time.” He looks to her — wide yellow eyes follow his gaze, although tinged with a melancholy weight around the corners. Has that always been there? Has he ever paid enough attention to care? He’s the first to break eye contact, clearing his throat in the process. “I, uh, I haven’t told anyone this yet, lass, so don’t go running your mouth now, but, I… I wanted to be that hound. I still do, sometimes. I can’t remember shite while being the thing except for the fact that it felt… good.”

He takes the meat off the grill and into his own bowl. Only now, when they’ve both been served, does Don Quixote begin to eat.

“Then it was gone. Everything felt bad again. And, well, the last thing I heard before I turned human again was the damn ticking of a clock. Always fucking ticking and ticking and ticking in my head, like I was going mad.” He shrugs. “But I was alive. I was me, again. Not a hound, nor a mutt, not every Heathcliff in existence, just… me. And I never liked being me, but now I think that it’s not that bad.”

Don Quixote gives a dry laugh. “Sometimes living as you hurts more than dying.”

He pushes his full glass against her empty one with a grin. “Cheers to that.” He downs his drink as Don Quixote watches him, before setting it down with a sigh. “You’ve changed, lass. A bit easier to talk to. Pulling in the reins a bit more. It’s a good look on you.”

“...You’ve changed too, Heathcliff. Have you realised that?”

He’s not sure what to say to her — this her, a stranger to him but no longer to herself. She looks at him with sombre recognition of the fact as he searches for the right words to say. “Now, I know your noggin’s been knocked around and all that, but do you remember back at Wuthering Heights, before I… Nelly… she asked us if you were my friends, and nobody really had an answer for her.” He thumbs over his ring, twisting it round and round, still refusing to look her in the eye. “…What about now? Are we friends?”

Don Quixote laughs nervously, entirely unlike herself, higher than her deeper voice, deeper than her higher voice — something indiscernible, between two ends. “Now, Heathcliff- Sir. I think you have expressed the true answer to that yourself before, have you not?”

He grins. “Oh? And what answer is that?”

“Ack, wretched tormenter of mine,” she mutters. “Must you force me to endure the embarrassment?”

“Huh? No, I really don’t know what you’re gettin’ at here.”

She looks away, nervous. Then, she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head violently — underneath her smooth bob are the little remnants of her other self, the jagged edges of her sideburns and the way her hair curls into waves at the ends — before suddenly standing up and smacking herself on the cheeks. She grins. “Ah, but I am forgetting myself. Family, Sir Heathcliff, is what we are! To live, to eat, to fight together; that is what makes a family, and as such that is apt to describe our bond. ‘Tis simple as so! What say’st thou, Sir Heathcliff?”

Over her shoulder, he sees Dante emerge from the tobacco store.

“…Yeah,” he lets himself admit. “I like the sound of that.”

When he finally gains the courage to look her in the eye, though, she’s no longer looking at him; her gaze rests over his shoulder as well, with a confusing combination of genuine anger in her furrowed brows, and regular quixotic heroism in her gleaming eyes. Heathcliff whirls around to see what villain has garnered her attention — nobody seems particularly out of place, although if he squints he can see someone that looks vaguely familiar; a prosthetic around the neck and lower mouth, burn marks just under the seam of flesh and metal.

“Fie, the villains from the alleyway!” she hisses to him. 

Although Burn-Marks hasn’t noticed the two of them yet, something else has seemed to catch their eye. They nudge their companion and whisper something to them, with a subtle raise of their finger. Heathcliff manages to recognise the other person too — Chainsaw-Arm unfolds their arm and silently checks the engine. Heathcliff turns around to Don Quixote, just in time to see Dante entering the store over her shoulder. 

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking with me.”

✹ ✹ ✹

Don Quixote bounds up to Dante in the least panic she can muster the moment they enter, eagerly grabbing the bag in their hands to peer into its contents as she rushes past them — they turn to face her as she hurriedly digs through the contents. <It’s just cigarettes,> Dante says with a light stutter of their ticking in amusement, <So unless you want Ryoshu to take off your head, I don’t think there’s anything good for you to eat in there.>

“A tragedy! Naught for I, your favourite Fixer, Don Quixote?”

<I just bought you lunch!>

“With money I amassed on mine own merits, excuse you!"

They shrug. <How about we stop by someplace you want to go to? Name it, and we’ll find it.>

“Um…!” Although she did have something she wanted when first disembarking the bus, her thoughts are slightly all over the place as she rightens back up and watches Heathcliff strangle someone to death with the handle of his bat behind Dante. He grits his teeth, hand clamped over the person’s mouth, narrowing his eyes at Don Quixote. “HO!” she shouts as he snaps their neck — Dante jumps at her sudden outburst, but thankfully doesn’t turn around — “I have nary an idea of the kinds of merchandise they doth sell within the Northern districts, b-but I heard from Young Faust that the production of prosthetics prevalent in this place hath immensely improved the calibre of quality of constructed goods and merchandise in this district,” and Don Quixote’s voice continues to raise as Heathcliff, who’s abandoned his very loud metal bat, brings someone’s head down to his knee, red prosthetic lights cracking into shards of plastic on the ground, “and I truly, verily, um, certainly would be honoured if you were to let me know of any merch-an-dise in this district, Manager Esquire!”

<...Sure?> Dante says. <Yeah, we can stop by. Do you know anywhere in particular you want to go?>

Don Quixote glances at Heathcliff dragging a body in each hand out the opposite door. The loud chime of the bell above it as he exits makes her cringe internally, and she hopes that her expression remains neutral. “N-nay, I have not had much a chance to-”

Dante starts to turn around. <Alright, let’s ask Heathcliff if he->

Without thinking, she grabs their head — they chime in surprise, red metal resonating under her fingertips. “I… um…” Unsure of what to do from here, she pats the side of the clock twice, a hollow thunking noise resounding under her palm; Dante has to awkwardly hunch over to allow her to do so, arms half crossed over themselves as she brings them down to her eye level on her tip-toes. “O- O! Joyous days! ‘Tis a… a new expression of yours I have nary bore witness to before!”

