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“Wake up." A voice rings out, smooth as silk and deep as the ocean, even half-asleep, Don Quixote thinks it's beautiful.
"Guhhhrg…" she groans, groggy and confused who would wake her.
“Wake up." The voice repeated, there was no anger or impatience, simply neutral self-assurance..
"Ah… what is thine time?" She twists in her bed, head tilting to see the large silhouette above her.
"600 hours."
Don Quixote pokes her head further out of the blankets, squinting blearily out of her comfortable cocoon at the person shaking her awake.
Dark hair slicked back, eyes black coals making the white of his sclera luminous in the dim light, the dark obscures details of the face, but the silhouette makes it clear he's built like a tank.
"Ah! But mine shift is not until 9! What horrors has befallen me to be woken at such an hour!?" She asks, somewhat alarmed but her brain still woozy with sleep as she squints up at him.
"Nothing. Get up." The man intoned, voice like a comb running through her hair.
Don Quixote groans moving to roll over, this is probably more hazing, like when they poured pig blood on the new recruits a couple weeks back. She pulls away but the hand on her is iron, thick hands, each finger as large as a sausage, encompassing her shoulder.
"Get up. 5 minutes." The man presses, but there is no urgency in his voice, he simply releases her and walks away.
She sleepily rolls over and nestles back into her nest of warmth. His velvet smooth voice following her into her sleep as it dances through her dreams.
*
**
***
Cold water splashes all over her and she screams, rolling out of bed with such force when she lands the air exits her chest with an 'oomph' as she scrambles in panic.
It's so cold, ice cold it burns her even through the thick blankets, the chill sinking into flesh like icy needles, from her head to her hips.
She writhes trying to get out of her newly sodden cocoon, blanket wrapped all around her, twisted and clingy where it's soaked through. She shrieks, shoving and pulling frantically. Her desperation palpable as she thrashes, only succeeding in tightening the sodden blankets around her in a horrid embrace.
Suddenly an upward force pulls her, the blanket being lifted in a quick, sharp motion with shocking strength. The blanket unfurls and she rolls out of the blanket onto her back, gasping as she stares up to see the same man finish pulling the blanket away from her before he lets it hang in the air for a magical moment of weightless floating.
In a snap of motion, he flicks it behind him, causing it to gracefully fall to the ground, soft as a leaf. The way he had flipped it so effortlessly was reminiscent of a conquistador with their cape, unflinching resolve and honed power with a sharp edge of control.
He had lifted her up to get her out of the blanket, and he made it look effortless. She is the first to admit she's not heavy, but he did it with one hand without seemingly any difficulty.
She was gaping at him with awe at the pure strength contained in those arms, breath caught in her throat. As she gazed, searching his silhouette for details to clue her into his identity.
His eyes flicked across her body, surveyed her form briefly, unitarily, and she wasn't sure how he felt about what he saw, but she blushed regardless, with her t-shirt and shorts concealing her nudity, now soaked with water, clingy to her in a way she can't help but feel hyperaware of.
He met her eyes, expression impassive. "Gym. 5 Minutes."
And with that he turned and strode out of the barracks into the cool light of the hallway, his steps deceptively soft for such a large man, his retreating form a large shadow in the doorway.
Don Quixote took a deep shuddering breath.
She thinks she's in love.
***
His name is Meursault, as it turns out, two heads taller than her, with a bust size that didn't so much match his size as it preceded him into every room. They are bigger than any woman she's ever seen, yet the way she had seen him move they seem surprisingly firm. A waist thin enough that it wouldn't be surprising if it was bound in a corset.
Despite this his masculinity was practically tangible, his thin hips and the air of confidence is unmistakable. His hair is midnight black now that she can see it, slicked back with a part on his right side, severe in its separation while the sides are cropped short. His eyes were dark enough to get lost in, but there was a hint of colour there that left Don Quixote pondering the exact colour. Forearms radiating strength, they were thicker than her thighs and speaking of thighs his were tree trunks, understandably so to support his bulky upper half. His legs were as long as they were thick, taking up most of his height, yet he looked appreciatively proportionate.
His face was sculpted by the gods, thick dark eyebrows archover narrow eyes, dark in colour and intensity. Under his eyes were a line of dark shadow, though if it was makeup or simply stress she didn't know. His nose had a straight bridge with a slight upturn of the nostril reminiscent of the greek nose. His mouth was a firm line, neither upturned or downturned, but somehow projecting severity regardless. His jawline was sharp and square, not an ounce of fat on his face, his cheekbones prominent in their edge.
