Chapter Text
“And then! And then!! In a blaze of glory, the knight finally vanquished the giants after such a long and taxing fight, saving the villagers from their evil reign!” She tells excitedly, turning her head left and right and craning her neck to have a better look at the woman working on her restraints from behind her.
“That was a very good story.” The doctor praises with a kind smile as she unfastens the solid leather straps from around Don Quixote’s arms and torso. “You should write a book.”
“Dost thou really think so?!” She asks with a shout, not even getting out of the treatment chair until gently pushed out of it by the doctor.
“Uhm, if I may share any advice…” The doctor’s assistant, a bit paler than usual for some reason, interrupts her jolting down of notes to chime in. “Perhaps refrain from all the… graphic descriptions of organs and blood spilling everywhere?”
“Pardon? But then, what am I to tell?”
“How about you figure it out yourself for next Wednesday, huh?” The doctor answers, pushing Don Quixote further towards the exit of the room. Seeming to remember something, she grabs a small paper ticket from a roll, tearing it off with a sharp gesture and putting it into Don Quixote’s hands with a smile. “Here, your meal ticket. Now go, we have more patients to treat.”
Happily, Don Quixote runs out of the room as asked, leaving the two workers behind and dodging the crowd gathering around the entrance to the treatment room. The light of the corridor blinds her slightly, and she has to slow her steps to rub the sting out of her eyes, before regaining her energy quickly and bounce forward to the canteen for an early lunch. What a good idea it was to volunteer as soon as the rooms opened! This way, for once, she managed to avoid the mind-numbingly long wait, which sometimes even fails to lead to any results. Once again, the Oracle has spoken true, and thanks to their mighty words, she shall be the first to enjoy a hearty meal today!
… Or perhaps not.
Well, given the size of the Institute, and the fact that there are several treatment rooms, it is not surprising that there would be at least a few of her comrades already dining, and she has to squeeze among them, a bit too close for comfort, for the texture of their uniforms gave birth to a feeling of pure urge to flee this confrontation, thrashing within the pit of her stomach, yet nonetheless firmly so, lest the vicious few pass her in the line. But there are so many of her comrades lining up, their white uniforms making them all together look like a very long tapeworm wriggling weakly into this sterile box, that either her check up lasted longer than everyone else’s, or there are more rules she has not yet been acquainted with. She could ask the cook, he who is much more knowledgeable about more secret aspects of the Institute than she is, but the under-handed tactics he is able of - at least those she heard of - make her hardly wish for a full conversation with him, and given how his attention is near-constantly kept by-
“OI!!! Piss of ya li’l shite!!” The sudden roar booming into the canteen, coming from two teenagers standing in front of the deserts’ shelves, startles everyone into the large room, and they all turn towards its origin.
It is something that is becoming common, ever since the last convoy arrived to offer shelter into the Institute to its passengers. Among them were Don Quixote, and the little blonde boy being currently screamed at by the Institute’s most infamous bully, the dragon controlling the other villains among the children, and making the Institute into his personal playground, Heathcliff. And what are dragons, if not destined to be slayed by valiant knights?
“Hey!! Cease thine tormenting, villain!” With this mighty battlecry, she reaches them and quickly places herself between the attacking dragon and the poor trembling prince. “I know naught of what is happening, but thou shan’t lay thine hands on this young man!”
“Huh?! Have all the pipsqueaks ‘round ‘ere decided to piss me off today?!” Her intervention, far from deterring the dragon, seems to only make him more enraged as he raises his fists, ready for a fight. “Ya want that cake too, huh?! No matter… Fuckin’ bring it! I’ll beat the BOTH of ye into the ground!!”
… A cake?
Before the word can be turned around in her head too much, she raises her fists as well, the small “eek!” coming from behind her encouraging her further into this. She is ready for anything to defend the innocent, even throw hands with Heathcliff again, including all the ensuing ordeals she will face once more today, it seems. The commotion attracts more and more attention from their comrades finding pleasure in the barbaric spectacle of a young man, healthier and stronger than the little prince, threatening the much younger boy and his knight, slowly gathering around them, forming an arc around the area for their battle as they slowly start to circle each other, the young prince having the good sense to stumble behind Don Quixote and stay under her protection. Heathcliff is a mighty opponent, for sure: even though he is not done growing up yet, he is already quite tall and muscular; if she attacks him directly, she will be at a certain disadvantage… but he does not seem to be protecting his legs too much…
“Uuh… guys? Can’t you two, maybe, just quit it?” The voice of the cook, one of their comrades despite his role of making and distributing the food to them all given by the authorities of the Institute, comes out a bit more hesitant than usual as he looks above the shelves of food. “I heard the Jailor’s in an even worse mood than usual today… and someone already left to get her.”
“Shut up, Greg!!” Heathcliff, who is now standing in front of the counter, suddenly turns around to face the slightly older man and screams in his face. “Like ye’re doin’ anythin’ ‘bout it!!”
“Dude, I’m on your side, calm down!”
“If ye were truly on our side, you’d DO SOMETHING!!” Heathcliff slams his fists on the counter in front of Gregor who, probably used to this behavior for being in the Institute for so long, remains calm despite the pressure, raising his single hand in a placating gesture, and glances sideways several times, as if trying to wordlessly communicate something, in such an obvious fashion that even Heathcliff picks up on it. “... What’re ye doin’ with yer eyes?”
“Turn around and face me, villain!” Don Quixote shouts out, no longer able to suffer seeing this dragon torment everyone around him. “Or art thou afraid thou shall lose to me in a fair fight?!”
This seems to do the trick, as Heathcliff whips around, eyes widened, nostrils flaring with rage, not entirely unlike a dog ready to bite. Not a bad comparison, but the only one of these good-hearted canines this vicious dragon deserves to be compared to is none other than Cujo, and all of the implications involved.
“Care to repeat that ya li’l prick?!” He barks, now enraged, no better than a puppy bouncing after a rabbit solely because it moves fast.
“Prithee, go to safety.” Don Quixote mumbles to the little boy still trembling behind her. “I shall be done with it swiftly.”