<…And what might that expression be?>

“One of… ah, you see, Manager Esquire, although my perceptions may have returned, my tongue still fails me at times. I would say it is one of… hm… one moment if you will…” Out the window, one of the people Heathcliff half-bludgeoned to death is miraculously still alive and is now attempting to bite his leg off. Heathcliff, presumably, yells out in pain as he kicks the man’s teeth in, and Don Quixote is amazed by the sound-proofing quality of this unassuming restaurant’s glass. “I would say… how wouldst you say… one of… trustworthiness!”

<Trustworthiness?>

“Mhm, indeed, indeed, I see it now! Not so like a knight in shining armour, but moreso a noble scholar, or that of a wise commander. Most worthy of a fine leader as yourself, Manager Esquire.”

Thunk-thunk goes their head under her palm again. <Thanks. I haven’t really seen you make that face before either.>

“...Huh?”

<You seem more… excited about the things you like lately. Like you’re more yourself.> Their head slips from her hands as they stand up straight, glancing over their shoulder to see Heathcliff leaning very casually against the table the two were eating at mere minutes ago. Dante looks back at her and tilts their head. Then, they smile — <It looks good on you, Don Quixote.>

With everything accounted for, Dante gathers their bags and steps out onto the street with Heatchliff and Don Quixote trailing close behind, denying Don Quixote’s request to carry their bags for them.

<Oh wow,> Dante comments as the three of them walk past three unassuming dead bodies, <I haven't seen that many corpses out on the street before nightfall since we entered the Nest.> 

“Crazy, innit?” Heathcliff says, kicking a burn-scarred head out of the way. He clears his throat. “So… where are we off to next?”

Dante takes a step forward, and says, <...Um.>

“What seemeth to be the problem, Manager Esquire?”

<Um… Uh…> Dante glances around before pulling out their PDA. <…>

“Don’t tell me you’re lost, Clockhead.”

<…I was following you the entire time…>

“Well…” Heathcliff shrugs. “Fuck.” 

“A-art you not in possession of a map of some kind?”

<I asked upper management to install one in my PDA but got turned down for some reason...>

Don Quixote peers over their shoulder. A moment of silence passes between the three. “…‘Well, fuck’ indeed, my dear fellows. Ahem! Not to worry! This reminds me of an adventure of mine, with nothing but the stars to guide me on my journeys! We shall simply have to follow our hearts and surely we shall find our way home!”

<Alright, then. Lead the way.>

✹ ✹ ✹

“Where’s the lass?”

Dante looks up from their PDA. <What?>

“Where’s Don Quixote?”

<WHAT?!>

Heathcliff buries his face in his hands for a moment. “Clockhead! I thought you were keeping tabs on her!”

<It’s not my fault she just gets swallowed up by the crowds so easily!>

“Alright, keep your cool, she’s probably just around the corner. We’ll find her in no time, yeah?”

Dante walks faster. <But who knows what kind of trouble she could’ve gotten herself into already? No- you’re right, I should’ve kept a better eye on her.> They pause, glancing behind them, slowly pushed on by the crowds on the narrow streets. <Should we split up to search?>

“Are you ‘right daft?! Absolutely not. Let’s just…” Despite his composure, Heathcliff has begun to pull ahead of Dante, glancing left and right. “She can’t have gone far…”

<I should’ve kept better track of her,> Dante laments as they try not to get separated from Heathcliff. <How are we going to find her now?>

“You know those tracking devices they put on kids? We should get one of those for her.”

<What? She’s not a dog.> Dante pauses. <Actually, that’s not a bad idea…>

Elsewhere comes the very distinctive sound of Don Quixote screaming.

Heathcliff breaks into a full sprint, shoving past people in the direction of the noise — Dante desperately scrambles behind him as he splits the crowd, bumping into people haphazardly. “Don Quixote?! Oi! Lass?”

“IS THAT THE RED MIST?!” 

Heathcliff comes screeching to a stop as he finally finds her, blonde hair sticking out between the panels of a colourful market stand. “There you are, you bloody mongrel!” Heathcliff scolds, grabbing her by the scruff of her collar. She squeaks and drops whatever she’s holding onto the desk as she’s suddenly lifted onto her toes — “Are you tryna give us a heart attack or something?”

Dante, breathless, clutches at the front of their shirt as they finally catch up to the source of the noise. <Did you really have to run off like that?>

“Uwahh… Ye understandest not, my dearest squires! I beg for thy understanding; I own not these runs of merchandise, for those to still be creating or selling merchandise of a Fixer who hath been succeeded twice is such an astronomically uncommon occurrence! Please, O please?”

<Go for it?> Dante says, still catching their breath. <I’m not… stopping you?>

“I have not my own funds! Transactions of mine must be made through you or Young Vergilius for my unusual circumstances of living before my employment!”

<Ah… we should probably get that fixed up soon.> Taking a deep breath, they fish out her earnings from their coat pockets yet again when a thought occurs to them. <Wait, so does that mean they make merchandise of Vergilius?>

“Aheh… heheh….hahaHAHA!” Don Quixote nervously bursts into maniacal laughter, face turning increasingly red all the while attempting to bury her head in her own neck. “I-Indubitably so! I um, I believe, they do, that is…!”

<I’m guessing that means you own merchandise of him already.>

“A-all too clever, you are, Manager Esquire!” she says, clearing her throat in attempts to hide her embarrassment. “The seller doth supply him too but, alas, I already own this particular figurine...”

“Most of these guys are retired, though,” Heathcliff comments. “I don’t recognise a lick of ‘em except for the guide.” He scrunches his nose. “Why does he look so… wrong?”

