Chapter Text
There was a headache in his brain and a frown on his lips when they forged through the waking city’s marble sprawl. Annoyance sowed its roots and sprouted into Marcellus’ prodding voice at every step.
“You walk like a tourist. Admirable.” He spoke. “I can't even see properly, yet I feel you stopping every five meters. What are you doing, window shopping? Why?”
“I’m not.”
“Fix the vision problem.” It ordered lazily. “I wanna see.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, tough luck. I’m your superior.”
“You’re also dead.” Ramiel promptly recognized. “I don’t think the dead should be ordering people around.”
“Nonsense!” Marcellus chuckled. “Recall the thirteen amendments and think again.”
“...”
With a frown, Ramiel turned to an alleyway. The pockets of his uniform accommodated for a small object to be inserted at the breast, assumedly for a pen or a tiny notebook to jot down the time of death and surrounding murder knickknacks while on body recovery duty. He shoved the gun in there and pushed it deep enough to rip a small hole in the pocket’s inner floor fabric to make sure only the very tip of the grip would poke out.
“Let there be…!” Marcellus gasped in awe. “I have totally forgotten about this particular compartment, in all honesty. Good find!”
“...” Ramiel mulled over the implications silently and removed himself from the shadow. The pointy towers of Saint Stephen extended far beyond the horizon, draping the entire street in a dim, cool blanket. Marcellus clicked nervously.
“A hospital?” He shuddered against his chest. “I thought we were going to your professional? Your gee-eff, no? Why a h–...”
“Don’t call her that.” Ramiel dully mumbled. “And we are. She lives there, temporarily.”
“Oh, right! Right, right… Because I can think of many a dozen gun specialists who reside inside public hospitals.” A scoff. “Especially the likes of Saint Stephen. You know what they say about this place, right? It’s a common hell–... A common shithole, with a queue at every corner and a month-long wait to get anything done. I remember when one of those nurse-hands dropped by the precinct once to report a shipment of hard anesthetics going missing, and, well, you know, as one would I started chatting her up on the side – a Herculean task not to, if you will, had you seen the size and width of her–”
“Uh-huh.” Ramiel idled, passing through the revolving door with ease. He slipped through two Sankta gentlemen lively engaged in a discussion of the city’s smuggler infestation, completely unnoticed.
“... Anyway, she told me so many horror stories about this place, you wouldn’t believe.” Marcellus huffed, glancing around the lobby in fear. “... I don’t even wanna be here, in all honesty. I want out as soon as possible, okay?”
“...” Ramiel’s guts twisted. It was the first time he’s ever heard his superior’s voice falter. Here, inside a public healthcare provider – not when he was being eaten alive or worse. He gave the gun a quick glance and snorted.
“Sure, gramps. We’ll be in and out.”
“Hey.” Marcellus stiffened as the boy waved a polite hello to the receptionist and forged on down the main corridor. “No name-calling. Plus, you’re getting too chummy.”
“I don’t think we can be more chummier.” Ramiel aptly noticed. “You’re inside of my head, unwillingly on both accounts.”
“No correlation. Just find your, your thing or whatever. Find the woman, get it fixed.” Befitting a petulant child, Marcellus whined. Ramiel could almost imagine him crossing his arms with a huff. Just as he was about to riposte with a haphazardly constructed remark of his own, a loud gasp erupted from within the nearest patient’s room.
“Ah?! What in the world are you wearing?!”
Ramiel’s back immediately flooded with cold sweat and he hurried to throw the uniform’s hood on in a desperate attempt to conceal himself – for the gasp sounded above all, familiar.
“What? What’s happening? What’s, what’s going on?” Marcellus began throwing questions, clicking the hammer and spinning the cylinder like a madman. “Are we made? You’re gonna get hacked now, are you? Hacked, sawed, they’re gonna drain your blood and sell it in unmarked bags to a Kazdelian war-band…”
“Worse…!” He stifled under his breath, shying away from the door. “It’s her.”
“Ramiel!” The voice grew louder and clearly despised being ignored. “Get in here, immediately.”
“... Fuck.” He muttered under his breath and cleared his throat, turning just barely towards the door, not fully enough to reveal his identity (as if it’d help.) “I c-can’t Miss Niederhauser. I’m not actually on shift today.”
“I can see that!” She yelled back. “What I want to know is what is that thing you’re wearing, and why! And by God, put that hood down, young man! It’s an astonishment that someone like you would bend the rules of savoir vivre with such a silly head canopy.”
“It’s… It’s the Executors’ uniform, it’s not silly.” Marcellus was unnaturally quiet in his response. “It’s imposing.”
“It’s my new uniform, miss.” He explained, bracing himself before yanking the fabric off. “I don’t work here anymore.”