The little prince, all too happy to obey, runs off to take shelter behind the crowd who barely react, all too happy to place their bets on who will win.
“Aaalright! Heathcliff, the undisputed champion, the ‘mad dog’ of the Institute, versuuuus… The newbie!”
“The name is Don Quixote.”
“Don Quixoteee! Ready? Fight!”
As soon as the word left the bookmaker’s mouth, Don Quixote dashes to her opponent to deliver a powerful uppercut in his stomach, making him gasp in pain, before he recovers quickly and grabs her by the shoulder to knee her in the stomach in return, the blow so strong it shakes her entire body and she falls to her knees. Heathcliff is not done, though, and quickly follows by kicking her in the face with enough force for her to fall on her back. Pain pulses into her skull, and a warm liquid rolls down from her nose as everything blurs around her. But she cannot afford to let it slow her down.
Wake up!
Shaking herself back to reality, Don Quixote quickly rolls on the floor to avoid getting stomped by Heathcliff, and she gets back up suddenly, tackling the younger man to the ground, dragging a surprised groan from him. He tries to get rid of her, but she manages to lock her legs around his waist and repeatedly punches him in the face, hoping to return the favor of the pain pulsing in her skull and nearly blinding her to everything else. The two of them roll on the floor, Don Quixote ignoring the urge to pull away from this rough, uncomfortable sandpaper-like texture of his shirt by focusing on inflicting the maximum amount of pain possible, while Heathcliff tries to pull her away from him, his nails painfully scratching her sides as he grabs her by the fabric of her colorless uniform.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
Suddenly, her body jolts and convulses as pure pain travels up and down her for several seconds, forcing her to freeze in her movements. Her vision goes white, then blurs back into reality to see Heathcliff’s face in front of her, eyes wide and mouth open, before he focuses back on the person behind her responsible for this.
“Oi, Jailor, what the fuck?! Ain’t ya supposed to give a warnin’ or som’thin’?!”
“That was the warning. What’s coming next for you insufferable little bastards will be way worse.” The Jailor suddenly jabs her shock baton into his flank, causing his back to arch in pain as a scream of pain claws its way out of his throat. “And it’s Miss Jailor for you.”
She pulls the baton out of his flesh and he falls back on the floor, trying desperately to catch his breath, a bit of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes watering with the pain. When the Ja- Miss Jailor grabs Don Quixote by the back of her collar to pull her away from the young man, she doesn’t dare resist. She is pulled up, and quickly, the tanned face of Miss Jailor, framed by short brown hair, comes into view, her sharp brown eyes sternly piercing through Don Quixote’s, making her feel no different from a poor deer spotted by an eagle.
“Have I not given you a set of rules to read, Miss Don Quixote?”
“... I-indeed so, Ma’am…”
“Have you not finished reading it?” When she is not given an answer fast enough, Miss Jailor starts shaking Don Quixote. “Have you not memorized it already?”
“I-I believe I have memorized up to page 5, Ma’am!” Don Quixote quickly answers, her arms coming up to grip at Miss Jailor’s uniform, as if it could stop the shaking.
“Hmpf. So you know about the punishments for fighting.” Roughly, Don Quixote is put down, and Miss Jailor extends an expecting hand. “Your meal ticket.”
Don Quixote hesitates for a moment, but seeing Miss Jailor make a movement towards her shock baton again, she quickly goes through the pockets of her colorless pants to find her ticket, now crumpled into a small ball, and gives it to the woman who then turns towards Heathcliff. The young man groans and tries to get up, only for Miss Jailor’s expecting hand to be shoved under his eyes. Knowing that it is certainly not an extended help, he raises defiant eyes to her before spitting in her palm. Unsurprised by this development, Miss Jailor wipes her palm on his sleeve, before shoving the shock baton into his chest, ripping yet another scream of pain from him as he falls back down. Once she pulls the baton back, she looks at Don Quixote above her shoulder.
“You know the way to the correction room.”
That she does. Trembling a bit, pain still pulsing through her skull and tingling into her nerves, Don Quixote straightens up a bit and wipes the blood from her nose, before she carefully makes her way out of the circle starting to disperse, finding the fight much less interesting now that a Deus Ex Machina barged in. From the corner of her eyes, she notices the little prince she was protecting. He looks at her with hesitation, making a step towards her, his own ticket clenched into his fist, but at the last moment, he lowers his head, and makes his way back towards the waiter to get his meal.
Good, a boy like him needs regular hearty meals to grow up healthy.
With these words, she smiles lightly, and makes her way out of the canteen.
—
The correction room was known as a place to avoid, yet to which Don Quixote always returns in her zeal to defend the little prince. Perhaps she should write a letter to the Manager to invite them to change some rules and at least offer a fair trial, although their recent ailment - or what she heard of it - might hinder their capacity for action. She is solid and fears neither pain nor fatigue, but some built from more tender conditions and materials might find this punishment to be above their threshold of tolerance.
“Hey! Newbie- uh, DonQui!”
Hearing only the beginning of her name is enough for her to stop in her tracks, trembling and wobbly as they were, to turn in the direction of the voice. The unofficial bookmaker of the Institute runs towards her, long chocolate hair bouncing on her back and blue eyes sparkling with something that Don Quixote cannot quite understand, but chooses to be carefully aware of. Still, she lets the bookmaker approach her as she leans back against a wall to avoid showing her legs trembling too much under her own full weight.
“Urgh… Aye? Is there aught… thou needest from me?”
“I-... Why the heck are you talking like that?” The bookmaker slows down in her walk, her smile freezing on her face for a second before she manages to recover from her apparent surprise with a shake of the head. “Anyway, that’s not important. You alright there? Correction got you bad, huh?”
“I am quite alright…” Don Quixote swallows her own saliva as she looks up to the taller girl smiling at her. “Thank thee for thine concern.”