Meursault was her Supervisor now that she had passed basic training with Faust (as horrifying and grueling as it had been). She wanted to ask who Hong Lu and Rodiya had gotten as trainers, how they were doing, what unit they got sent to and more but… she was understandably distracted.
Right now Mersault was in a black tank top and sweatpants, a good look on him, as the tank top clung to his masculine frame, and the pants gave a little peek of downstairs when he moved. However Don Quixote thinks he could wear a potato sack and he'd look mouthwatering, his confidence was unmatched and she feels like he could pull anything off with his pure resolve of self.
He was holding his ax, the ax head resting on his shoulder, his posture immaculate even with the heavy ax on his shoulder. He watches Don Quixote go work through her basic forms of her twin swords.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't react at all, even when she sneaks a peek when she shouldn't and she knows her form is off.
It makes her nervous, almost enough to stop ogling.
Almost.
No matter how ardently she boasted her prestige in fighting he insisted on watching her work through beginner moves. She wanted to impress him, and yet she stumbled more than once… but when one could behold such a gorgeous view, she thought her mistakes were forgivable.
Still, she tries to concentrate, she knows these moves better than she knows the alphabet with how often she practices with them, her twin blades slicing through the air effortlessly.
She finishes the forms, pauses, and with a lack of anything to do, she starts from the beginning and goes through the actions again.
After what felt like five times her head was back in the game, the flowing from position to position was meditative in a way, she got lost in the sensation of moving her blades, the pulling and pushing of muscles through well worn patterns.
"Enough." He calls suddenly, voice liquid chocolate on her ears, breaking her out of her trance as she freezes. He swings his ax forward so it's by his side and strides forward determinedly, when he reaches her he turns on his heel sharply. "Now we spar."
Before she has time to react at all he's on her, ax slicing down toward her face at such incredible speed she barely manages to dodge, and even then it's mostly on instinct.
She jolts backward, stumbling onto her back foot, caught off guard, but without even a second of hesitation he switches his grip to flip the ax in a well practiced move swinging the ax back up towards her chest.
She barely raises her sword in time to redirect his attack, but her right sword goes flying, the momentum of the heavy blow causing her to fall onto her side.
Her gaze snaps upward as she sees Meursault with his empty gaze, swinging the ax down toward her, not even a hint of it slowing down.
She barely has time to clench her eyes shut, terror coursing through her like river rapids, only for her to feel the whoosh of air ruffle her hair and the deafening sound of her panting.
She pries her eyes open and glances up toward her trainer, eyes wide, the ax resting innocuously on her neck, not even breaking the skin.
Without even an ounce of effort he stopped the swing instantaneously. The strength and precision needed to stop a weapon with that momentum is mind boggling and hard to comprehend. He pulls back, taking two steps away gazing at her neutrally, his ax flipped back to rest on his shoulder.
She bounces up, eyes sparkling as she leans toward him. "Mine Lord! What an exquisite display of strength and control!!! Truly you must be a captain of W Corp to employ to extenuate such precision! I simply must beg you to train me so I may be as magnificent as you are one day!"
He doesn't flinch, even as she invades his space, his face is virtually unmoving, but Don Quixote thinks she sees the slightest widening of eyes followed by minute twitch of lips.
He nods stiffly. “That's my job.” He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world.
She beams somehow even brighter.
***
Meursault is her supervisor, since graduating basic training with Faust, she was assigned to shadow the man who had just finished beating the shit out of her.
She couldn't imagine a better supervisor.
He told her to have a ten minute shower, his tone as unreadable as always.
She was always bad at telling time and considering she didn't have a waterproof watch she rushed through her basic cleaning as fast as she could.
Her hands may have started to stray south, but she quickly scolded herself, going back to scrubbing, she didn't have time and she didn't want to be late.
Drying herself frantically because she wasn't sure if that counted toward her allotted shower time, she threw on her W-Corp uniform and stumbled out only to see Mersault waiting outside the shower room, staring impassively at a wall.
She couldn't tell if his hair was freshly wet or if it was still slicked back with maybe a fresh layer of gel. He certainly didn't need to shower, during their spar he hadn't broken a sweat, not a hair out of place, but who knew with him.
He was fully dressed in his own uniform, spotless and well put together against Don Quixote's haphazard mess.
He turns toward her with a blank expression "27 seconds to spare." He said without looking at a watch.
He approaches her, his gait like watching water flow, he presses a finger against the laces on her jacket. "Off."
She feels her face heat and she takes a hurried step backward, her arms jumping up to cover her chest in shock, protests on her lips. "You demand I strip, you fiend!?"
Something flickers in his eyes before he snaps his hand away, quick and snake-like, as if burned.