“Ah. Mhm.” She eyed him suspiciously from her bed, arms crossed and eyes vigilant in their pedantic search for imperfections on every inch of his body. “So that’s why. And pray tell, does that uniform mandate you to ignore and act as if you don’t recall your former ‘patients’?”
“Former what? You used to be a nurse?” Marcellus couldn’t hide his astonishment beneath the sneer. “They gave me a nurse…?”
“No.” Ramiel sighed irritably. “No, Miss, it doesn’t. But it’s– I mean, can you blame me? I’m on duty, I have a tight schedule and I’m meant to be operating on the upper floor of this, this, um…”
“Entity.” Marcellus hinted.
“Entity, exactly. I’m expected upstairs.”
“... Right.” Miss Niederhauser slowly sunk back into the pillows. “If you’re so busy. I suppose I’m in no position to be taking up any more of your… precious time, I suppose. I suppose you’re supposedly not even going to- to bother to drop by for a proper goodbye on your way out. Are you?”
“...”
Ramiel stood in the doorway. There was a coffee pot full of flowers on her bedside table, filled to the brim with a slightly murky substance. The IV bags strung to her limbs like a puppeteer’s strings were softening her glare tenfold for each one. He shook his head and swallowed something sad deep into his stomach.
“I’m really busy, Miss. It’s important, um. It’s an internal affair.”
“...” Miss Niederhauser’s gaze deflected back to the flowers. A dull silence grew between them until she took a deep breath and put the pot in her lap. “If so, so be it. Apparently the Law’s dead-set on taking each and every-one of you from me until I’m alone and it’s satisfied. So… be it.”
“...”
“... She’s got problems.” Marcellus summed up quietly. “C’mon, chop-chop. I hope your ‘gun specialist’ isn’t as bad.”
Without a word, Ramiel twirled out of the room and left the door wide open. It was a firm march up the stairs, boots thudding something fierce like thunder when he scaled the steps. Staying unnaturally calm and quiet, Marcellus eyed the passing nurses and volunteering aid-hands. Liberi or Sankta, their eyes flitted back and forth from the floor and Ramiel’s stride, sometimes in admiration, sometimes in envy, sometimes even in fear. He couldn’t understand why, given how the Executor's uniform should provoke nothing but overwhelming awe and blind trust.
“Ex-... ‘Cuse me…? Did some-... -thing…? Someone…?” One of them asked the boy in passing. A girl, not much older than him – with a couple of bright purple ovals circling above her crown, and a coat slung off one shoulder, bigger than double the width of her body. Ramiel slammed on the brakes and stood dumbly when the softly uttered question took him completely off course.
“Someone?” He repeated, guts wrought sideways. “No, by Law. Nothing of the sort.”
“...” Silence befell them. Between Marcellus’ quiet mumbles and the beating of his own heart, Ramiel felt inclined to let her process in peace. Finally, she prodded further, head tilting to the side in confusion. “So why…?”
“What’s she on about?” Marcel clicked. “Why are you speaking in code?”
“I’m off duty, ma’am.” Ramiel assured, thawing her nervous jitters. “Nothing happened at all. Well, not to my knowledge anyway. I’m just here to… to visit a friend.”
Her wings rung at the mention of a friend immediately. A bright spark lit on her face as she immediately turned back to point at the door behind herself.
“...?” She stared at him, apparently awaiting.
“...?” Ramiel led his gaze to the door. Indeed, it was the very same familiar window into Lemuen’s quiet respite. “That’s the one, yeah. Are you…?”
Before he could properly ask, she shook her head instantaneously.
“Not a friend?” He couldn’t hide his surprise. “What, then?”
“...” The girl raised her arms in a shrug. Her mouth opened momentarily, but refused any sounds – instead, her flat open palm rocked back and forth.
“Fifty/fifty?” Ramiel blinked. “I don’t… I don’t think I follow.”
“Nathaniel.” Marcellus purred in his ear. “Why have you brought us to a loony bin?”
“I haven’t, it’s just…” He scoffed. “Look, I’m- I’m sorry, I need to speak with her quick. If you’re in need of, like, of help or anything, there are people here who are paid to offer you some, okay? I’m off duty, I don’t have time to play charades with you.”
“...” A little taken aback, the girl stepped away with her mouth hanging open and eyes widened. Her palms pressed securely to her chest when she watched the boy awkwardly stumble forth and through the thick, wooden door.
“...”
And there he was, again.
In his little wonderland, covered from head to toe in a blue-ish pink curtain light. The sweet scent of flower water lingered in the air as it always has, almost as if he had never actually left – as if a beeping buzzer had brought him here, and he had scheduled himself a daily visit at the Notarial Hall later, to ask for his documents’ review. Closing the door behind, it was almost like locking all the evil of the world outside of this room, whereas inside nothing bad could ever come to be.