“That’s normal, I mean, most of us get how painful that can be. Here, let me help ya out.” Before Don Quixote could protest too much, she wraps an arm around her shoulders and makes the smaller girl lean against her as she starts to walk her to their dorms. “But DonQui - you don’t mind if I call you DonQui, right? Cool - that’s quite a feat, there! Usually we get into the correction room less times than we can count on both hands, or the goodie-two-shoes get sent enough times to count on one hand, but in the seven days since you’ve arrived, there hasn’t been one day you haven’t been sent to the correction room, and every time it’s for the same reason.”
“... Mine ears are untrained to subtlety, what art thou attempting to tell me?” Don Quixote asks, glancing up at the other girl with a slight frown, whose smile seems less of a friendly gesture and more of a pretty package all of a sudden. She should have expected such from someone making fortune upon the blood of fighters, and the wickedness of their comrades.
“I’m trying to warn you here, DonQui.” She answers, her blue eyes focused on the path ahead. “That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, your body might not be able to follow. I wouldn’t want to see you break down knowing I could have done something… But I cannot do a lot for free either. The human body - after all, you’re only human, right? - has limits, and you are getting quite a bit close to them.” Seeing as Don Quixote doesn’t respond for a moment, she looks down at her and offers her a friendly smile. “Be kind with yourself is what I’m saying, ‘kay?”
“... Verily…”
“... What?”
“... A-alright…”
“Oh, ok, my bad.”
The two continue their way in silence until reaching the long, seemingly infinite and infinitely grey corridor, cut by lighter grey doors standing guard in perfect order, stretching out for so long that one cannot even see its end, disappearing into the limited vision of the human body rather than into the shadows or the much more concrete shape of a door or a wall. Its mere sight makes Don Quixote dizzy and reawakens her headache. To ease this, she keeps her gaze on the floor, even though it displeases her a lot to bow her head in such a way. A knight like herself should keep her head held high at all times.
“Which number’s your room?” The brunette asks as she focuses on the doors to avoid having to look at the corridor. “It’s not too far, is it?”
“Nay, not overly so…”
“... Could you reach it by yourself?”
“Verily so.”
“Alright, good.” She lets out a sigh of relief which makes Don Quixote raise her eyebrow at her, but if she notices it, she doesn’t mention it. “I have a bit of stuff to deal with, like making sure Heathcliff’s fine, the Jailor went haywire on him.” Gently, she guides Don Quixote to one of the walls to let her lean on it instead. “The name’s Rodion, by the way. You can call me Rodya. Here, have this.”
Don Quixote looks down to the few little pieces of crumpled paper Rodya shoves in her hands, quickly recognizing them as the precious tickets allowing her to eat every day.
“M-meal tickets? But…”
“Well, since Heathcliff did pass out and you didn’t, it was decided that even though the Jailor won the fight, you should be rewarded for outlasting our champion.” Rodya explains with a smile, then gives Don Quixote a ‘thumb’s up’. “Good job!”
“I- but- I could not accept that one hath to starve to offer me these tickets!”
“Huh? Starve? Naaah, no one starved for that! I think…”
“Pardon?”
However, visibly considering this conversation as over, Rodya quickly jumps up and walks off as she waves at Don Quixote with that pretty package of a smile.
“Anyway, gotta go, seeya!”
There she runs off.
“... I shall let her be…” Don Quixote mumbles to herself with a sigh, her head lolling back to rest on the wall as well, offering her but the grey ceiling to stare at.
After a moment, she feels like moving again. Straightening up with a groan, she shoves her new tickets into the pocket of her pants with a bitter movement, and then starts dragging herself to her room, almost falling as she opens the door. She might as well just sleep, now. The correction left her exhausted, a state she rarely ever knew before, but it was as she heard: all knights need rest sometimes, and her dearest carpet, which would remain unappealing to her even past 3 o’clock, seems like paradise on Earth all of a sudden. Shutting her door properly, Don Quixote then falls on the comfortable carpet with a groan that might as well be the sound of ultimate pleasure as, finally, her own weight does not rest on her anymore. Her chest feels light, and her eyelids heavy, as she barely makes any effort to lay down properly. The not-so-warm air feels perfect against her skin, non-oppressive, and curling up a bit makes it just fine…
There is a knock at the door.
Indeed there is. Dragged out from her bliss, Don Quixote reopens her eyes and straightens up on her elbows with a small grunt.
“Prithee, enter.”
The door opens slowly, almost shyly. Don Quixote wasn’t sure who she was expecting - Miss Jailor coming to scold her again? Heathcliff ready to fight again? Maybe even Rodya, who might have had a change of heart and decided to tell her everything she knows in another formula than her enigmatic smile? - but it was certainly not the little prince walking in, his golden eyes darting around as if expecting a horde of blade-wielding assassins to jump out of any little shadow to come after him. The vision almost makes the brave knight squeal with delight, and she sits up a bit too quickly, her body protesting painfully, but not enough to wipe her smile from her face.
“Ah, young man! Do come forth! I apologize, I lack the propriety and decorum fit to invite one such as thee in…”
“I-it is quite alright… It’s because of me you got hurt, after all…”
“Hurt? Knights do not merely get hurt, young prince! Those are but proof of mine bravery and exploits!” Don Quixote claims with all her heart, bombing her chest with pride, before gesturing at the bed next to her as she scoots a bit to face it. “Pray, sit, young prince. Why hast thou come to me? Art thou in need of thine humble servant’s aid once more?”
“My name is Sinclair…” He mumbles so softly Don Quixote almost didn’t hear, but sits on the bed nonetheless. “And n-no, nothing like that… Heathcliff is still in the correction room so I’m… So I’m fine…” He fumbles a bit with the pockets of his dirty brown jacket, before taking out a round thing, wrapped in the paper napkins they get for their meals. “I, uh, wanted to give you this… As a thanks, I guess…”
Joy fills the girl quickly. If her heart was light earlier, now it is flying with the speed of a rocket bound to reach the stars. Stars not unlike what might be sparkling in her eyes right now.
“Thank thee, my most loyal and kindhearted companion!!” She squeals out as she suddenly grabs Sinclair in a rather enthusiastic embrace, a rather poorly chosen move, as the feeling of his uniform immediately makes her shove him away and choose to hold his hands instead. “Thou art the gift! A gift from the Heavens above!!”
