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The After Team arrives and performs their work with frightening efficiency. Dante gives Sinclair another gentle pat on the back (as best as they can with their half-melted and mangled mess of an arm, anyways) and lets their body sink bonelessly into the ground.
Everything’s going to be okay.
They try to heave a sigh of relief, but their breath rattles about uselessly in their lungs— the noise comes out more like a tortured wheeze instead. The Sinners had succeeded in recovering the Golden Bough, even despite their miserable loss against Kromer. This success though, had only been because of the unexpected help they’d received. The Executive Manager feels their stomach twist as they recall the grotesque mass of flesh and teeth everyone had faced head-on and the pain of the countless rewinds they’d been forced to quickly perform.
Too many arms and extra appendages, plus too many Sinners getting smashed into a gory paste under that thing’s attacks, equals a terrible outcome for all…
Maybe a bit of that twisting feeling could also be attributed to the sensation of everything below their stomach regrowing. They’d have to thank the After Team and K Corp’s tech later for the novel experience and quality treatment.
Without the adrenaline pumping through their veins and keeping them alert, they feel their pain finally crashing into them. It’s inevitable, after all, and Dante lets themself be swept away by it, is almost gratified when their vision goes dark because falling unconscious is a much more pleasant alternative to staying awake and bearing the agony of all the Sinners they’ve been connected to.
It’d really be nice if their next mission didn’t turn out as horrifically as this one had.
“Dante.”
A voice in the dark, laced with desperation. Someone’s calling for them. Dante sits up, marveling at the surprising lack of pain they feel. Oddly enough, the place they’ve woken up in isn’t anywhere familiar to them. Instead of being greeted by the warm red and black interior of Mephistopheles, they find themself sitting in the middle of a sterile white corridor.
A hospital, maybe? Some kind of research facility? The Executive Manager stands and scans their surroundings: there’s a door at the far end of the corridor. The hall is cool and spotlessly clean, but an odd silence permeates the space. It feels heavy, unsettling. Dante shivers. They move to draw their coat together at the front, as if compelled by some protective instinct, but—
Their coat? It’s gone! The Executive Manager pats themself down, spins around to check if it was left behind in error, but the hall is empty.
N-no worries, I can ask whoever I run into outside. Someone’s probably holding onto it for me after that mess of a mission.
Dante adjusts their tie— it never hurt to look a bit more presentable — and lets their feet carry them forward at a brisk pace. They crack open the door, bracing themself for a wave of teasing remarks from a Sinner, multiple Sinners, even, but—
Nobody greets them.
Everything’s drenched in red. Blood covers the walls, drips from the light fixtures, and covers the floor in a slippery sheet of crimson. Heart in their throat, Dante hastily makes their way to the next room, stopping to turn over and inspect the few dead bodies they encounter. Fortunately, none of them have faces they recognize.
A thick trail of blood winds its way through the facility. Dante deliberates for a moment before following it, hands shaking.
“Dante.”
There it is again. A somber voice calling from outside, an unfamiliar presence that they can just barely notice. It feels as if the stranger’s connected to them through their clock’s ability.
A Sinner? Dante focuses on the person and feels for the direction their heartsong is coming from. Unsurprisingly, the feeling leads them in the same direction as the trail of blood.
Regardless of which Sinner it is, Dante’s needed. They pick up their pace and follow the lead.
The fact that it’s just one heart they can feel beating instead of twelve in synchrony strikes them as a bit odd, but they push that thought into the background.
Look for them first, ask questions later.
The facility is built like a damn labyrinth. By the time Dante finds the exit, they’re covered with grime and ready to fling some choice words at whichever sadist was responsible for its disastrous architecture. Blood coats the leather of their gloves and clings to the soles of their shoes. Every movement feels disgustingly sticky.
It’s raining outside, much to their relief. Dante reaches their hands out to catch some of the water from the downpour, letting it run over their body so it can wash away the muck. Better to be drenched in water than to be covered in viscera.
The trail continues down a flight of stairs. Dante finds themself almost slipping down the wet stone steps; they flail their arms outwards, hastily grabbing onto a nearby railing. Someone sits towards the bottom of the stairs, hunched over and clad in a thick veil of blood.