“Be not so impolite to the kind soul who put work into this craftsmanship!” she snaps at him, before tugging on Dante’s sleeve. “Rest your gaze hither — I have told you of her tales before, Manager Esquire! Dost you remember…?”

<The Purple Tear? You have her insignia on your coat,> they state, pointing to the enamel ouroboros by her waist.

“YES!” she shouts. “Yes! You hast remembered! Haha! HAHAHA! Ah, how I wish to have her for my collection too, but alas…!”

<Well, we can get this one, can’t we?>

“The strangest thing! Upon my previous attempts to purchase through Young Vergilius, he hath always denied my request, to go as far as to discard my limited edition figure of her… the pin remaineth the only reminder of Lady Iori that the good sir allows within the bus!”

<How strange...>

“Who’s that?” Heathcliff asks, gesturing to a white-haired figurine. “She looks right class in that getup.”

Don Quixote’s face brightens at the prospect of Heathcliff showing the most remote interest in Fixers; her expression suddenly turns sour. “I care not for those who have been denounced by Hana… The wretched being who once held the title of Black Silence…”

<You can get demoted from Color?>

“Mm… they say she disappeared from the world before going on a fit of rampage, destroying all in her wake for no particular reason, ending the lives of innocents in her path, and was thus rightfully demoted! I wish not to be associated with such villainy!” Don Quixote thinks for a second, before her expression turns bright again. “Although, Sir Heathcliff, I believe you wouldst be a fan of hers! Heroic and villainous deeds alike, such as when she eradicated a subsection of the Middle in her conquest!”

<Right, didn’t you say black was your favourite colour? You tend to wear stuff like that in your other identities, too.>

“…You remember that?”

“Aha! Well, if thou were to hear of her accolades- UWAOH! Sir Heathcliff?!”

<H-Heathcliff, are you blushing?>

“What in the world are you two blabbering on about?” He buries the lower half of his face in his hand in embarrassment. “Cripes, two amnesiacs remember more about me than anyone ever has. Lovely.”

“Hoho! Now, assist me — which Fixer dost thou think'st the Good Manager Dante would enjoyeth? Posthaste, Sir Heathcliff, Posthaste!”

<Me?>

“Uhhh… the… red one?”

“Thou thinkest so?!” Don Quixote practically shouts in her best image of nonchalance — Dante wonders how the shopkeeper has hardly reacted to the volume at which she bellows some of her sentences. They look away once the four-armed merchant, two hands on a book and a third holding a cigarette in their mouth, notices their gaze.

“Mm… she’s got that style to her, you know, with the leather overcoat. Sorta cool looking. Like you,” Heathcliff says, nudging their side.

<You think I’m cool?> Dante says a beat too fast. 

“You have your moments,” Heathcliff shrugs. “Although if you have to ask if you’re cool, that docks some points off the tab.”

Dante snaps their fingers. <Dang it…>

“Hoho!” Don Quixote knocks politely on the stand. “I beg thy pardon, kindly merchant! Prithee, I would like three of the finest of your Fixer figurines!”

The person behind the stand finally looks up at them, rolling their eyes before sitting up, taking the cigarette out of their mouth, and signing out a number. 

Dante hesitates. <…Are they saying fifty thousand? Five hundred thousand?>

“I thought you were learning,” Heathcliff quips. 

<I only learnt to a thousand,> Dante mutters in embarrassment. <Also, I’ve been busy! Don Quixote, you said you knew sign language at some point?>

She squints, teeth gritted. “I never expected the language of signs to change so much in my absence…”

<I mean, it’s fine, we have the money either way. What does it matter if we spend a little extra?>

Heathcliff cringes. “Little Miss Communist Manifesto’s gonna cleave your head in if she knows you said that. Besides, you shouldn’t get into the habit of spending it all willy-nilly like that, alright?”

< …Who?>

“Screw it, just let me talk to ‘em,” Heathcliff says, popping his knuckles intimidatingly.

<Please don’t kill them, Heathcliff!>

“What? No. I got my hearing blown out in a Dead Rabbits scrap over some turf,” Heathcliff snorts. “Boss at the time said I’d lose my hearing by the time I was thirty, so I picked up sign.”

“Th-thirty? But- but thou art so young!”

<So all the times I asked if you were deaf, you actually were?>

“Watch it, the both of you. And I can hear you just fine, Clockhead, I’m just not too good at listenin’ either way,” Heathcliff grins. “Quit learning a while back though, so I’m probably rusty as hell.” He rolls his shoulders, before stepping up to the market stand. 

“I’ll give you ten thousand,” he says, signing out the words.

For one?

“For all of them.”

Are you crazy? They’re fifty each.

“I’m not payin’ hundred-fifty for a bunch of toys!”

They aren’t toys, you (and then the person signs something involving both- actually, all four of their prosthetic middle fingers as Don Quixote gasps in offence,) they’re rare collectors items! Not going lower than fifty thousand a piece.

“Fifteen for the whole lot.”

Are you even listening to me?

“There’s nothing to listen to! You’re not even talking aloud, mate — I’ll show you a good listening to-”

<Heathcliff, I said no violence!>

“What doth the kindly mer… what doth the merchant sayeth? Ye arms move too hastily to decipher such meanings!”

“They’re saying fifty-thousand each, no lower,” he replies with a scowl — Five each. Fifteen total.

…You’re a persistent one, my friend, they sign, taking their cigarette out of their mouth to sit up properly. Forty a piece.

“That’s still way too high, and you know it. How about twenty for them all?”

Market price for these is in the hundreds of thousands! You’re already getting a steal here, at this point you’re cutting off my leg.

Heathcliff glances at Don Quixote — “How much are these things meant to cost?”

“O, hundreds of thousands!”

“...Shite, and the guide just lets you buy the ones you have?”