“Y-you’re welcome…” The poor young man mumbles, visibly shaken by Don Quixote’s sudden embrace, both metaphorically and literally.
Quickly, Don Quixote snatches the little gift from Sinclair’s hands, already smelling its nature as she unwraps it hastily.
“An orange? Verily, such a wonderful gift! Ah, but thou hast not taken it from thine own meal, hast thou?” She freezes, looking up at the little boy, who lowers his head.
“... I-I stole it…” He murmurs, this time so low that Don Quixote needs to lean in and ask him to repeat, to make sure she heard well. He cannot quite bring himself to do so.
“... Was it from someone else?”
He shakes his head negatively.
“Directly from the basket of fruits? Hath the chef not seen thee?”
“W-well, he did see me… But he didn’t say anything… And Miss Jailor hasn’t come for me s-so… I guess he didn’t really care to warn her either…”
Don Quixote hums, mindlessly pressing the nails of her thumb into the orange’s skin to try to cut it open. Her enthusiasm has noticeably dampened since she learned of the origin of this gift, but she cannot quite bring herself to refuse it either, or at least, the annoyed beast clawing at her stomach from the inside cannot.
The ones the most bothered by this are probably the owners of this Institute.
“Hmpf… I still hope none of our comrades wanted this orange…” She mumbles.
“Well… nearly nobody takes any fruit at noon anyway…”
“Verily?”
“Yes. Usually at noon we take the pastries, that’s why there are so many fruits left at dinner…”
“I had failed to notice…” Her nails pierce the skin. “Ah! Finally.”
“T-that’s also why Heathcliff was so… angry today. He wanted some of the cake before everyone would have latched on it…”
“Hmpf, ‘tis pointless to try to find a reason for a villain’s actions.” Don Quixote grumbles as she carefully peels off the orange, doing her best not to splash juice everywhere.
“... Still, I heard that usually he is not that bad…”
“‘Tis not an excuse.” Don Quixote dismisses quickly as she puts the napkins on her lap and carefully starts to separate the orange in slices. “Here, have a few, mine loyal comrade.”
“Eh? Ah, no, no, those are yours, take it!”
“Pssht! ‘Twas thine catch, and now that ‘tis mine, I wish to share it with thee. Thou shalt have half.”
“B-but I already ate…”
“Hah! ‘Tis no mere lack of food that shall vanquish this knight! Furthermore, we shall share dinner in mere hours.”
Sinclair seems about to refuse once more, but with a sigh he ends up accepting, realizing maybe that Don Quixote’s stubbornness was not something he wanted to deal with. The two of them start eating their slices of orange in a peaceful silence, Don Quixote rocking herself slightly back and forth and humming happily, having recovered her usual energy.
“.... Truth be told, I never liked eating oranges. I always preferred them in juices, like most citrus fruits…” Surprisingly, it’s the young boy who breaks the silence the first - if one doesn’t count Don Quixote’s incessant humming.
“Verily so?”
“Mhmm… I always preferred to eat apples…”
“... I remember having a certain affection for oranges, for whenever we wouldst venture southward to the sea, we wouldst visit a friend who allowed us to share fruits from his garden. Forsooth, his oranges were much sweeter than the ones one findest in large, worldwide stores.”
“Huh… Then maybe I would have liked them… To me, the memories of running through an orchard and taking as many fruits as I could is more linked to pears. T-the baker of my hometown was the owner, because it came from a familial property. He didn’t want to follow the usual familial business of selling these pears, and instead bought a bakery, in which he would make delicious pies with these. W-we would have a pie for lunch every Saturday, and when there were too many pears in his orchard, he would let the children of the town pick a few up for themselves. I-it was nice…” A small, wistful smile appears on his lips as he eats another slice of the orange.
“Hmm… It doth soundeth like thine village was full of mirth and gaiety…”
The young boy remains silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if reliving these afternoons spent running around this orchard, considering them in a meditative silence. She can maybe also see it, a smaller version of the boy, with rounder cheeks - although Sinclair’s face still retains some of that childish roundness, an unsurprising marker of his young age - and maybe a more courageous look, running around with friends, organizing to find ways to catch the highest fruits, the ones who could bathe in the sun without restraints, a warm afternoon of summer, letting said fruits fall into baskets held by the most robust children, then coming all together to share them in all fairness, not needing adult supervision that is lazily laying on a sun lounger, discussing the latest topics of news in a rustic village like the one the young prince must come from. The orchard, already lusciously verdant, bathes in the gold of a sun mothers warn their youngest about, as the children, too excited to join their friends in the chase of these mighty fruits - for the chase is as good, if not better, as the degustation - plead to be let go and argue that they need not protection to play with their friends.
“N-not really…” He finally speaks up after a moment of silence, losing his smile as he comes back to the present. “I-it was only nice for me because I was small enough to sneak in and out without being noticed, otherwise it was a brawl between all the children of the town.” He straightens up and makes a gesture towards the door to emphasize his tale. “It was as if, back in the canteen, everyone had joined you and Heathcliff on the floor.” He lowers his head again, his eyes haunted by his own realization and confession and his smile twitching nervously. “It was only nice because I managed to slip through…”
“... Then what in thine village was truly ‘nice’?”
“W-well, the baker’s pies on Friday, for one. I also liked the little parties there would be… There was delicious food made by the caterer, so my mom would be happy, because that meant she didn’t have to cook for the evening, and the lights would stay up for hours in the night, and I liked how their warm glow illuminated my room… I could see everything well, but it was dim enough for me to be able to fall asleep before the party ended.”
“Ah, warm lights… I fain recall such lights blinking gently that I could see from the window of mine chamber. ‘Twas a peaceful time indeed.”