Now that they’re this close to the source of the voice, Dante recognizes who it is.
They’d never fail to identify that neatly trimmed gray hairstyle or that pair of weathered, callused hands. But the fact that it’s their guide whose heart called for them from afar, whose wanting drew them through the labyrinthine halls and out to the courtyard, gives them pause.
Why?...
Dante calls out to their guide warily.
<Vergilius?>
“Dante.”
The reply comes so softly it’s practically inaudible, Dante only manages to read their name from the movement of the others’ lips. They meet Vergilius’ startled gaze, nod stiffly and shuffle closer into hearing range, trying to find a way to condense all their confusion into a set of simple questions.
Much to their surprise, Vergilius winds his arms around their waist, drawing them close into a crushing embrace. Dante blinks, dumbfounded, a close-up view of the guide’s collarbones flooding their field of vision.
…Huh?
HUH???
Two realizations hit Dante in quick succession:
One: Vergilius is happy to see them.
Two: They must’ve somehow traveled to a mirror world.
Reflex has them shoving the man away from them in a blind panic. There’s a painfully loud noise ringing in Dante’s head— not unlike a train horn, how strange — and they realize, oh no, no no no, it’s them, the noise is coming from them.
Dante covers their face with their hands, mortified.
When they finally dare to look up, they find Vergilius sitting on the ground, frozen. The soft smile he was wearing just a second ago slips out of place, turns into a small and subdued look of grief. He looks at Dante’s face like it’s a portent of doom.
Vergilius laughs, but it’s an ugly, wretched sound of pain. Something clatters against the ground: it’s his signature gladius, and next to the weapon, a tattered mess of red cloth.
Dante’s jacket.
Dante crouches in front of the guide so they can meet his gaze, their chest prickling with worry. The Vergilius here is impossibly vulnerable, a person shattered into a million tiny pieces. Thousands of questions spin around in the Executive Manager’s head, but the majority of them boil down to:
<What happened?>
True to character even in this world, Vergilius shrugs the question off, casually deflects into a new topic.
“Had a feeling you might show up. They briefed me on everything before we started our journey, you know?” he murmurs.
A cryptic response followed by a sardonic smile. Dante finds themself at a loss for how to react.
They could pry, could reiterate the question and demand an answer, but instead they settle on observing the Vergilius sitting before them: he looks haggard, like he’s been put through the wringer. A steady trickle of water falls from the guide’s hair and runs over his face.
The man looks brittle, like he’d shatter at the slightest pressure. Dante cups a gloved hand over the others’ cheek, runs it over his forehead. They brush Vergilius’ hair away from his eyes so the rain doesn’t obscure his vision.
There’s a crown woven with thorns and laurel leaves on top of the guide’s head; Dante trails their fingers over its soft leaves and pointed ends with fascination. It looks like it’s a part of the EGO that Vergilius has manifested around him; the blood leaking from it ripples the same way as the bloody cloak swirling behind the man’s back.
Vergilius grabs their hand in a daze, laces their fingers together in a fluid, unconscious motion. He’s different, Dante thinks. Their heart goes through a set of funny motions; it twists and sinks and somersaults all at once, making them feel half-dizzy, half-lightheaded from nervousness and exhilaration.
They wonder if this Vergilius acts like this around everyone he knows: soft, vulnerable, lost. He’s looking at Dante like he’s searching for something in them. Dante relaxes their hand, lets it be held, and allows themself to be assessed.
After a long moment, Vergilius sighs.
“You aren’t them. You’re not the Dante that belongs here. You’re a traveler that’s taken a wrong turn, slipped through the cracks into a different reality.”
Dante nods their head. He’s dropped their hand, they notice, aware of the sudden loss of warmth against their fingertips.
<…You’ve got that right. I’m curious as to how I ended up here. You said you’d expected me. What did you mean by that?>
“It’s as I said. ‘You’ told me. Countless branches growing in search of a common fate. It’s possible for branches to bump into one another. One Dante might find themself displacing another, if only for a moment.”