He searches her face impassively, his dark brown eyes examining her every shift and twitch before he says "No." He begins unbuttoning his own vest. "Watch me to put it on properly."
Don Quixote blinks quickly, embarrassment flowing through her as she flushes a deep red.
It seems like it takes half an hour for her to put it on to his standards. On, off, on, off. Over and over again until her uniform is as immaculate as his.
He somehow wears it without a wrinkle or crease and it causes Don Quixote even more reverence. He is so well put together, not a hint of hair or lint on him as he puts on his cap and leads her into the street.
The light is dim, the sun either not up or not risen past by the high buildings that surround them, the sky a dark blue that covers the street. The air is brisk, cold enough for her to see her breath as they begin to march toward the station.
It's not a long walk, and they're early by a longshot if the sun isn't up yet. Her shift is at nine and she can only ponder what possessed him to wake her at such an early hour.
The sparring and shower definitely woke her up, but she figures she'll need coffee to get through this day.
She can already hear the tortured screams, high pitched and wailing, garbled words that almost seem coherent before you focus and find them a garbled mess of consonants and vowels.
She doesn't need to close her eyes to see the bulging deformed muscles beneath skin stretched much too thin, made translucent by the tension. Eyes barely contained in swollen sockets, unidentifiable fluid leaking from every known orifice and some new ones.
She jumps as she feels a hand, warm solid and viscerally real, snatching her from her memories. She hadn't realized she even stopped walking her legs feeling suddenly weak.
She glances up to see Meursault staring down at her impassively, before he lets go and continues walking.
She lets in a quiet gasp as her lungs burn for air, she hadn't realized she was holding her breath either, but the air is cold enough to burn.
She steeles herself and walks quickly to catch up with him, his long strides covering more ground than hers by half a step.
She feels herself flush, not from exertion as she matches pace with him again. It's something about the look in his eyes. When Meursault looks at her it feels like he's looking past her, into the depths of her soul.
It's both exciting and terrifying and yet she can't get enough, what she wouldn't do to have those eyes stare at her unendingly, to have the entire weight of that gaze on her and her alone.
She glances up at him, but he's looking ahead, confident yet not cocky, a stride as powerful as it is beautiful.
She feels her cheeks start to heat again and desperately searches for a distraction.
The coffee shop she and her new recruit friends used to frequent sits where it always is, cozily tucked away in a side street, its sign buzzing brightly and invitingly.
"Senior Meursault! Since we have exited the home of the crew so early, we certainly have time for a coffee and a sandwich for breakfast, no?! There is mine favourite coffee shop in all its glory! Shall we stop and acquire some?" She blurts, pointing and grinning at the idea of him indulging her antics.
He stops dead in his tracks and she takes a few unintended steps past him before she catches herself and glances back at her instructor.
He's staring at it like it is an enemy combatant and he is tasked with its elimination, eyes cold and analyzing, before he simply said. "We have time." Without looking at a timepiece yet again, and began walking toward it without another word.
"Ah! I see you have fine taste! These sandwiches are crafted by the hands of excellence and the coffee is invigorating and energizing!" She brags as she trots after him.
He predictably doesn't react, moving with purpose toward the shop.
They enter and wait in line, it's not long with how early it is, and Don Quixote tries to observe him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye.
His posture is immaculate, shoulders back, head high, feet planted shoulder width apart, his stance is a strict line of tension from head to toe.
Don Quixote curls up on herself and barely restrains the squeal from the pure handsomeness on display in front of her! She only manages to muffle it into incomprehensible high pitched noises. Truly she was blessed! When she speaks to her friendly recruits again she will surely report her good fortunes!
She sees movement and glances up to see Meursault glancing down at her, she thinks she sees an eyebrow minutely raise, but she's not sure.
Instead she straightens and beams up at him. "Coffee is truly the drink of the gods, no?"
He doesn't reply, instead turning his head and taking a measured step forward as their line moves forward.
Soon they're at the front and Meursault steps up to the counter. "Medium black." He says in his honey smooth voice.
The server nods and puts it in the cash register. "1.50" he quotes and looks expectantly.
Meursault doesn't move.
The clerk stares, empty and dead eyed, not paid enough to care about this social faux-pas.
The moment begins to stretch uncomfortably and Don Quixote tries to be patient as she rocks to her heels and back.
Meursault turns to look at her, his face impassive as ever, but an air of expectancy protrudes from him.
"Oh!" She says, "um! A mocha of your finest quality! Medium size! And a delectable sandwich made from the flesh of the finest hog good sir!" She poses and nods.
"No sandwich." Mersault says pulling out his wallet and putting a bill on the counter before promptly heading to the pickup area.