Sinclair didn’t seem to feel like sharing more of his stories anymore, so Don Quixote undertook the task of filling their silence with tales of her own, of the outside, of before. Anecdotes of a joyful family living among the golden plains, united in their mirths and ordeals, fighting armies of unjust villains assaulting the innocents together as heroes saving the people. Stories of lovely knights having to hide their courting of their soul mates for they are women of great virtue and status, queens married to kings yet feeling love for none other than the lowly vassals ready to everything for their love. Tales of dragons terrorizing entire cities before being subdued by mighty heroes delivering the poor people from the terrifying claws of such monsters. He listens, calmly, sometimes asking some questions or a precision, and soon enough, they have eaten all of the orange. Don Quixote folds its peel into the napkins, rolling them in a ball before she shoves it into her pocket, only to freeze when she feels a paper caressing her knuckles. She pulls her napkins and peels out and puts them into the other pocket.
“Oh, right! I did acquire a most curious artifact from Lady Rodya - the bookmaker.” She says as she pulls out the tickets from her pocket and agitates them in front of the young boy’s face. “Meal tickets! Two of them!”
“W-wait really?” He widens his eyes as he takes the tickets to unfold them and take a good look at them. “They are… H-how did she get them?”
“That I know not, dearest companion! But she did mention - albeit in uncertain terms - that ‘twas not by the more… conventional means.” Don Quixote admits, which earns her a glance from the boy before he returns his attention to the little papers.
“Hmm… It doesn’t look like someone wrote the numbers down with a pen… Do you think there is a copy machine we might be able to use?”
“Mayhaps in the library? I recall we were shown the door to it during the visit.”
“Mmmh… If there is one there, I doubt it would not be watched over to the point that they could replicate meal tickets all willy-nilly…”
“What art thou suggesting, then?”
“Well… Maybe a secret copy machine? One only the other inmates would be aware of?” Sinclair proposes, before shaking his head after considering the idea for a moment. “No, impossible, Miss Jailor would have noticed it long ago if the others had tried to sneak a whole copy machine in, or she would have been told if the copy machine was already at the disposal of the inmates, and probably ordered to watch over what we would be doing with it…”
“... Therefore?”
The young boy remains silent for a moment, before raising hesitant eyes to Don Quixote, his fingers clenching slightly around the paper of the precious ticket.
“... Th-thieving…?” He proposes, his voice suddenly trembling, as if horrified at the sole prospect of such a villainy.
“As if our own comrades would be capable of such a thing.” Don Quixote waves the possibility away with a smile.
“... It’s the bookmaker we’re talking about, though…” Sinclair mumbles softly, his trembling easing gradually.
“... Mayhaps thou art onto aught…” Don Quixote is forced to admit after a few seconds of thinking. “Whatever was the quest leading to acquiring them, it appears they now serve as the currency betwix’ our comrades.”
“You think so?”
“Yea, Lady Rodya didst offer me these as a reward for vanquishing Heathcliff, on the virtue of me staying conscious longer than he did.”
Sinclair looks at Don Quixote with an expression she cannot quite read, his eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t voice whatever goes through his mind, though, and simply nods.
“Maybe they come from the betting ground…” He mumbles, as if speaking to himself as he looks back down at the meal tickets.
“Verily, ‘tis most probable. Thou shouldst have one, then.”
“H-huh?!” The little prince is visibly startled, his eyes wide as those of a bunny ready to run for dear life. “B-but I-... You…”
“Hm? I have fought and won as thine champion, ‘twould be natural for thee to earn part of mine rewards. Unfortunately, a ticket cut in pieces is worth naught, thus I can offer thee but one.”
“B-but you’re the one who fought! You’re the one who got hurt a-and couldn’t eat! I was only cowering in the back like a-”
“As I mentioned previously, I was fighting in thy name. ‘Tis normal for thee to earn some of mine rewards, as they were earned in thine name.” She interrupts him a bit more firmly before recovering her smile. “Prithee, consider this a… compensation on my part for having allowed this villain to be a hindrance for thee, even if for mere minutes.”
“B-”
“Hush, young prince. Were thou to refuse this offering, I would take upon myself to tear this precious ticket apart and throw it to the wind!”
As if the prospect of wasting such a treasure was so utterly terrible to him, Sinclair stops. He closes his mouth in silence, his eyes lowering back to his next meal, or the beginning of his wealth, he bites his lower lip. After much reflection plunging the room in a silence Don Quixote does her best to sit through, he finally relents.
“A-alright, I’ll take it… Thank you…”
“No need to thank me, young prince, as I said, ‘tis only natural for a vassal to share part of the price with their lord!”
Once again, it seems the young prince is about to protest, but the sudden, ear-piercing buzz makes him jump out of his skin with such intensity Don Quixote fears he might just pass out. After making sure he is still somewhat sound - aside from the panicked attempts to catch his breath and the worrisome pallor of his face - Don Quixote turns her gaze towards the door.
“It appeareth the afternoon call is upon us.” She states solemnly, not particularly pleased with the idea of being face to face with Miss Jailor and maybe even Heathcliff again. Turning back to Sinclair, she pats him on the back, which seems to startle him even more, somehow. She still manages to turn his worried eyes to her so she can offer him an encouraging smile. “Be of good cheer, dearest companion! I shall once more stand between thee and the terrible dragon threatening thee, if push cometh to shove.”
The declaration of loyalty doesn’t seem to cheer up the young boy as intended, but he nods nonetheless and slowly gets up, his body trembling. He almost forgets to put his ticket into his pocket before exiting the room.
“Wh-what if she searches through our pockets?” He suddenly questions, stopping his walk in a panic.
“Then we shall leave our tickets in mine chamber, and thou canst come and take thine back afterwards! ‘Tis no problem, really.”
They make the short way back and toss their tickets in the room, Don Quixote’s landing on her carpet while Sinclair’s land on her bed, before both of them hurry out to mingle with the crowd, as if nothing happened. Don Quixote manages to keep a somewhat innocent smile on her face despite the crawling feeling tickling her stomach into feeling nauseous, whereas Sinclair is pale and trembling, trying to hide in the shadow of the shorter girl as if Miss Jailor’s sharp eyes wouldn’t notice him. Though, there is not much difference with how he acts every other call, thus one could not consider him as acting suspicious. Clever.