<I’ve got it. Well, I think it makes sense, at least.>
“Judging by the state your head is in, you’re following a different flow. I can’t tell you much more than that. It’s your job to work your issues out on your own.”
<Okay. But if I’m here, what happened to the “Dante” I displaced? …Where did they go?>
Silence follows.
Then, Vergilius speaks. “They’re dead.”
Dante freezes.
<Oh.>
“Everyone is.”
The sea of blood they’d encountered in the corridors resurfaces in their mind. Maybe the others had died there, strokes of red against an endless expanse of white. They think of their counterpart crumpling to the ground in a lifeless facility and breathing their last.
“It’s over.” Vergilius says, “They died during the mission. We failed. And because of our ambition, I’ve lost everything again.”
<I’m sorry.>
It’s not enough, but it’s the best they can offer in words. Vergilius looks like the life’s been drained out of him: were it not for the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders indicating his breath, Dante could almost mistake him for dead. They inch closer so the guide can lean against them— they really wouldn’t know what to do if the guy actually keeled over— and wrap an arm loosely around his torso to support him.
The two of them are practically in an embrace, but Dante tries not to think too hard about its implications. They’re out here providing some much needed support to a person who needs it, nevermind the fact that it’s Vergilius , and—
“Ah.” Vergilius’ voice comes out a bit muffled. He’s buried his face into Dante’s shoulder.
“You really are different from them.”
<What…> Dante smooths their hand over the guide’s back, strokes up and down in a gentle, comforting motion. <What were they like?>
His arms are wrapping around their waist again, though this time Dante doesn’t startle, doesn’t push him away. They let themself hold him and be held, and wait for Vergilius to come back from where he’s gone, lost in thought. The rain patters around them for what feels like an eternity. Dante waits.
“They were clever. More confident than anyone I knew,” Vergilius finally speaks, “but it was well-earned. Ambitious. They could outfox the world.”
<You miss them.>
They can do this much for him, at least. They can be here for him as a ghost he can express his grievances to. If it can help the person in front of them ache a little less, they’re willing to listen, willing to do anything. Vergilius clings to them like he sees the person he used to love and it makes their heart ache, makes their throat clog up with tears they can’t shed.
“I loved them.” The downpour overhead drenches the two of them in miserable cold. Vergilius cries with it. Dante feels his tears sinking hot into the fabric of their shirt, feels them searing against their shoulder.
The fact is obvious, but the weight of the confirmation leaves them winded.
The crown on the guide’s head digs painfully into their neck but they keep still. Gray hair trails over their skin, kisses the injury away. The person in Dante’s arms is different from the Vergilius they know. He’s lost the defensive armor that kept everyone else at bay, has been gutted from throat to tail so thoroughly that his insides are spilling out, his emotions put on full display.
It makes Dante feel a bit jealous of their counterpart.
A strange sense of vertigo catches their attention. They flinch and clutch their head in their hands, feeling weightless and off-kilter.
“You’re leaving.” Vergilius keeps his arms around them. He’s right: they can feel something tugging from the clock now, they’re falling backwards into empty space.
<Will you be alright?>
They ask, but the universe doesn’t afford them enough time to hear Vergilius’ answer. It yanks at them harder now, pulls them back to the place they belong. The Executive Manager misses the way the guide’s fingers knot themselves desperately into the back of their shirt, misses the way his knuckles turn white from effort he exerts. A field of black dotted with bright stars unfolds in their vision and they’re going, going, gone.
In front of where they once stood sits a guide without a sense of purpose. He picks up the remnants of someone’s jacket and thinks about them, thinks about everything he’s lost.
The cloak on his back deepens in color from a crimson to a dark rust-red, distorts a little in shape.
“I won’t.”
“Why, good morning.”
It’s the voice that Dante’s grown so used to over the past few weeks, low and rough around the edges. A pair of red eyes glances dispassionately down at them. Dante sits up.
Someone’s laid them across the double seat in the front row, where Vergilius usually sits. The guide in question turns away from them. He’s busy reclaiming his striped suit from its service as Dante’s blanket and pulling it back over his shoulders.