Don Quixote freezes for a moment, before she recovers with a smile. "No sandwich!" She parrots with a salute. "I leave our beverages to your capable hands my good sir!"
Don Quixote prances after him, beaming at him while he doesn't give her a second glance.
They wait for a moment before Don Quixote takes it upon herself to fill the silence. “Have I ever told you thine story of how Sancho and I discovered a secret [] program and freed all the subjects!?”
His eyes were fixed on the baristas as they puttered around making drinks and bagging baked goods, but he gives the barest shake of his head.
"Ah, that was back in mine days of working in Backstreets of V Corp! Sancho and mineself had gotten ourselves lost! I do believe that Sancho had gone mad from hunger and was simply leading us about like a madman in a foolhardy attempt at curving his cravings." She shakes her head and laughs, peeking at Meursault in the barest hint of a second, only a little disappointed to see him fail to react.
The server calls out their order and Don Quixote greedily grabs her own, while Meursault takes his with self assured patience, he inclines his head before he turns to exit the building.
Don Quixote takes a large sip of her drink, sighing dreamily, before she gives the worker her best smile. “This is certainly an elixir provided by the gods! Mine thanks my most devoted coffee-craftsman! I hope your day brings you much fortune!” Before running after her supervisor as fast as her coffee would let her.
She bounced to his side grinning, “ist thou coffee not the blessed nectar of energy!?” She enthuses as he takes a small sip.
He continues walking but makes a small sound of acknowledgement.
“Haha! I told you that the establishment was most exquisite in its craftsmanship, no? Ah I do love visiting that creator of coffee!” She nodded, taking a long sip before she continued, both of them making their way toward the station, "ah where was I? Oho! Sancho blindly exploring the maze that is the backstreets! Thou must understand; the Backstreets of V Corp was massive and far larger than thine could imagine. A labyrinthine structure of tubes and roads and bizarre amalgamations of nets and wires, combining to create a dizzying mess of a landscape. There is a reason the people of V Corp call themselves 'Venusian Rats'! And soon, I came to understand why! Venus, the bastard demon of Lust!" Even as she gestured and posed, she kept a coy eye on her supervisor, she thought she saw the tiniest quirk of a lip, before the impassive mask returned.
She grinned even larger as she continued "She had infiltrated every street corner, and mine poor Sancho, so loyal to thineself, could not help but give in to her wiles! Oh, the things that he did, that demon and Sancho! Such unspeakable and licentious acts of— of... in any case, the roads of the Backstreets were created as a mass breeding tunnel, and—" suddenly a hand caught her shoulder and she stopped short glancing up at him.
He was silently pointing with the cup in his hand, at the horizon.
Don Quixote follows his gaze to see the sun, barely peeking over the buildings, the shine of warm colours surrounding the bright star in the sky, was breathtaking, while the half-full moon still hung in the sky surrounded by a smattering of stars.
"Ah… it is beautiful." She whispers as they both pause to take it in, before Meursault starts walking again.
She hurries after him, the quiet stretching as she tries to get her emotions under control and steady her voice. “Now where was I!? Ah yes! V Corps most closely held secret! Now you see—”
***
They arrived an hour early, at least that was Don Quixote’s best guess, but she still didn't have a timepiece and seemingly neither did Meursault, though he had an unerring accuracy with his guesses.
That was fine however, because it gave Don Quixote more than enough time to brag about her many illustrious exploits!
Her supervisor was a tough nut to crack, he reacted so rarely and so subtly, but Don Quixote was certain she got him smiling at some of her more absurd tales.
Soon enough others of W Corp were gathering around, they seemed unfazed to see Meursault here so early, and seemingly made a point to avoid standing near him.
Don Quixote wasn't fazed and promptly took the time to network and make friends, approaching one of her co-workers at random and starting conversation.
She must admit, the few she talked to were better conversationalists than her supervisor, but she wouldn't trade him for the world.
As the time neared their shift start the entire squad had gathered, Don Quixote was disappointed to see neither Rodiya or Hong Lu had been assigned her shift, but she was certain she could track them down eventually.
She heard a loud snapping of fingers and glanced around only to see Meursault snap once more before pointing at his feet. He was standing at the very end of station, impassive as ever.
Cheerfully Don Quixote bounced to his side. Immediately all the other agents began to bound toward where Meursault already stood.
But as some walked past they whispered behind her. They said she was being treated as a lowly dog causing her to flush with righteous fury and shame.
She huffs, her compliance does not denote her to have the unquestioning obedience of a mongrel! But before she can snap back at them Meursault's whiskey soft voice rings out.