Once they arrive to the common room, a rather large space with a surprisingly sparse furnishing, and those present furnitures being so aged the theory of the presence of a copy machine formulated by the two younglings earlier now seems like a farce, they silently line up in ranks with their fellow from their side of the dormitory. In the sterilized room, the white of the uniforms blends with the white of the floor, and the walls. Seen from above, all together they must seem like a small container full of snow, and their hair and skin would be small pieces of nature: flower petals, tree bark, little pebbles… The artwork of a child, who spent their day exploring a garden it had never seen before, yet in a context that leaves him with enough comfort and confidence to go on adventures and bring back trinkets as his trophees. Feeling a glare on her back, Don Quixote looks above her shoulder to give Heathcliff a warning look, before straightening up, as if she could help Sinclair hide into her shadow. From the corner of her eyes, Don Quixote also notices Rodya, who waves at her amicably, before going to stand next to Gregor, who is in turn next to Heathcliff. Of course, the bookmaker would like to stay close to her champion. After a bit of agitation, silence falls over the room, and all comrades stand in a solid colorless line of uniforms in front of Miss Jailor, who looks at the list of names on her clipboard… and a young man, standing still as a statue, with all the grace of a prince, draped in rich robes of a pale blue reminiscent of a cloudless sky reflected in the purest and calmest of pounds. His long black hair might as well belong to a princess, and his gentle smile never leaves him, whether it is in front of a hearty meal shared with Don Quixote’s comrades or Miss Jailor repeatedly jabbing her shock baton into one of them.
Unlike other things in the Institute, knowing who this young man is appears to be an easy task of which asking the seniors is the solution. Jia Baoyu, one of the heirs of the Jia clan, one of the families who regularly offer funds to the Institute. While they are not officially the owners of the Institute, it is thanks to the Jia clan that everything is paid, thus, it may as well be so, which is why nobody bats an eye whenever Jia Baoyu walks into the Institute as if it was a mere zoo, observing the clothed monkeys living there with an innocent curiosity. Quite like he is, now, watching the afternoon call without Miss Jailor even acknowledging his presence.
Pay attention to your surroundings!
“... Don Quixote, I swear, you are getting on my nerves today.” A cold growl snaps her back to reality more efficiently than the repeated nudges of her trembling companion. She turns her head to meet Miss Jailor’s angered glare, which is almost enough to make her physically recoil. Almost.
“H-hither!”
Miss Jailor remains silent for a second, before lowering her glare back to the clipboard with a sigh, returning her attention to calling the next comrades. Sinclair gives Don Quixote a sheepish look.
“S-sorry… I tried to warn you, but…”
“‘Tis naught, dear comrade.” Don Quixote cuts him with an embarrassed smile. “‘Twas but mine fault, I may have… ‘spaced out’.”
Now paying a bit more attention, even though since her name has been called she does not need to do so anymore, Don Quixote tries to resist glancing at the rich prince again, despite her curiosity. While not wanting to appear insulting, nor even merely impolite, she does not remember having seen people of the same origin as him. While she may have met with people from China, and the richest people of her own land, she never met a rich person from China, inducing within her a curiosity she does her best to refrain, lest she suffers terrible punishment for vexing the rich prince. His beauty was one of a proper young lady, his skin smooth and fair corresponding to the preferences of his home land, his eyes calm and deep as wells, which although they plunge deep, never quite seem to reach his soul, a rare duality present in his irises, his long, black hair perfectly brushed and in which no knots are allowed to exist, tied in a high ponytail to flow down his back like an inky cascade, and his robe, colored and embroidered with white threads to show several birds curled in a resting position among flowers, is one of a kind Don Quixote, more accustomed to knightly armors than silky fabrics, has never seen. The young man notices her staring again, obviously, and offers her a simple smile, maybe even a bit apologetic for having been the indirect cause of Miss Jailor menacing to snap at her again.
“D-Don Quixote, you’re staring again…” Sinclair whispers while pulling on her sleeve, making the shorter girl turn to him.
“Mh? Ah, verily so, mine apologies. Although… tell me, my dearest companion, hast thou ever seen such garments?”
“Huh? O-oh, no, never. Why?”
“Never? Forsooth, a young prince such as thyself must have seen all kinds of fancy garments fit to royalty, no?”
“M-me?? Oh no, not at all, I-”
“Emil Sinclair!”
“P-present!”
The quick answer seems to satisfy Miss Jailor as she continues calling for the last names on the list. Don Quixote leans a bit towards Sinclair.
“What were thee about to say?”
“Ah… Nothing…” He mumbles, his eyes darting away to follow the “present!”s escaping from the crowd for the next few minutes.
“Yoshihide!”
“...”
“For pity’s sake, I can see you staring at me.” Miss Jailor grumbles, suddenly sounding exhausted as she stares at the red-eyed comrade Don Quixote remembers having noticed in the bus leading to the Institute.
“... It’s Ryoshu.”
“For the last time, if you want to change your name just fill in the proper form.”
“W. W. P.?” The silent eye twitch from Miss Jailor is enough for the girl with a conflicting name to roll her eyes and repeat herself: “With. What. Pen.?”
“... Right. Come to my office right after this, then, and I’ll fill it for you, then.”
“Still don’t see why we have to fill a paper for it.”
“Do you want to get sent to the correction room?”
The threat is enough to end the mumbling of the girl, who shoves her hands in her pockets with a displeased expression instead, leaving Miss Jailor to sigh and look back down to her clipboard.
“And finally… Zacharias.”
Silence answers, and just as Miss Jailor seems about to lose patience for good, the rather uneasy and almost trembling voice of Rodya raises from where she stands with her comrades.
“He, uhm, he’s been feeling unwell lately, and… H-he was sent to the Doctor.”
Once again, her words echo in a frozen silence, both those who had turned to Rodya as she spoke and those who had remained facing Miss Jailor now seeming like icemen. Don Quixote herself feels her own limbs stiffen against her will, and a claw of uneasiness slipping up her throat, almost tickling her voicebox. Glancing aside, Sinclair seems to feel the same as well, and he remains maybe the most still of them all. Others of the new blood of the Institute have frozen too, perhaps as a sheep-ish reflex, merely daring to glance around or turn their head to see if there might be something to explain this reaction.