<Let’s just give them the money, I mean Don Quixote, you said that you earnt all that money for no real reason->

“It’s the principle o’ the matter, Clockhead!”

Don Quixote squints, before grinning. “Aha! I see the problem here — my good Sir Heathcliff, please prepare yourself to translate my following message: These figures are worth no more than the cost of materials of production, and are mere, low-quality imitations of the authentic brand of the Color Fixer™ line of figurines. I will begin with the following, in which the removal of packaging devalues the wares significantly, with no serial tracking device as distributed by the right and just Hana Association accessible via their digital unique identification codes, which is not only present on the collector’s editions boxes but on the figurines themselves, in distinct locations on each run of Color Fixer — these small serial codes hath merely been misprinted in rather poor plastic quality, with the marks of printing still there, and several have been worneth down by over-sanding of the cheap polylactic acid in which they hath been constructed-”

Keep your fucking voice down! the vendor signs harshly, driving their fingers into their palm with such force it makes an audible clang; their other two hands reach over the desk to clamp their hand over her mouth, but Don Quixote swiftly avoids their grasp. 

“Furthermore, the designs hath been poorly reconstructed, as well as what appears to be unvarnished paint on these figurines resulteth in chipping presale, another downfall of thy refusal to even attemptest packaging, on top of the heavily mismanaged colouring of the paint itself, turning what once hath been Gaze-Red to more of a warmer shade of vermillion, no-doubt by cheap acrylic burning during the curing process, along with the severe darkening of colours to make what was once greys into blacks! Poor Lady Angelica, her snow-white hair stained with the misapplication of her signature colour! And O, Noble Kali, turned but to a slab of burnt blacks as if she were with the title of so instead, her weapon and glorious hair a hideous, most garish scarlet instead of her deep reds and maroons!”

Fine, fifty for the lot, I concede!

Don Quixote tilts her head. “What’s the matter? I thought thou wouldst like to hear of thy mistakes in order to create the bestest of sales? Else — nay, and, gasp! — surely not! Thou- thou carest not for thy loyal customers, those seeking for authentic distributions of Hana Association’s merchandise? Couldst thou believest this, Sir Heathcliff, Dante Esquire? Selling such merchandise at a marked up price, only to receive profits? Oh dearest me, I wonder what would happen if an unhappy customer reported thine usage of the image of these Fixers to Hana Associa - ACK!”

The Red Mist figurine hits her square in the forehead; Don Quixote recoils from the sudden impact, before immediately lunging forward and catching it before it hits the ground, faster than Heathcliff or Dante have time to react — as she reaches forwards, her hands that have been kept shoved into her coat pockets or only splayed, palms-out towards them, clasp together, and Heathcliff can finally see why. A dusting of fresh burn marks cover her knuckles in a raw, agitated pink. He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the merchant leans over and snaps their fingers at him twice to catch his attention, and he recoils back at the sudden action near his face. Just take it! they sign once he turns to them, You’re ruining business. If you get her to shut up, you can have it.

After translating the message to his companions, Dante bows towards the person in appreciation, hurriedly walking away from the stand in embarrassment as Don Quixote and Heathcliff give each other a high-five (and ignoring Heathcliff’s shout of pain as her palm makes contact with his with a loud thwack! ). Don Quixote jumps after them and sprints to catch up; for what might be the third time today, she’s suddenly yanked back by her collar. 

Heathcliff grabs her wrist, better inspecting her battered knuckles. “What in the world happened to you?”

“I had spotted Peccatulum Irae earlier, and heeding thy example, took care of it in the most discreet of fashions!” Don Quixote stage whispers to him, “Yet, I know not why they pursueth us so thoroughly.”

“Beyond me too, lass, but- oi, look out!”

In a flash, Don Quixote whirls around, delivering a blow to the Peccatulum Morositatis behind her with her fist. It explodes into its internal components, the two narrowly avoiding the splatter of blue across their shoes, cyan liquid and bits of optical nerve dripping off of Don Quixote’s hand.

“Cor blimey! Watch what you’re…”

Frozen in place, Don Quixote watches the water drip down her knuckles and wrist with abject horror painted over her face.

Heathcliff curses to himself, patting down his pockets for the napkins he nabbed from the diner. “Come on, girl,” he says to her quietly as people bump into them, stopped in the middle of the street. “We can’t leave Dante to wander off on their own. Let’s walk.”

She staggers after him, one foot after the other, Rocinante leaving imprints through the puddle by their feet. Heathcliff presses the paper napkins into the affected hand, dabbing off as much as he can reach — her fist grips tightly around the one he presses into her palm until her knuckles turn white.

“Th-thank you, Sir Heathcliff,” she says on his fifth pass through the webbing of her fingers and under her blunt nails, “I’m quite alright now.”

“You got no more excuse to do dumb shite like that, lass,” he chides. “‘Sides, couldn’t you have just used your… hold on.” He does a double take — “Where the fuck’s your lance?!”

“Dost thou not call for conspicuousness?” she says brightly again. “Thy base-ball bat is well suited for bludgeoning and the elegance of a discreet elimination! I believed my fists to be the more appropriate weapon of choice for a stealth mission! And not to worry — I have hidden SUEÑO IMPOSIBLE someplace safe, and will quickly retrieve it on our return to the bus! Long since I have felt the earth beneath my feet, and if I shall not be granted that luxury, then I will feel the flesh of foes beneath my fists!”

“That’s the spirit!” he says, punching her on the shoulder. She immediately raises her dried fist in return with a wicked grin — Heathcliff takes several steps back. “Ay, cripes lass, unfair, unfair! I ain’t no Bloodfiend! Dante, help! She’s after me, Clockhead!”

Staggering away from her, Heathcliff backs straight into the person he’s calling for — Dante, who, for some reason, has stopped in the middle of the street, lets out a noise of alarm as Heathcliff catches them from falling over. He opens his mouth to chastise them too, but instead of looking at him, they gaze into the nearby storefront.

