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Reflections. Dragging her arm across the tip of the harpoon, she sneered in distaste. None of them understood, none of them ever understood. Until she could see herself fully realized, until it was sharper, sharper still, she would not stop. Her knuckles were pale, and in the pallid hue of bone, she finally released herself from the weapon, and allowed it to clatter listlessly onto the floor. It wasn’t until she saw the green in her own eyes staring back into the metal that the woman rose in anger.
It wasn’t the right reflection. It wasn’t the green that clung to that Captain’s salted skin. The gleam of ivory in her damned grin, on that damned leg. A foul mockery that made itself known whenever she tried to see anything else. Anything. Just once.
Ishmael was tired. Nobody understood. Dragging herself out of the small room, she stared uneasily at the sight before her. They were drinking coffee as if it were liquid gold, the bitter and crude liquid in the finest vessels the others could afford.
“The newbie is out of her cave…” A faceless recollection smiled in astonishment, then rose to greet her with an outstretched hand holding a mug. Warmth radiated from the cup, but Ishmael’s expression grew sour when she recalled what she would see if she stared into it.
“I’m not thirsty.” She wanted to say she would be leaving. She had no need to pack her things, as they were never unpacked to begin with.
The silhouette seemed surprised yet withdrew. Without another word, the mug was returned to the table and was used to top off any other remaining cups that were in use by those sitting around it. Cigar smoke and the shuffling of cards were heard, but Ishmael was numb to any sensation irrelevant to her mission. A mission she had to remind herself of constantly.
Ishmael was tired. “We should be focused on fetching clients.” She sternly noted, then sighed distastefully at the words she used. Clients. People to bring inside this place for business. Not unlike fish to be used as bait. However, in a different way, these fish would leave satisfied with the service received, unharmed. What this establishment even did was hazy to her. The others accepted her and that was…a roof over her head. A meal. It wasn’t enough, it was never enough until her mission was realized, but…it was a continuation.
She bundled up constantly, staring at the coat hanging over her arms. She recalled the freezing winds of certain lakes, as well as the searing sea in others. The laws of the Lake were chaotic and without logic, yet to be on the ground again required a different kind of strength to keep onward, one that always sapped the warmth from her body.
“On a day like this? Get real! Nobody is heading out, especially with the gloomy weather!” As if it were obvious, the tallest figure gestured to the window. “Workaholic you are, we’re not only caught up on paperwork, but ahead! You’re giving us nothing to do, heh.” More sounds of cards. More nonsense. More distractions. Maybe Ishmael shouldn’t have been taking so much work for their sake. Look at them. Belly-up and flopping around without a care in the world. She had to answer to these useless things? Being bored was impossible, there was always something to do. Swab the deck, check the sails, inspect the lines, watch the waters, and more. If you were lazing around you were shutting your eyes to problems that could claim the lives of you and your men.
She said nothing, and returned to her room. It was a small section of the Office, and in regaining focus by walking for a mere moment, she sat and lifted the harpoon once more.
When such a weapon appeared by her exactly she did not recall. It was as if it were always there, and if anything, it always has been there. Maybe it was a gift. Maybe her memories had been so scattered when she was hanging onto the shattered pieces of the Pequod that one more thing to hold onto with dear life meant nothing. Sharpening it calmed her nerves at times, but enraged her at others. It grew dull quickly whenever she became complacent with avoiding her mission.
“Not avoiding.” She muttered, her voice unstable and mortified. “I’m not avoiding it.” She drew her hand across the harpoon, listening to its low shriek. “It needs to be sharper.” Ishmael knew better. She knew she had to be colder. If she had better places to be, she would be there. Without thinking the weapon was returned to her. Without thinking she had placed her bag around her back. She stormed out of the room with a thoughtless ferocity over her face.
“I’m leaving.” She didn’t know if the words were heard. Rain tore down from the sky when she opened the door, deafening everything else in the room. The silhouettes stood and seemed concerned. Perhaps they’ve grown close to her, or perhaps they were trying to save the best employee they’ve had in their pathetic establishment’s history. Either way, Ishmael was deaf to it. Beneath the battering rain, she walked. Storming ahead, the backstreets grew loud with the rush of water.
It was calming. Closing her eyes, she listened and heard. A hurricane of noise whipped her hair about, a typhoon of sounds and sensations. This was her mission. The sea’s anger called out to her even here, and if she chased that anger and suppressed it with her own…she knew what she would find at the end of that road.
She wandered the streets. She couldn’t tell what time it was, nor seemed to care. It was nowhere near the Night in the Backstreets, so she could walk freely. The rain was washing away blood and dirt from the ground, red hues mixing with the black. It reminded Ishmael of the lakes. They washed everything away, regardless of how loud or how powerful dead things once claimed to be. It was eventually a husk beneath the seas and nothing more.
Finding cover beneath a storefront, in the alleyway the woman stood in, she turned to meet her reflection once again. The building seemed abandoned, windowpanes shattered and rattling in the wind. The same expression. She had the same look on her face as she did when she was foolish and compliant. The same expression as everyone else on that damned ship. As if she was some kind of idiot who believed everything she heard. Insane as it was.
Yet she was an idiot who believed every insanity, every obsessive blade thrust in the sky, every crack of the oar. Every morsel of it. There was no greater monster—no greater calamity—than words that could rouse something deep and inexplicable inside of strangers. Words that could drive them to fight wars, to join arms, to hunt, to kill, to eradicate. Those who knew how to weave those words were horrifying, and Ishmael was exhausted. Shaking, she lifted her fist to punch the glass, then froze.
Lights blared from behind. Quiet and gentle footsteps echoed out despite the storm. When Ishmael turned, there was nothing but light rain. Realizing how long the rain had been nothing but a gentle drizzle made her face grow pale.
“Ishmael…our eighth addition.” A woman standing before the light called out. Beneath an umbrella, Ishmael herself could barely make anything out of the woman’s traits or features. Six additional silhouettes were staring from the source of the lights, with two more standing in the front where the driver would presumably be, but the only one she could speak to was the sole member standing there. A vessel towered over her, a sleek metal whale that grumbled and hummed with an engine she knew held something similar to what boggled the mind in the lakes.
“Who are you…?” Yelling hopelessly, the wind on her face made Ishmael’s expression grow tense with the cold air rushing down her lungs whenever she inhaled.
“Someone who has been waiting. If you join Limbus Company, I promise you that your sharpened point will allow your mission to finally be realized, and…” Everything else she said was noise. She would be able to complete her mission? Then nothing else mattered. Ishmael followed, and Ishmael obeyed. It was truly horrifying how quickly she clicked to accept the offer.
As if she wore that same face from aboard that same ship.