“So dim in here.” Marcellus remarked gruffly. Ramiel’s thoughts, despite wandering freely through their idyllic memory meadow, halted as this anchor grounded them back firmly in reality.
“Not for you to see.” He whispered, then knocked the gun off of its silk perch and deeper into the pocket so that the eye would see no longer.
“Hey!”
“She catches wind of you, it’s over.” Ramiel added as an excuse. “Just trust me.”
Through a grumbled and reluctant agreement, he remained turned and bent near the door to disguise the kerfuffle. His ears and feathers all frazzled when a small cough arrived from the windowside.
“... Ramiel?”
Like balm on his ears, the voice sounded almost concerned. He turned with an embarrassingly nervous smile and hid his hands behind his back.
“Uh-huh. Hi.” He forced a small curtsy and immediately scolded himself mentally.
“Wow. Look at you.” Lemuen sat by the windowsill, a fuzzy blanket draped over her shoulders, a warm smile on her face. “I almost didn’t recognize you. So the letter had worked, I see?”
“Apparently.” Ramiel padded through the room, ignoring the piercing Lupo-whistle Marcellus had just lashed his brain with. He sat on her bed and readjusted the robe – specifically around the breast-pocket area. “I’m one of them now, I suppose. Hey, listen, you wouldn’t–...”
“What…?” Her smile disappeared the second his face emerged from the shadow and joined the curtainlight. “What happened to you?”
“W-What?” Ramiel’s heart stilled as she began fiddling with her chair’s wheel lock to turn her entire attention. He leaned back, bristled when her hand reached out to grasp his cheek. “What happened to me?”
“Your face?” Lemuen froze mid-air, head tilting in a mix of worry and confusion. “You’re all pale, first of all – second of all, you’ve got dried blood splattered all over your cheeks–? And is that…?” She leaned in and nearly out of her wheelchair completely to gawk at the knife wound Marcellus had gifted him. “A cut? What in the world had happened?”
“Shit. Moron, couldn’t you have washed that off…?” Marcellus hissed quietly, threatening to flick the cylinder or click. “Say you got mugged. Say you– uh… A group of Liberi lowlifes… A group of drunk Liberi lowlifes caught you in an alleyway and asked you for change. And you had no change, just hands. That usually works for me. Oh, oh and tell her– tell her she should see the other guys! Ehe…”
“Um.”
Ramiel’s pale complexion lit up like Lungmen’s sky on Sauin. Red with fireworks, he’d have assumed. He swallowed a gulp and forced a weak smile.
“You know.” He gestured vaguely – downstairs. “... The lady with the cats? From, um…”
“... Oh.” Lemuen’s shoulders immediately slumped in relief. “From A-twenty-three?”
“Yeah! Yeah, Miss Hofer.”
“Miss Hofer, yeah.” She sighed deeply, leaning back comfortably in her chair cradle. “... Couldn’t stop herself from calling you in to gawk at the uniform, I guess?”
“You guess. And you guess right.” Ramiel scoffed and flicked a hand nonchalantly. “I barely even made it inside, got jumped immediately by all her feral strays. Why she’s allowed to keep them all clawed, I really have no idea…”
“Because she’s been here far longer than you or me, silly.” Lemuen shot him a warm look. “You think you’d have learned everything there is to learn about the social hierarchy of a public hospital after spending nearly two years inside, but look at you. You haven’t.”
“Not my fault. I don’t even work here anymore.”
“Uh-huh. And that makes me worried.” She said plainly, but crossed her arms to mask the true weight of the words behind her woolen coverlet. “Getting lost between some furry claws on your way up to deliver someone’s sore throat medication isn’t the same as getting caught up in the wrong place, at the wrong time on the Notarial Hall’s orders. One just makes you look kind of dumb and the other leaves you dead.”
“No shit.” Marcellus snorted. “Hey, why didn’t you listen to her earlier? She sounds smart.”
“Oh, so now you’re worried about me fitting in?” Ramiel bit back before he could stop himself. “Why? You never said anything before.”
“I’d hate to dull your unbound optimism.”
“You’d hate to make me frown.” He put it bluntly. “You’re a people pleaser.”
“We both are.” She chuckled quietly, giving him a moment to sort out the nervous rattle inside his chest. “I guess that’s why I’m worried about you just now. I thought you’d… I don’t know. That you’d grow up the second they slapped a uniform on you.”
“I’m not a child.”
“And not exactly the wisest adult, either.” Her head swayed to one shoulder – unaware completely of how sweet the gesture made her look. “But maybe I’m looking at it the wrong way. Maybe it takes time.”
“For what?”