When he’s done adjusting his lapels, he faces them again, a shadow of a smile on his face.
“Was almost starting to worry you’d died. Welcome back to the land of the living. How do you feel?”
<Dead?!> Dante yelps, shocked by the word choice.
Much to their embarrassment, their clock punctuates the exclamation with an earth-shattering clang . Fourteen pairs of eyes turn to stare curiously at them.
Vergilius faces the Sinners and makes a swift horizontal gesture with his hands, silence . In the second row, Rodya stifles her laugh with a closed fist and schools her expression back to careful neutrality.
The guide looks at Dante, unamused.
<I mean! I’m alright. Fine, really. Absolutely.> Dante answers.
It occurs to them that this Vergilius can’t understand a word of what they’re saying.
Dante follows up with a casual wave of their hands and a single enthusiastic nod. This seems to satisfy the guide, who tilts his head and motions for them to make their way back to their seat.
They flash a quick thumbs-up at Vergilius, hoping that it’ll properly convey their thanks for his checking in, and scurry over to their spot next to Greg, flustered.
The guide has a paper bag in his hands and he's addressing the Sinners now, something about chicken skewers. Dante fails to focus on the finer details of his speech. They’re lost in thought still, mentally situated somewhere between the bus and an empty, rainy set of stairs.
The lights of the city flash overhead. Charon’s driving a bit less erratically for once, taking them through intersections at a steady pace.
Besides the constant rumble of Mephistopheles’ engine, all is quiet aboard the company vehicle. It’s rare for everyone to be sleeping so fitfully, but Dante knows the exhaustion must’ve kicked in after the mission.
They’re tired too, but fight against it. There’s simply too much occupying their mind that needs sorting out. Dante fishes the LCB-PDA out from their front pocket, fiddles with its buttons to start a new note.
- Met a different version of Vergilius earlier while I was unconscious. I think that guy may have had an EGO (?). Didn’t spend much time with him, but came out with a lot to think about.
- Whatever went down over there was pretty awful. He told me the “me” of that world (called it a branch) was dead. Everyone else was as well.
- He—
Someone moves in the front row. Dante pauses, looks up.
It’s Vergilius moving to squat next to the driver’s seat. He whispers something in Charon’s ear and she nods imperceptibly, holds one hand out while the other remains steady on the steering wheel. The guide drops a couple of colorful little candies into her open palm before returning to his seat with a sigh.
Somewhere towards the back of the bus, Heathcliff grumbles something in his sleep and forcefully kicks the seat in front of him.
It’s odd. In the absence of bickering and with everyone curled up so close to one another, the company feels almost — rather unusually — like family. Dante might laugh if they still had a head, but the best they can manage is a soft stuttering of the clock hands on their prosthetic.
They recall the conversation they’d tried to have with Vergilius a few days ago.
Hey, Vergilius? Did I come from the Backstreets or a Nest? Would you happen to know?
As usual, the guide had ignored them. Dante leans back against their seat, allowing themself a few moments to ponder their missing memories.
What was I like before I lost my head? Would I have interacted with him differently? Would I have commanded more respect from the Sinners?
Maybe I used to be like that other Dante I heard about.
…Who exactly was I?
They shake the intrusive thoughts out of their head and fix their attention back on the note in front of them.
- He loved the Dante from that branch. Astronomically low odds of it being the same way here. Vergilius (my Vergilius?...) shrugs me off half the time I try to talk to him.
- He was a Sinner. Doesn’t that mean something happened to him that left a significant burden on him? Seems like that’s one of the qualifiers for being a Sinner, at least.
- I hope fate is kinder to the Vergilius in this branch.
Exhaustion weighs heavy on them. Dante’s prosthetic head lets out a soft, sleepy note as the Executive Manager sets aside the device and makes themself comfortable for sleep.
I’ll have to work hard, they think, even as their subconscious carries them into fragmented dreams about inquisitors’ nails and chicken skewers, viscera hanging off of Christmas trees and sharp whistles.
I’ll have to work hard to make sure my Vergilius never has to bear that pain.