“...Now what bloody business do you have in a jewellery store…”

Through the frosted windows are the silhouettes of hundreds of silver fish suspended in motion mid-air; upon closer inspection, each fish is strung up on thin lines of fishing wire dangling from the ceiling, almost invisible in the poor lighting. Don Quixote has already burst in, tripping over herself with a squeal of delight, and immediately reaches her hand out to the ocean above her head.

<Don’t touch those,> Dante says quickly. <We don’t need a repeat of thievery accusations on the company…>

Heathcliff nods enthusiastically — “And you’re gonna tarnish the damn things.” 

<I was talking about you, too.>

“Hey…”

The man behind the counter finally speaks up. “Your observations are well made, considering the state of your ring there.” He twists a dial hidden behind salt-and-pepper hair, switching out the lenses of the monocle over a single prosthetic red eye, the other black iris trained on Heathcliff’s face. “I will give you a good deal, and get it cleaned up for you for ten thousand Ahn.”

“Oo, a most humble deal!”

Heathcliff clenches his fist tighter around his bat. “Touch it and I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp.”

The man laughs. “I would like to see you try.” Heathcliff steps forward — Dante reaches out to grab him by the arm, but instead the silversmith holds out his left hand to shake. “Aureliano. Either purchase something or get out of my store.”

Heathcliff squints at the merchant, then at the silver rings on the stand and scattered over the desk, before shoving his free hand in his pocket. “Heathcliff. This here’s Dante, and the lass is Don Quixote.”

Dante gives a small wave, but stops halfway through the motion when Aureliano scowls at them. <What’s his problem?>

Heathcliff taps his bat against the counter and sneers at him. “You got a problem with our manager over there?”

Aureliano uses the tip of his soldering tool to nudge the bat off his workbench. “Your ‘manager’ is parading a designer head around. Flaunting your wealth around like that — people are practically distorting at the sight of it.”

<You know about the Distortion phenomenon?>

Their question is lost to Don Quixote’s immediate, simultaneous outcry — “But why so?! I agree it is a rather… flamboyant prosthetic compared to the other residents of P Corp. we have encountered thus far, but I think it is not so atrocious as to incur Distortion…!”

“What? No, no…” Aureliano’s gaze rests upon Don Quixote. “Hm. I thought you were from around here.”

“Indubitably so! I was, ahem… born in the general vicinity, I believe… before it was designated the title of P Corp., that is... ” She mutters the second half to herself, mostly, but Heathcliff steps on her foot anyway, and she elbows him in the stomach in response. “Have… have buildings always been so tall?”

“...Yes? Must have been a while since you returned. It used to be that all prosthetics would be a quality of life improvement, almost no matter what grade you got. In the past decade or so, though, anything below the top-of-the-top is bottom-of-the-barrel type garbage. People have spent their life savings on an upgraded arm, only to end up worse off than they were twenty million Ahn ago, with half the functioning arms they had before. It’s enough to make any man go crazy. And then to see a burning, dysfunctional prosthetic head without a voice box? Pure vanity! Any miserable montañeros would be after you.”

Heathcliff sneers but has no proper rebuttal. “Let’s get out of here. This guy sucks.”

Dante waves their hand. <Um… whatever. You two go on ahead, I guess, I just need one more minute to look around.>

Heathcliff wants to object, but glances at Don Quixote before doing so. Her eyes are narrow, sharp; she sizes up Aureliano, furrowing her brows in contemplation for a few moments, before glancing back towards Heathcliff and nodding. They leave the store in silent agreement. 

Problem: there’s yelling the moment Heathcliff and Don Quixote step out the store, very distinctly directed towards them. A woman with curly hair points with two forearms coming from one elbow joint with a shout — Heathcliff turns to run, but Don Quixote grabs him by the back of the harness once more. She doesn’t say anything, brows thoroughly furrowed as she parses her thoughts into strategy. Heathcliff turns to the other side, a distant scream coming from down the road as a Peccatulum Gulae rips through the streets.

“Don Quixote.”

“Yes, Sir Heathcliff?” she squeaks out, still tightly held onto him in fear of Heathcliff calling her by her name for once. 

“Don Quixote, we fucked up big time.”

“...Indeed we have. And yet we still must protect the kindly Manager.” She slowly raises her unguarded fists in front of her, steadying herself in a wide stance as someone yells before charging in at the two of them. “I unfortunately could not have predicted — haah!” she grunts, driving her fist into the assailant’s stomach, elbowing them in the back of the neck as they double over in pain, “such a pickle we have found ourselves in…!”

Heathcliff drops his bat. “Cover me.” 

“Sir Heathcliff?!” There’s not another chance to interrogate him before someone’s running at them from the opposite side, Don Quixote blocking a metal fist from striking at Heathcliff with her forearm before attempting to step back and plant her foot firmly into their torso. “Ow…!” she yelps in pain; their stomach, much like the arms wrapping around her outstretched ankle, is entirely made of metal too. They pull harshly, knocking her off balance to the floor. “…And Vergilius makes it look so easy,” she grumbles to herself as her head skids barely above pavement, arms free to grab the person’s head and twist with such force until she feels bone and metal snap under the torsion.

Heathcliff fumbles with the cards in his back pocket, before sliding out the compartment of Dante’s PDA and swapping out the standard portraits of him and Don Quixote. They click into place almost magically, as if they were meant to be there, and he can’t help but look away at the uncanniness of it all. When he looks up again, Don Quixote has picked up his bat and is now fending off a crude sword held in a prosthetic hand, jabbing at the person’s chest occasionally before swinging back and driving it forwards at full force, as if a lance — she catches his eyes and the object in his hands mid-attack, swinging back with her momentum to clobber the three-armed assailant in the back of her head.