“You tell me.” She shrugged. “For my legs to heal? For El to reply to my letters? For the warden to finally fix this–... ungodly locking mechanism?”
Click-click. The gun itched. “She’s in a wheelchair…?” it asked with barely disguised disgust. The wheels simply refused to move, no matter how hard she poked the lever. With a resigned sigh, Lemuen silently admitted defeat and let go of the mechanism. Ramiel felt a knot somewhere deep inside – embarrassing in how fiercely it wanted to prod further and clash.
“... I’m just worried, that’s all. What if?” She mused – and when her hand attempted to capture his cheek again, he didn’t flinch or jerk away at all. Under her warm palm, Ramiel turned into a pliant pile of clay and couldn’t refuse. “What if you’ll still be trying to please aside from trivialities? If this cut…” Her finger soothed gently along the split length, unbothered by the blood and gore. “... Wasn’t a cat’s doing, then what? If you came in here pale as a ghost and refused to say why?”
“...” Ramiel inertly tensed. Mulling over everything he could remember of the past three years, lying wasn’t part of his daily schedule. It wasn’t a part of his life at all. A few trivial white lies here and there, sure – something to set himself free of Miss Niederhauser’s clingy claws or avoid telling his mother about Lemuen – but never anything major. From the moment he had entered and began spewing whatever the most Marcellus-affected part of his brain fed him, it pained him to see the fruits of this new labor. Or so he’d told himself at least. It wasn’t obvious to him, whether the uncomfortable churning of his guts was a sign of guilt from depravation or worry that it might’ve been something else.
“I’m fine.” Ramiel said after a moment. Her hand fell from his cheek when he retreated uncomfortably. “Everything’s good in life, why would anything go wrong? I got my dream job, I’m working with cool people. Everything is fine, you just worry too much, grandma.”
“I’m honored.” Marcellus tagged in. “But get to the point, please.”
“You say that now.” She sighed with a glum smile. “But if anything, ever – you’ll ask, right?”
“I will.”
“Good.” Finally, Lemuen returned to her chair fully and snuggled beneath the coverlet. A hint of anticipation wafted from her warm gaze. “So with all there was - behind us, you have to tell me. How was it?”
“How was…?” Ramiel blanked.
“The initiation. Some sort of ceremony?” She asked, pronouncing as if it was obvious. “When you were dressed and armed, isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?”
“Yes, yes, it is.” Marcellus nagged, clicking his non-existent tongue. “Just get on with it, hot wheels. Say you had a beautiful welcome committee with flowers.”
“Ah, that!” He forced a bashful smile to the displeasure of his aching chest. Flaunting the breathable sleeves with enough force made him forget about the church altogether. “They gave me these. And some flowers. And then some. That’s actually part of why I’m here.”
“Oh, is it?”
“It is!” Ramiel proclaimed proudly, then reeled it back before he could vomit. “You know, I’m, uh… I’m not the best with a gun.”
“Oh.” Lemuen tilted her head. “I suppose you’re not, no.”
“But I’d like to be.”
“Wouldn’t we all?”
“I thought you could…”
“Maybe I should.”
“For the love of God…” Marcellus groaned in irritation.
“But it’s not about the shooting itself.” Ramiel corrected, ignoring his dry throat. As Lemuen opened her mouth to answer, he fell into a coughing fit.
“Ah.” She watched him pound on his chest, spit into his uniform’s sleeve and hack some more. “The license, then?”
“Y-Yeah, license.”
“What about it?”
Lemuen reached to the right. A long and irregular object was pulled into her lap, imposing in its size and shape. Ramiel swallowed the phlegm irritating his throat and realized he had no idea what to ask her for.
“I don’t really… know the first thing when it comes to firearms.” He admitted sheepishly. “And I was wondering if you could help. Like with that… thing. What even is that?”
“Um. A rifle.” She glanced down and patted the gun awkwardly. Her hands found the telescopic sight and cradled it with care. “Arctic-something, high caliber, and… and my competition winner, of course.” She smiled. “Are you asking me about an in-depth explanation of the gunsmithing processes behind it?”
“...” Ramiel stared at her, wide-eyed. “... More or less, yes?”
“Oh.” Her smile faded instantly. “I’m not sure. I know how to use it, not how to make it.”
“At all…?”
“I mean.” She hummed, vaguely running her fingers over the various bolts and screws lining the bulky exterior. “I know how to service it and all. I could take it apart with a handbook at my side, clean it, apply some oils and put it back together, but I’m afraid I’m far too inadequate for what you’re asking of me.”
“Putting it bluntly.” Ramiel added, as he really hated the way he forced her into the admission. “But don’t you know any, like… um…”
“Spiritual.” Marcellus quietly aided.
“Spiritual-related, uh… gun stuff?”