“Well, I’m done here, then.” Miss Jailor breaks the sudden silence with a sigh and then gestures for the young woman who had caused a disruption earlier to follow her. “You, to my office. The others, you can dismiss. I’ll see you for the night call.”
As if all were bound here by a spell, the group seems to relax in a movement, although the tension of the information lingers. Immediately, those who were here long enough to understand the strangeness of it all join their own small clans to start discussing this in a hubbub that resembles the buzzing of a hundred hives, shaking Don Quixote’s organs like the stomping of a hundred horses galloping to the battlefield.
Get out. Make it cease.
Ignoring this urge, Don Quixote looks around before grabbing Sinclair by the hand, visibly startling the young boy out of his confusion.
“H-huh?”
“Dost thou knowest the signification of this, dear companion?” He shakes his head, glancing around like a bunny about to flee. “Then we shall ask.”
“Wh-wha- I don’t think it’s a very good idea…”
Before he could word more protests, she drags him along as she rushes towards the nearest that had formed. Tapping on the arm of one of the young men forming the circle, in order to avoid having to make contact with the sandpaper-like fabric, Don Quixote quickly catches their attention.
“Excuse me, good sir? Pray, dost thou knowest what it meaneth to ‘be sent to the Doctor’? It appeareth mine companion and I are yet quite unaware of the rules of this fine Institute…”
An expression passes on the young man’s face at the mention of the Doctor, and he frowns, showing at the very least some discontent at the question.
“What? It means what it means. That’s all.”
“But-”
“Have you not been taught it’s impolite to barge into people’s conversation like that?” A girl from the group suddenly barks, visibly very displeased with Don Quixote’s questioning. The shorter girl, already irritated by the incessant rumblings of the room, is about to reply in kind, only to be tugged away by Sinclair, who seems to be using all of his strength to prevent her from fighting this battle.
“C-come on, Don Quixote, let’s go…” He squeaks a supplication out, his eyes wide with fear and his clammy palms almost letting her hands slip from his grasp.
For an instant, she considers pulling her hand out of his and confronting this young woman for her impoliteness, but then she reluctantly listens and backs away from the group.
“Hmpf, youth these days…” She grumbles under her breath as she follows Sinclair, until, from the corner of her eyes, she catches a familiar face and stops in her tracks, tugging on Sinclair’s arm to bring his attention to her. “Prithee, wait. What about Lady Rodya?”
“Huh? W-what about her?”
“Well, she is the bookmaker, is she not? She might be able to offer us an answer!”
“Why would she do this? N-nobody really seems happy at the idea of talking about this ‘Doctor’...”
“It doth appear so… But fret not! For I have a plan in mind!” The revelation seems to ease the young boy’s mind at least a bit, so she continues. “Lady Rodya appeareth to be ailed by the sin of greed. As the bookmaker, she seeth no wrong in enriching herself through the pain of her very own comrades. She might just be able to offer us the truth against some form of payment!”
“T-the meal tickets?” The young prince’s eyes go wide at the realization, then the look of concern Don Quixote is starting to get accustomed to comes back. “B-but then you would not have yours anymore…”
“Well, ‘tis mine and as thus the choice of its destiny is mine as well. Now come forth, dear companion, we have a meeting with a rogue!” She answers, doing her best not to let her patience slip from her grasp because of that noise, the young prince would certainly not deserve that.
“W-wait, we can give mine instead! A-as I said, I barely even fought, so it would be natural…” Sinclair starts trying to argue as Don Quixote is already pulling him through the cacophony.
“Fie, I believe we already had this conversation, young prince. Thou shan’t concern thyself and shall consider thine ticket as thine own.” Don Quixote answers with a smile, which proves once again to be enough.
Rodya is standing in a corner of the room with her friends, Gregor silently sitting down on the floor, leaning back against the wall and knees brought against his chest, almost curling up on himself like a woodlouse, his hand mindlessly clenched around the vanilla pod he holds between his lips. Next to him, Heathcliff is standing up, arms crossed, his expression one similar to one of a guard hound as he glares around, seeming to look for enemies, or a reason to bite more innocents. Rodya, for her part, seems as usual, that pretty package of a smile that Don Quixote is starting to understand will become increasingly familiar on her face as she speaks casually, without even raising her voice despite all the noise being enough to make one insane, to the one Don Quixote would have never thought to appreciate the company of these ruffians but has come to learn is a package deal with them nevertheless: Jia Baoyu, graceful as ever, his smile still on his face despite the strange atmosphere the evocation of this Doctor created, standing up next to Gregor as well, not unlike a peaceful stork satisfied of a comfortable nest it would have found. As soon as he notices the little prince and the knight protecting him, Heathcliff’s gaze immediately hardens and he uncrosses his arms, as if expecting another fight, which Don Quixote would not be against offering him, but fortunately, it’s Rodya who strikes a conversation first.
“Oh, DonQui! And, uh, the other newbie…” She says, trailing off a bit, but given that, in front of Heathcliff, Sinclair is reduced to a poor trembling creature hiding behind Don Quixote, she gives up, and simply accepts the mystery of his name. “Do you guys need something?”
“Verily so!” Don Quixote ceases her glaring at Heathcliff to refocus on Rodya, offering her a polite smile. “It appeareth that neither me nor young Sinclair behind me heard of this ‘Doctor’ thou hast mentioned earlier. Wouldst thou mindest shedding some light upon our ignorance?”
“... What?”
“She is asking for information.” Jia Baoyu politely chimes in as Don Quixote was about to clarify, his voice as soft as his smile - and his garments, probably.
“Oh! Well, sure, I could give you some information. But, as I told you, I can’t do much for free.” Rodya’s smile turns mischievous as the fox who would be about to steal the crow’s cheese, and as predicted, she is demanding for money, this time in no uncertain terms.
“We do happen to be in possession of some way of payment. Would that be of interest to thee?”