“Follow my lead.” Before he unclasps his ax where it hangs from his back.
Don Quixote opens her mouth when a tear in reality rips open at the end of the train tracks and suddenly the locomotive is blaring its unsympathetic whistles in her ears, the wind buffeting her.
She claps her hands over her ears as the very earth seems to shake as the train continues to roll past them before breaking seemingly in an instant.
She blinks up confused when there's a blaring alarm and the door snaps open all at once, behind it is a horrifying sin against god, it perhaps once was a human, but now it's limbs were warped and twisted, clothes in bloody disarray, it's facial features seemed to melt and distorted and it takes all Don Quixote's self control not to puke at the sight and smells and her stomach lurches.
She's suddenly very grateful she didn't get that sandwich.
But the moment the abbotration appeared it was sliced neatly in two, Meursault not even pausing as it is bisected, already taking a confident step forward before it had even completely collapsed, stepping through the viscera completely unfazed as Don Quixote gapes in wonderment.
There's the slick sound of steel cutting flesh as Meursault continues to rip through the train and Don Quixote lets out a battle cry as she rushes after him.
***
Don Quixote is exhausted.
She has never been this tired in her life.
She's covered in blood and viscera and other unidentified body fluids.
Her arms are screaming after fighting for so long non-stop.
Actually her whole body hurts.
The difficulty of the job was not due to the difficulty in defeating opponents but rather the pure quantity of them.
They seemed never ending, even as Meursault led the charge and disposed of most of them, he let some slip by to be disposed of by herself.
Don Quixote couldn't decide what she wanted first, to sleep, to eat or to shower. Perhaps she could fandangle a precarious balance and do all three at the same time.
Meursault was carrying the mission objective toward the office where they needed to deliver it and she had never been so grateful to her supervisor as her shoulders instructed her that if she lifted anything heavier than plate they would fall off.
She didn't even have it in her to rambunctiously tell her tales as she normally would, the walk through the train depressingly silent.
When they exited the train immediately her comrades diverted their destination.
“Ah—! Mine friends! The office is that-a-way! Thou art heading in the wrong direction!”
A couple glanced back at her while the others snickered.
One of the kinder ones glanced back and seemed to take pity on her, “it only takes one person to deliver the package, and Mer-y’s got it under control, don't you bud?”
Meursault hums in agreement, as he moves past her heading toward the office, though Don Quixote doubts loud enough to be heard by the rest of the squad.
She glances between the group and Meursault frozen in indecision for a moment before she makes her choice.
She’s not sure her mouth can artfully convey her stories so she settles for asking Meursault questions about himself.
He isn't very forthcoming, but he does answer her questions with an air of neutrality that seems to speak of indifference.
It's not a long walk, but Don Quixote can see why noone wanted to make it, her body having a deep set ache from exhaustion, but the office building is in sight.
Don Quixote is trying to think of a way to ask Meursault for lunch… as professionals of course! But she isn't quite sure yet, obviously she wants to do it in a creative way, and maybe she could get to know him better, but she's already certain she and Meursault are going to get along great.
She can't quite build up the courage to do it yet, so she ops for more small talk while she hypes herself up.
“Doest thou hast any siblings?” She asks as Meursault presses his keycard against the security panel.
“No.”
He walks in, without a doubt in his step at the new environment as he takes a sharp right and begins to walk up the stairs.
Don Quixote follows him, internally despairing at the staircase. “Ah, how are thine mother and father?”
“Father left, mother's dead.” He says as if talking about the weather, continuing at what Don Quixote considers an unreasonable pace.
Don Quixote gasps, partly in both shock, but also in exhaustion. “My gravest of apologies! You must miss her sorely! You have mine deepest condolences.”
He stops at the fifth floor and pushes the door open, walking past an elevator that Don Quixote looks at despairingly, before he says. “Not particularly.” but perhaps she hears the shake in his voice.
She's breathing hard, but her breath catches all the same. “Oh no, was she a cruel tyrant? An insidious beast? An unforgivable wretch that not even the devil would vouch for?”
He passes his keycard against another door that leads to a room full of safes where they're supposed to deposit the product, he kneels opening the case to check its contents, before closing it and pushing it into the safe. “No.”
Don Quixote balks at that, pausing for a long moment thinking of a reasoning for his apathy. “I see…” she says.
He closes the safe and locks it securely.
“Well… when did she pass?” She hazards, peeking at his expression.
Meursault pauses for a moment as he triple checks the locking mechanism on the safe once more, before standing, his face not moving an iota as he says nonchalantly “I killed her today… or perhaps it was yesterday.”