“...?” Lemuen’s wandering gaze halted abruptly and she lifted her head to gawk at him. “What?”
“Yeah. Like, you know. Spirituality.”
“Spirituality… related to guns?”
“Uh-huh.”
“...” She stared at him for a long while. Her eyes were searching, but Ramiel was giving nothing but an awkward smile. “... No.”
“No?”
“No, I–... What?” She scoffed in surprised amusement. “What spirituality? Like, Law stuff? I don’t- I just don’t get what you’re asking.”
“No, like… like if people could get, like…” He stammered forth, gesturing very vaguely with his hands as if rubbing a glass ball for answers. “... Sucked in? In-depth gun knowledge about, I don’t even know…”
“No, no, you almost have her.” Marcellus eagerly urged him on, like a push on the back. “Keep going, keep going.”
“Sucked in?” She blinked. “Sucked into a gun?”
“Uh-huh…?”
“Are you… sure nothing had happened?” Worriedly, eyebrow aloft, she began reaching out to press a palm against his feathered forehead. Ramiel let her, but sighed in exasperation anyway. “Can you jolt out for a moment and look for a thermometer? I can’t tell with my hand alone, I don’t even know why I’m trying…”
“I’m not–... I don’t have a fever!” He whined in protest.
“No, no, you do.” Marcellus argued, suddenly animated. “You do, go find that thermometer.”
“What?”
“What?” Lemuen repeated.
“Do not respond to me. And go. Ahem.” The gun lowered its voice to an inconspicuous whisper. “... Go find that thermometer. Feather-head, just leave the room. She has nothing of value.”
“Oh, nothing, just…” He took a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes with an overly dramatic amount of tired flair. “... Maybe you’re right. I may just be a little woozy from today. It’s just, I still can’t believe I got the job, so I’m being all jumpy and dumb.”
“Oh! Oh, no, of course. I’d hate to keep you aching.” Lemuen quickly backed off, placing the rifle somewhere safe and away. “As much as I’d love to offer some celebratory walk…”
“Some other time?” He smiled apologetically. “Tomorrow?”
“After a good night’s rest.” She confirmed with one of her own, watching him stand up with a tap to the knees. “And then you’ll tell me all about it. The good and the bad, okay?”
“Sure, yeah…” Ramiel nodded, heading for the door with Marcellus’ hurrying sighs and groans filling his brain. “I’ll be, uh. Here?”
“No, you won’t.” The gun assured. “Now, out. Now.”
“Here’s fine.” She waved, but barely above her chest’s height. “Bye-bye?”
“Bye-bye.” Ramiel waved back.
“Bye-bye, veggie-girl.” Marcellus added, and right as the door shut behind them, he received a heft smack on the barrel through the fabric. “Ow! Why?!”
“Can you be normal? Can you not call her that?” The boy hissed, covering his mouth with a sleeve and nodding politely at the Sankta nurses passing him by.
“What? I’m just saying how it is.” He scoffed. “It’s not everyday you meet a paraplegic, so when it does happen at least let me enjoy it to the fullest. But seriously, your girlfriend’s pretty useless - both from the waist down AND up apparently.”
It irked Ramiel greatly, but in the tightly packed corridor all he could do was muffle his mutter and spit into his own forearm.
“Honestly, what is your problem?” He asked with barely disguised disdain, already forming various projections of himself strangling Marcellus to death with those overgrown golden locks of his. “I was trying to help, she was trying to help and you’re acting like a dick to both of us. Why?”
“Oh, you were trying to help. Yeah, sure.” The voice snorted, chuckled and all dripped with icy chill. “Trying to help now, trying to help THEN. Getting me KILLED, huh? You know, fine - help all you want, but don’t bring me to a paralympics center next time, maybe.”
“So what? So- So she’s paralyzed, so what?” Ramiel couldn’t fathom the logic. Sure, his stomach might've knotted a bit at the mention of his indirect church-homicide, but his arms shot up in awe at his interlocutor’s petty stupidity anyway. “Why does that even matter?”
“Okay, listen.” Marcellus took a deep ‘breath’ and slowly filtered it out the muzzle. “... I know you’re young and naive and whatever. I was your age once, too – not so long ago. But if, in your opinion, the greatest oracle of gun-wisdom you can think of is some wheelchair-bound has-been that doesn’t have the slightest clue about anything even remotely related to the shit we’re in, I think I’m bound to introduce some harsh changes into your life.”
“Can you just stop pointing out the wheelchair?” He groaned out a plea. “Why are you so hung up on it?”
“Why are you so pussy-whipped for a girl who can’t even spread her legs?”
“I…” Ramiel was momentarily left completely speechless. His hand froze mid-air, before slowly adducting down. “...”