“Young Heathcliff!” she cries, distraught as the curly-haired woman falls head-first onto Rocinante, seeping blood into the yellow leather. “Vile villainy — I shan’t stand for thievery against our innocent manager! Hand it over right this instant-!”

“Look, they’re not gonna let up on us, so we just slap on these identities for a bit, bing-bang-boom, we take care of it, and we return it before they ever know what happened.”

Her expression grows sullen as he turns the screen to her. Her next attack is sloppy; it still gets the job done as her fist connects with a half-constructed nose. “…I have not a willingness to don that particular identity of mine.”

“Me neither, lass, but I’ve seen you fight as her, and I’ve seen that Erlking me fight too. We’re not gonna stand a chance against a horde without ‘em.” Heathcliff cracks her a half-hearted smile, hand hovering over the confirmation button. “Do it for Dante, yeah?”

She returns the smile, equally bittersweet. “If I must.”

✹ ✹ ✹

“That’ll be eighty-five thousand Ahn.”

Dante nods and pulls out their wallet, leaving two fifty-thousand notes on the table, and then, staring at the abundance of notes in their hand, decides to slap on another for good measure. Just as they’re in the middle of bowing their thanks and goodbyes, they hear rather rambunctious laughter coming from outside the store. Loud, unfiltered, rasping laughter, that sounds oddly like Heathcliff. 

Dropping everything in their hands, they burst from the storefront. Carnage lines the street, and in the centre of it all are two people who are both decidedly like and unlike their companions at all.

<Hey!>

Blood rises from bisected bodies and sharpens into the form of a javelin; they hardly have time to react before a flutter of long, blonde hair flowing with a red boa whirls around and launches it straight towards them, pinning them by the coattails just out of range of the Peccatulum Irae stopped mid-air from lunging at them. Hands raised just in front of their head, they brace for impact that never comes — the king of the Wild Hunt has grabbed it by the legs. It thrashes as the Heathcliff swings it around, smashing it into the wall, splattering burning fragments of flesh across brick.

“DANTE!” he yells, far louder than their own Heathcliff has been in a while. The gravity of his shout quickly becomes apparent as a person with a bandanna covering the majority of their face runs at them with a hatchet; with both hands firmly around the shaft of the javelin pinning them to the wall, they stomp on it with the hard sole of their dress shoes, snapping it clean off and aiming right under the person’s jaw as they lean back to swing, before thrusting up with all of their strength. Flesh and bone give way under their makeshift spear as the gang member gurgles around their blood, the hatchet clattering to the ground. Dante doesn’t stop pushing until Wild Hunt rips the dying person off of them and hurls the corpse into the advancing crowd. Lightning flashes in front of them, and when their eyes open again they’ve come to face yet another sight they’d wished to never see again up close; the fur of a wolf, and the chains of a coffin. He wields the broadsword down the side of Dullahan, crossing Dante’s body protectively with its breadth, and they’re reminded that he is, in fact, a Heathcliff too.

Digging his heels into Dullahan’s side, he prepares to charge at the advancing crowd when a whip wraps around the blade, the knotted barbs of its tails entangling with the brambles and branches. Sancho yanks Wild Hunt towards her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Are you speaking to me?” Wild Hunt glowers, slicing his sword free.

“I told you to watch the storefront. Your irresponsible actions will get us and Dante killed . ”

“Only if you don’t get them killed first with your heedless irresponsibility.”

“Excuse me?”

Dante narrowly avoids the vines of a Peccatulum Gulae slashing at them, stabbing at it with the broken lance until the tip finds home in the thing’s mouth. <Uh, guys?>

“You dare attempt to command me, O wicked Bloodfiend?”

“Must you speak like a Fixer of Olde with none of the respect yet all of the grandeur?”

“That’s rich coming from you, cursed hag.”

<Guys, stop fighting!>

“We are not fighting!” the two yell at the same time — as a gang member swings their club at Dante, Sancho pulls them down just as Wild Hunt swings his greatsword horizontally, decapitating the person in one fell strike. Before the body hits the ground, Sancho shoves Dante towards Dullahan and rushes forward to generate the space needed to summon her lance, crimson spilling from the severed neck and swirling beside her hand. She glances over her shoulder with a stern glare.

“You need not fight. Take them away from here. I will see things through.”

Wild Hunt stops and stares at the short figure of the woman covered in blood — her eyes meet his, and for a brief moment her stern expression softens before her fists clench and crimson hardens around the core of her lance. With no time to spare, he grabs Dante with ease, and slings them safely onto Dullahan’s back while spurring the beast forth.

With one hand clutched to Dullahan’s fur, Wild Hunt’s arm steadies their side as they stretch the nerves out of their fingers, patting down their pockets. <Where… where’s my PDA?>

”Your device? There is no need for it now.”

<I can’t have lost it, I…> They attempt to look up, only for Wild Hunt to pull on Dullahan’s reigns as it bounds through a cluster of Peccatula stretching out their distorted limbs to the torch that is Dante’s head. A great wheel of Peccatulum Superbiae launches towards them suddenly — <Take the hit, Heathcliff!> 

With both hands firmly on Dullahan’s reins, the Peccatulum grazes Wild Hunt’s arm and narrowly misses cleaving his head in half, the wolf steadying as he regains control and yanks them out of the way. <Good, strike back-> he reaches for the iron maiden, <with your sword! Just that one, that’ll do, good job — now, listen to me.>

He drives his sword into its metallic body in two quick slashes. “Yes, Timepiece?”

<Who summoned you?>

“What does that matter? I suppose it was the taste of desperation that bled from this world that summoned me here; the stench of desperation and the fulfilment of a promise untold.” He lets go of the reins, managing Dullahan by the heels — people scream as he bounds through the streets, manic laughter rising from his throat as those escaping are trampled over by Peccatula swarming towards him and Dante, like moths to the everburning flame. “I felt as though compelled, Timepiece! An immense urge to-” 

<Two on your left.>

He swings, Dullahan trampling the no-longer human remains to mush, “...protect something… something I can’t quite remember, but could only feel. My memories have not been as they once were,” he grumbles, before steering Dullahan sharply to the right, leaping over and between destroyed pieces of property as people evacuate from the chaos.