“Hmm…” Rodya seems to be thinking about it, although it might just in no small part be acting. “Usually my prices are higher, but… Heh, I suppose I can do a little discount for a friend.” She smiles and extends her hand, which Don Quixote happily shakes to conclude the deal, although it doesn’t seem to be what Rodya had expected, given how she loses her smile and stares at Don Quixote with the confusion of a cat being pet for the first time. “What are you doing?”
“Huh? Is it not a custom to shake one’s hand in order to seal a deal?”
“Oh, yeah I suppose so, I was just expecting the tickets.” Rodya says, retreating her hand from Don Quixote’s, who can feel her cheeks burning an unpleasant feeling in her soul, almost like a dry cadaver is physically rolling right under her skin.
“M-mine apologies… Uh, our payment hath remained in mine chamber, if thou wouldst follow me…”
Finally an occasion to escape this hellish noise.
“That Doctor we’ve mentioned,” Gregor suddenly speaks up, his gaze distant as he finally moves to pull the vanilla pod away from his lips. “She’s the Chief Doctor of the Institute, the one above the Organizers of each Section, who are above the doctors you see when you get checked up. Sometimes, when one of us is not feeling well, and the regular doctors can’t seem to do anything about it, they are sent to the Chief Doctor, and that’s it.”
“‘T-that’s it’…? Wh-what do you mean ‘that’s it’…?” Sinclair dares to peek above Don Quixote’s shoulder, only to sink back quickly when his gaze crosses Heathcliff’s glare. Don Quixote is almost sure she can hear a growl rumbling within the dragon’s throat.
“It means they’re done.” The taller young man barks aggressively, prompting Don Quixote to raise her fists again.
“We don’t know that. Maybe they have been moved somewhere else.” Jia Baoyu calmly interjects, raising a hand to Heathcliff’s shoulder before the situation could escalate, successfully making the dragon back down with a grunt.
“Well, all we know is that Doctor sparks lots of rumors, and not the most reassuring ones.” Gregor adds with a shrug, before he grabs the vanilla pod between his teeth so his arm is available for him to push himself up, using the wall behind him.
“Gregor babe, can you please stop ruining my deals?” Rodya’s expression turns pouty, although it is not sure whether she is genuinely annoyed or not. “I was about to get a jackpot!”
“A jackpot, huh? I wouldn’t call that the whopping two tickets you gave her.” Gregor answers with an amused smirk, which earns him a nudge on the side by a Rodya whose current emotion Don Quixote cannot quite decrypt - is it annoyance or playfulness?
“In any case, thank thee greatly, Sir Gregor. Shalt thou be in need of mine assistance for anything, really, do not hesitate to let me know, so I can repay my debt to thee.”
“Oh, I could need your help!” Rodya quickly says, her eyes shining with the sudden and unashamed spark of a seller spying an opportunity, but she is quickly stopped by Gregor once again.
“Don’t make her fight Heathcliff again.”
“Aww, c’mon, now’s the great occasion for a fight, there’s a lot of people around. Which means more tickets for us all! The bookmaker of Sector 5’s been doing good lately, I’ve got to rev up my game!”
“I’m NOT you goddamn fightin’ dog!” Heathcliff barks in protest as well, loud as he always is, to which Rodya answers by raising her hands in a placating gesture.
“Calm down, Heath, I was just kidding.” She defends herself with her usual friendly smile, which doesn’t seem to fully convince Heathcliff of her good intentions.
Feeling like there is no more to discuss with these hooligans, and perhaps also fearing Heathcliff, Sinclair pulls Don Quixote away so they can leave the group and escape the common room.
Finally.
A sigh of relief threatens to escape her as she walks out, but she manages to hold it, and looks at Sinclair next to her, who now seems… perplexed. Now that there is no longer a need to hold his hand lest she loses him in the infernal crowd, she pulls away from his grasp, seemingly surprising him, and he lets go with a sheepish smile.
“S-sorry, I did not want to lose you, in there…”
“‘Tis not a problem, the feeling was mutual.” She tells him with a smile.
A peaceful - and blissful to her ears - silence falls between them as they advance into the corridors, head lowered when they enter their dorms. After a few meters, Sinclair speaks up again.
“S-so, uh, I suppose that’s where we part ways…?”
“Supposedly so, but first thou must retrieve thine ticket from mine chamber!”
“Ah, you remember…”
Ignoring the sheepish near-admission of the young boy, Don Quixote guides him back to her room, feeling her steps wobble a bit on the way even though she keeps her gaze away from the infinity stretching in front of them. If Sinclair notices, he doesn’t mention it, and simply follows her obediently, until they reach their destination and Don Quixote pushes the door open to quickly land on her carpet, next to her own ticket.
“Urgh, O glorious carpet, how I missed thee!” She shouts out, retrieving this blissful sensation of not having to support her own weight anymore.
Sinclair gives her a glance of an expression that would correspond to ‘weirded out’, but doesn’t say anything, as he quickly snatches his own ticket from her bed. He stands there, for a bit, enough for Don Quixote to raise her eyes to him. Perhaps he wishes to stay? In that case, for her to remain lying in such a way might just mark her as a despicable host!
“W-well then, I’ll get going…?”
Oh, all is well, then.
“Have a peaceful day, mine dearest companion! I shall remain in mine room for the rest of it, but pray, if need arises, do not hesitate to come knocking, I shall be there for thee, dear prince.”
“S-sure… Thank you.”
At the click of the door, Don Quixote relaxes entirely with a sigh. Her eyes close almost automatically. No one would blame her if she was to nap now, right? The dragon is far from the prince, and might not even pay attention to him if Jia Baoyu remains by his side for the rest of the day. For an instant, she fears that she might not even manage to wake back up for the night call, but given how loud the alarm for it is, she knows she will. And worst case scenario, Miss Jailor would simply barge into her room to shake her and lecture her on the importance of time…
Letting her body curl up onto the comfortable carpet, then relax into a comfortable enough position, Don Quixote sighs softly, then starts slowing down her breathing to a resting point, waiting for sleep to take her back to these blurry places where the smell of oranges originates, and where red and purple lights fade in and out of existence in a peaceful rhythm under a joyful carnival melody.