“... Yeah.” There, came a victorious hum. “Think before speaking next time. And think real hard, because we’re currently lead-less and stuck in your dreamed-up loony bin full of specimens of your sort. No lead, no trail, no info, no idea what to do…”
“Well, what do you want me to do?!” He imploded, making a nurse to his right jump. Ramiel waved off her wide eyes and fluttering wings with a scoff. “I don’t know any other gun-virtuosos! I can’t even use those things myself!”
“And yet you’ve been made the bane of my existence…” Marcellus sighed.
“Maybe I should just turn back and hand you in? Maybe I can just throw you out the window and see how you like the streets, if you’re oh so miserable with me?”
A mirthy few clicks were followed by the gun’s cackle. “Do you seriously need me to yell again? Your squirming brings me great joy, don’t get me wrong, but are you really a masochist or just plain dumb?”
“...”
Ramiel’s body curled in on itself. An internal struggle between logic and pure rage couldn’t figure where to sway – and settled on a stalemate somewhere in between. He slumped with a tired sigh, grazing the wainscotted wall with his bruised cheek.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Marcelus purred in his ear, lingering there with his deathly cold breath. “We are stuck-stuck together, teeny tiny birdie. My perfect little failure.”
“... Stop.” There was not enough air in his lungs for anything but a low whine. “... What do you want me to do? Don’t you know anyone?”
“The people responsible for keeping my gun in working condition are all on my own mother’s payroll.” Marcellus sighed himself and reigned the voice back into a more appropriate tone. “You can’t go to any of my gun-guys. The second you go to any of my gun-guy’s you’re gonna paint yourself a big, juice target on your back and simultaneously become the prime suspect of investigation when they eventually find the gun missing. And Daniel, my sweet and beloved dummy, I don’t want you to share the title of Laterano’s Most Wanted with that bastard Andoain or Reiff just yet.”
“Who…?”
“No one.” Marcellus clicked, spun the cylinder a little bit too fast and failed to mask just how excited those two surnames had made him. “Think, Daniel.”
“But how am I supposed to…?”
“Think, think, think, think…” He began to chant. Chant and chant, just ’think, think, think, think…’, as if Ramiel’s been caught with his lips on a beer can inside a fraternity. It was no thinking environment, of course, so Ramiel couldn’t come up with anything even half meaningful that didn’t include pulling Marcellus apart limb by limb.ee
“I can’t… I don’t know, okay?! I don’t!” He yelled finally, banging his feathered head against the nearest wall. “I can’t think of anyone who knows guns! I don’t know a single fucking person who has the slightest interest in… fucking, GUN SPIRITUALITY of all things in life! The last bunch of friends I had were too busy getting shoved into lockers at Uni to care about anything else!”
“Then your friends are losers!” Marcellus shot back, not literally. “And you’re a loser! And I’m glad you bunch have found each other and were getting shoved into lockers throughout your teen years, ‘cause that at least means you were providing entertainment for someone more fit to live in this country, like a normal person should!”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you! Fuck you, Ramiel!”
“So you DO remember my name?!” Appalled, he burst away from the wall and slammed a palm to his forehead, as if it would directly affect his superior. “Nathaniel this, Daniel that, you’re just pretending!”
“I’m not pretending! I am NOT pretending!” The voice fought back with equal ferocity, unaware of the headache it was generating and its splitting magnitude. “You’re pretending! Pretending to be an Executor, pretending to work, pretending to care about anything beyond the tip of your feathered nose, you–...”
“You’re making me pretend!”
“I’m not making you do shit!”
“Yes, you are! Yes, you–... You think I wanna keep bullshitting everyone around? You think–...”
And suddenly, stop.
There was a physical intrusion. Someone pulled on his sleeve, gave him a gentle tap on the back.
Ramiel and Marcellus froze. There was a bliss to the yelling match, a comfortable feeling of an islanded alone-ness that let them drop both their masks and tear into each other for a bit. The anchoring reality of others – of other sentient, human beings who possessed ears, sent them blushing.
“...” Ramiel slowly turned around. His cheeks were set ablaze. It was a small and curious pair of eyes, one he’d seen before. Not that long ago, actually. A sort of colorless mop of mousy hair drifted before her timid glance.
“... Hello?” He cleared his throat. Something told him that maybe if he ignored his loud outburst enough it’d eventually go away as if it never had happened. So, ever so casually; “Did you need anything?”
“...” The girl shook her head urgently. Her wide eyes were scanning his face with a sense of deeper need, one that would simply be impossible to dress into words. Fueled by this pressing fervor, she sunk her hands into the depths of her oversized coat’s pockets and began furiously rummaging around.
“... Ramiel?” Marcellus quietly perked up. “... Who, uh… Who’s that? Who’s that you’re talking to?”