<You and someone else I know.> As they thoroughly search their pockets again, they attempt to parse together the information, of what others have told them of being summoned, compelled to work for a stranger through the chains of desires the recipient could also only feel but not understand entirely, driven by someone else’s feelings and not their own. 

Feelings of another, overwritten by their own, synthesised by common desire.

Their train of thought is interrupted as Dullahan recoils — Peccatula Gulae and Luxuriae stumble about, their malformed eyes hungering for the beacon of energy or that of the Golden Bough. They rip out from the deceased corpses of street-goers. Reins slipping from Wild Hunt’s hands, Dante nearly falls off of Dullahan as it turns around to retreat. Wild Hunt rises to stand on its back, and Dante barely ducks as the Iron Maiden on his back turns to face them. <Heathcliff-!> in a flash of lightning, he launches off the wolf billowing smoke into the crowd, swinging the coffin with tempestuous abandon in a wide arc that flattens a Class 2 Peccatulum Luxuriae instantly. Dante’s heart rises to their throat as they realise what’s about to happen, black smoke clouding their vision — Dullahan begins to dissipate, and they brace themselves for the fall.

As their feet hit the ground and their knees buckle under the impact, a hand darts around them to steady them by the waist; Sancho staggers back with them, dissipating the momentum of the fall with her quick yet steady steps as they hurriedly regain their balance. She holds them tightly to her side, as if to hide them in her boa from the outside world. “Are you alright?” she asks quietly, under the sound of Wild Hunt laughing and the clanging of chains against iron. 

<I’m doing fantastic! Come here often?>

She shoots them a glare at their awful attempt at a joke, as if to say — Really? Now? — but chooses not to verbalise her thoughts as she drives her lance weakly into the advancing Peccatula, still walking back all the while in silent yet still not conceded defeat. Heathcliff backs into them, suddenly solemn once more after losing Dullahan.

“I have slaughtered them all, and yet, like us, they seem to return never-endingly. Is this retribution?”

“Hm. Perhaps.” Despite her best attempts, Sancho’s composure is weakening, the short response her best attempts at conversation as her chest heaves in attempts to catch her breath. A large gash runs down her lance-wielding shoulder down to her chest, a clear attempt at a fatal wound to her heart. Similarly, the scar has only widened on Wild Hunt’s forehead, dripping down his cheek and into the fur of his scarf. Dante remains the only one unharmed. They grip Sancho’s arm, steadying themselves for the rewind. “Don’t,” she says concisely, forcefulness backing her tone. “We’ll be left disoriented for too long.”

<You’re hurt, though.>

“This is… not the worst I’ve hurt before. I would rather you stay alive and nobody strike in our moment of weakness.” She glances at them out of the corner of her sharp eyes, and then back to the descending crowds, the wreckage, the long-abandoned streets as civilians retreat and those with a vendetta or beastly forms advance. “I have the feeling you know that already.” 

The surprising sound of gunfire rings out in the now mostly-empty streets — barely does Sancho have enough time to raise her lance in defense before the momentum of the bullet rips her shoulder back with a loud shout of pain, tearing open sinew and muscle, her lance splattering as liquid blood onto the floor. Dante whirls to the source of the noise. <Sixteenth floor, third window from the left. I… Sancho, can you…?> Mentally cursing themselves for never devising a plan for dealing with long-ranged assaults, they duck, hands held pathetically over their head as gunfire rings out again. Wild Hunt is the one that yells this time, raising his sword in front of his head before a single round ruptures his chest wide open. Words and commands escape Dante alike; the red laser on Wild Hunt’s chest disappears from sight as Dante attempts to listen out for the sound of reloading over the sound of him collapsing to his knees.

“Your word, Dante?” Sancho asks, rather breathlessly. 

<Peccatula behind us too,> they say briefly, searching for anything they could possibly use as a weapon. <They’re after my head, so I most likely won’t get headshot at least. Don’t turn around. Stay on guard.>

She raises her hand halfway, blood flickering in front of her fingertips as she struggles to materialise her lance again; it splutters and only materialises as half its regular length. As the Peccatula begin to advance, though, her boa slips from her neck and coils around the three of them in a protective ring.

“Sancho.” Wild Hunt growls with the last of his strength, attempting to stand with his sword as a crutch. “What are you doing?”

“This is not… That’s not my doing…”

The boa melts, shifts, and coagulates into spikes — then thrusts out and skewers all who approach.

Blood explodes into the air as the spikes expand within the assailants, puncturing holes into skin in a terrible sanguine shower. “Identify yourself!” Sancho declares to the unseen combatant, using her remaining strength to coil the blood around herself once more, just in time before another gunshot rings out and she staggers back from the force of the bullet. Before she can open her mouth to speak again, a massive, crudely constructed lance flies past so close to head it nearly clips her hair, with such speed that it blows into her face. In the brief moment it flashes past her vision, she manages to discern the text engraved into its side — SUEÑO IMPOSIBLE. It crashes into the building housing the sharpshooter with such force it leaves a crater at its base; after a moment, filled only by a terrible cracking noise, it crumbles. Wild Hunt raises his sword to deflect the flying rubble as the debris crashes around them, the large pieces of concrete crushing Peccatula and people alike; Dante raises their hands in attempts to protect their head from stray pieces of rubble.

“Stay here,” comes a gravelly voice in return. With a flick of his hand, blood rises around the three in a protective shield — Wild Hunt yells in protest, voice caught on gurgling blood. Before it can fully close around them, Sancho darts out of its protection and into the street. 

She sizes up the man in the striped coat. “Are you a Fixer?”