Watching her intently, Ramiel covered his mouth with a sleeve and coughed out a “dunno” in passing. He was more interested in whatever the girl was doing rather than entertaining his superior.
And the girl was laying out a little army of brass shells in her cupped palm.
“... Are you, um…” He asked, tilting his head - maybe in pity, maybe in curiosity. “Are you okay? Are you a patient here?”
“...” Exigently carding through the shells, rattling and clinking away with her fingers, the girl couldn’t afford to look away from the bronze mound. She gave a slight nod to both the questions – or so had Ramiel assumed, as she nodded twice.
“So how else can I help you? If at all?” He asked again, slightly bewildered by the ferocity with which she kept rummaging through the spent ammo. “... Hello?”
“Ramiel, don’t you think you’ve more pressing matters to attend to?” Marcellus hummed. “More important people to help?”
“...!” She jumped suddenly, making the boy twitch. Without a word, she picked a particularly abraded and worn one, the one she’s been searching for all this time and unabashedly shoved it into his face. Squinting, Ramiel could make out a single word etched into the surface.
”Sorry.”
“Sorr–... Sorry?” He blinked. Taken completely off guard, he took a look at the girl who seemed more animated than ever, nodding eagerly with her entire body. Many more casings sounded out from the hollow of her pockets. “Sorry for what?”
“...” She frowned slightly, took a step back and pointed at Lemuen’s door. Then at herself. Then at him. Ramiel couldn’t tell if he was following or not.
“Sorry? Sorry- what? What is happening?” Marcellus squawked in annoyance. “Ramiel, what are we still doing here?”
“I don’t–... I don’t know, sorry.” He offered her a nervously apologetic smile. “You’re sorry? Am I sorry? Who’s sorry here?”
“...” The girl gave him a slightly exasperated look. She pointed to herself ostentatiously, just so there would be no further confusion about it.
“You’re sorry. Okay.” He blinked. “... For what?”
“...” Here, she pointed back to the door. And to herself – then to him, reaching out to tap on his shoulder, with her hand gesticulating around as a chattering mouth. Ramiel’s brain cogs began to move in tandem.
“Oh, you’re sorry for bothering me earlier!” He grinned excitedly, clicked his fingers in triumph and claimed this charade win with delight. “Hey, no problem at all. It was urgent, I was- uh… Well, I’m sorry too, for acting like a jerk. I thought I was in a rush.”
“You were in a rush.” Marcellus muttered. “... Still are.”
“...” The girl, clearly a lot more relaxed now that she’s managed to get her point across, returning a tiny little smile. Though the edges of her lips barely managed to curl, there was a hint of clearly noticeable pride to it – like she’s managed something far away from the usual linear agenda. A second later, as if suddenly reminded of something else she was supposed to do, she raised a finger and quickly began digging through her pockets in search of another shell.
“...” Wordlessly, Ramiel watched her work. Ignoring Marcellus’ frequent questions and commands, he tapped his foot against the floor out of habit as she dug and dug, tunneled through the vast expanse beneath her jacket. “... You’ve got a lot of these in there, huh?”
“...” That made her smile a bit – embarrassedly, almost. Brushing her hair back after all that searching, she managed to retrieve a casing that was promptly shown to Ramiel.
”Help.”
“...” An uncomfortably cold sheen of sweat slid down his back. Ramiel swallowed hard and felt his grin disappear just as quickly as it had appeared. “... You want me to…?”
“...!” Confusion and trepid shock made her eyes shoot wide open. The girl began frantically shaking her head and pointing to herself – then to Ramiel. After some more digging – with a couple of shells dropping from her pockets, only to be collected and returned diligently by the boy – she shoved another one in his face.
“Gunsmith.”
And just like that, she proudly pointed to herself. Ramiel was positively floored.
“You’re a gunsmith?”
“WHO?” Marcellus immediately came to life, animated beyond belief. “WHO? WHO?”
“...” Smiling once more, she relished in his astonishment and nodded shyly, adding a small curtsy to cement herself fully as his one and only divine savior. Her wings fluttered slightly as Ramiel kept gawking in awe.
“So you’re–... You overheard, then?” He chuckled nervously. “I was, uh… I tend to think out loud, you know? And I was just wondering, because there’s a problem I have, with a gun I may or may not have, and… and… You’re saying you could help?”
Almost immediately after, Marcellus howled – “Yes? What’d they say? Yes??”
“...” She thought about it for a moment, hesitated slightly as her gaze drifted to the side – but eventually returned a full, firm nod.
Ramiel blinked.
“... Why?”
“...”
It confused her, clearly. A wrinkle curled at her forehead when she stared at the boy as if he had just disorientated her on purpose. Tilting from one side to another, her head eventually nudged his gaze towards Lemuen’s door.
“...” Ramiel narrowed his eyes. “So you are a friend?”
And again, the girl responded with that fifty/fifty hand swivel. This time around, her full pockets and brass friends were there to help.
“Lemuel.”
“...” Ramiel read, vocalized the word and tasted each single litter before finally connecting it with anything fungible. Lemuen, Lemuel, those names were so similar, yet so different at the same time. One of them, he’s spent the majority of his past two to three years with and the other – he’s never met in his entire life. Maybe for the better, judging briefly by the rambunctious tales summarized in Lemuen’s famed ‘Letters From Lungmen’, often featuring death and murder as the lead theme thrown around far more casually than necessary – definitely more frequently than any self-respecting Believer would consider healthy for the soul. He had to admit, though – this Lemuel person had quite the colorful imagination. Some of the stuff she’d come up with, he’d never have the brain to imagine in a million years. A time-manipulating Devil with a sword, facing off against a crime baroness from Siracusa while a southerner and some other Sankta he forgot the name of blow up the city’s docks. It did always make him ponder over the nature of the world outside Laterano – what horrible and beautiful things must’ve curated such a vast mind – but at the same time the thought of stepping foot outside of the City had him shuddering. Even more so now, after the church fiasco.
“So, so…” He rubbed his chin as the girl rummaged for more shells. “So you’re a friend of En’s sister then, yeah? And you’re helping me because…?”
“...” The girl stopped, turning to glare at him once more. With something resembling a sigh, she fished out the casing that said ”Help” again and shoved it towards him, then towards Lemuen’s door. Ramiel couldn’t argue with that logic.
“Ah. Hm.” He swallowed softly and adjusted the suddenly-tight collar of his shirt. “That’s really, um... That’s sweet of you. Thank you.”
“What’s sweet of who?” Marcellus burst in confusion. “Who are we even talking to?!”
“Like a… Like a savior, you know?” Ramiel awkwardly stuttered, smiling through the gnawing embarrassment in his stomach. “I mean, you’re like one. For me. With the whole gun thing.”
“...” The girl was surprised to hear that again, but all the more happy to do so. Her smile brightened just a tad, and she began searching for another casing.
“Savior, huh…” Marcellus mulled the word carefully. “... You sure? I mean, from what I gathered it’s the weirdo from before, no? The one who didn’t speak a lick of Lateran or whatever else. Well, at first she mumbled some. Then, I’m pretty sure you might’ve broken her. I don’t blame her - you, with that ugly mug of yours…”
“...?” Ignoring the irritation painted over Ramiel’s face, she presented him with a clearly asking look – and a piece of brass, elevated by both her pale hands like some marble pedestal.
“Walk.”
“Walk?” Ramiel asked, reading off the griffonage. “With you?”
Her smile didn’t falter at all. Instead, she nodded happily and joined her hands behind her back, swaying from side to side. Idling. Waiting. Staring at him, waiting for his move. Holding her thumbs between her palms, quietly anticipating rejection.
“... Should I?” He whispered to himself, away from her eagerly perked ears – to Marcellus, his steadfast superior, a bulwark of persistently emphasizing their hierarchical positions. The gun needed a moment to think.
“... Well.” He sighed deeply. “... I mean, she’s a loony. She’s a loony from a loony bin, she can’t talk and she’s… I don’t fucking know, giving you smoke signals or something, apparently. She’s a nutjob, and now she wants you to go somewhere with her. She may not even be a gunsmith, maybe she just thinks she’s one.”
Ramiel raised his hand to smack the pocket where he resided.
“BUT! But! Buuuuut!” Marcellus quickly added, sensing imminent danger. “But, as it so happens, I am currently, momentarily dead, you’ve got voices in your head, we’re on a very strict timetable – and most importantly – neither of us has any idea where else to look.” He pointed out ardently, growing with confidence the more Ramiel’s hand lowered. “So in this case – in this SPECIAL and RARE case – I say, bring out the loonies.”
“... Hm. Yeah.” Ramiel seemed pleased enough. He gave the pocket a polite little love tap and fixed himself up straight to address the girl like someone of his (new) position would. “So–!”
The moment he saw her hopeful eyes and excited smile, all of that bravado crumbled and left him a silly, grinning mess.
“... Yeah, let’s go.” He snorted, passing her with a soft pat on the back. “Miss Gunsmith, lead the way.”
The girl really didn’t need to be asked twice. Nodding earnestly and clinking around with her brass-filled pockets, she bounced up and down along the packed corridor.
The last thing he heard before leaving – right at the revolving door – was Marcellus breathing out a deep sigh of lamentable resignation, muttering something about his “Dear Law…”
More or less, Ramiel gathered that the guy was just happy to finally be out of that wretched place.
…