“Me?” The weapon he wields glows with an intense ember, emanating an intense warmth that frames his red eyes in a fiery glow. “No. I am merely an old guide. Remind me of your name, lost one.”

“...I am Sancho. And I am not lost. I’m right where I need to be.”

“Then I have succeeded as a guide.” With a flurry of movement, Sancho flinches as a javelin, not dissimilar to the one she manifested on a whim mere minutes ago, pierces the body of the Peccatulum behind her, splattering her hair and coat with blood. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, looking down on her through the corner of his eyes; Sancho starts to understand what her little sister says about her glare. 

She tuts at him and materialises her lance once more. “Let us end this swiftly,” she says briefly. Even briefer, the guide has already left her side and begun the slaughter.

✹ ✹ ✹

When the barrier finally descends, the streets are covered in more red than any of the previous colours that once adorned the banners lining the streets. Dante looks around wildly, hands sticky with Wild Hunt’s blood as he leans on their side, before taking a few disoriented steps in Vergilius’ direction and bowing their head nearly horizontally.

He doesn’t say anything, curiously, only waiting for Dante to stand up straight again. They decide to do their dues and break the silence. 

<How’d you find us?> Sancho relays the message dutifully.

“It was requested that Yi Sang put a tracker on Miss…” he glances at Sancho, who stares at him blankly in response. “On the Good Lady. I now realise I should have asked him to put one on you too, Dante.” He stretches, rolling his head about his shoulders with a groan. “Now, isn’t it about time you turned these two back to normal?”

<Vergilius, I’m sorry, I don’t know how but I lost my PDA, or got it taken from me, or- or maybe I just left it on the bus? No->

He holds up his hand, and they go quiet. “One of these two took it?”

They nod. <I think so, Heathcliff->

The Gladius pierces through the front of Sancho’s skull before she has time to react — she crumples to the floor, red eyes wide before the sound of glass shattering turns them an unblinking gold; Wild Hunt, already half dead, equally only has the time to reach for his sword before the same fate is delivered to him.

Something beeps from Vergilius’ pocket — he rolls Don Quixote onto her back, searching for the purple ouroboros pin by her waist, before flipping it over and resetting the mechanism on its backside. As the beeping stops, he drops her coat, with the familiar jingle of pins clashing against one another as it hits the floor, before moving onto Heathcliff, digging through his pockets. “There,” Vergilius says, holding up their PDA to them, and then, moments later, the identity cards. “We got it back.”

Dante stares at the cauterised holes in the two Sinners’ heads, both neatly framed by about three-quarters less hair than there was a minute ago, and chooses not to groan about it in Vergilius’ presence.

✹ ✹ ✹

The walk back to the bus is spent in awkward silence, Don Quixote and Heathcliff trailing behind their guide and manager. There’s a million things Vergilius could be saying to them right now — how much property damage they caused, for one, and how much danger they put themselves and the manager in during what was supposed to be a simple mission — but he simply walks back with his head high above eye contact with any of them. Dante turns their thoughts to asking for forgiveness in pardon of Heathcliff and Don Quixote, but thinks better of it; it may as well be best to once again follow his actions and remain silent too. 

Before they step back onto the bus, though, Dante digs into their pockets and hands Vergilius a small, black velvet box.

“What’s this?”

Dante tells something to Heathcliff. 

“Err… the manager says it’s a gift.”

“I didn’t quite expect to be seeing the company funds be spent on luxuries on your outing.”

“It’s for the bus girl. Since they can’t talk to her, they thought you could pass the message on.”

Vergilius frowns and opens the box. Inside are a pair of plain, rectangular silver earrings, just barely long enough to dangle beneath the earlobe, but not long enough to get caught in her hair. “...She doesn’t have her ears pierced.”

“Forsooth, there is no need for pierced skin, for they are clip-ons!” Don Quixote translates. “Oo, what an ingenious invention! If we were to peruse the streets again, manager-“

Heathcliff snaps her out of her daydreams by unsubtly hitting her on the back of the head. 

Vergilius contemplates it for a moment before shutting the box — it closes with a satisfying snap. “Fine. It’s not the worst gift you three have attempted to bring on the bus.” He looks over at Dante. “I suppose I should say thank you.”

They tick with reignited vigour at his vaguely positive response. “Clockhead and the lass got something for you too?” Heathcliff says, taking a step back in confusion.

Suddenly, Don Quixote steps forwards and drops down on one knee in front of Vergilius, head bowed low as she digs through her pockets. “HARK!” she yells. Dante gets on one knee with her too, for some reason, bowing their head as they wait for her to fish whatever it is out, clasped firmly within her hands. Then, with her hands cusped in theirs, her hands uncurl, and they both raise the crudely made imitation of the Red Gaze figurine to him. 

“THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR SAVING US!!!” she yells so loudly that Dante nearly loses their balance with the startled noise of a horn, “S-so, please accept this token of our gratitude, Sir Vergilius of the Reddest of Gazes, my good, noble, righteous… uhm… kindly…?”

Tick-tock.

Her face turns red as she whips her head in their direction. “I’m NOT calling him that.”

Vergilius refuses to acknowledge their gift except for a sentence uttered within a single breath of disbelief: “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Nope,” Heathcliff lies through his teeth, plucking the figurine from their hands and tossing it in Vergilius’ direction — the receiver’s reaction to catch falling objects acts faster than his brain, and he cursedly finds himself holding the abomination despite his best intentions. “Uh, goodnight, Vergilius!” Heathcliff calls out stiffly, already sprinting up the steps of Mephistopheles as Don Quixote shoves Dante, full-body shaking with laughter, into the bus after him. Through the bus’ windows, he watches as Heathcliff and Don Quixote yell at Dante in desperate attempts to unlock the Backdoor faster, before laughing as they trip over each other in their escape to the safety of their rooms, bound closer by more than chains.