Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Why do you keep holding your blade like that?” Heathcliff lifted a brow and took a step forward as Ishmael braced, knowing he was about to correct her. She wasn’t overly fond of his hands-on approach in training, but his verbal instructions were inadequate and his patience unevenly waned.

“You keep holding the bloody thing like you’re going to throw it.” His rough hands forced her to correct her stance. “You were made a Wakashu and you still can’t hold a damn sword proper?”

She almost hissed as she inhaled sharply, her bruised ribs throbbing still from her last scuffle in the streets, a sign as to why she was being subjected to such reprimanding. She winced and swatted his hand away.

Heathcliff retreated a couple of steps and folded his arms, scowling as he studied her. “Are you still hurt?”

Ishmael blinked, wondering what good this kind of question was, she already took as much of a rest period as available in their frenetic lifestyle. He may just take evidence of her struggle as a reason to continue his lecture another time. Irritatingly, his status as a Kashira compelled her to answer him no matter what. “It's just bruising. I’ll work through it and consider it a penance.”

He scoffed. “A penance? While it's true that you’re no good to anyone dead, working through the pain is not really some sort of extra sacrifice now is it? You’d have to do that anyway.”

She noticed a small lilt of amusement in his voice, reigniting her frustration. “Then what would you suggest would be a better way?”

“A better way of what? Punishing yourself for taking a hit? I didn’t ask you to do that. Though it is a pain in the ass to have a man down or die, it's part of the business.” Heathcliff glanced at her, noting her face was getting red again. He didn’t even mean to be particularly teasing at that moment. He shrugged down one of the sleeves of his kimono jacket, exposing part of his clan's black cloud tattoos across his arms and shoulder blades, and a portion of the many scars that marked his body. “Bruises will fade in time, at least.”

Ishmael’s response was flatter than he expected, as he really tried to give her a poignant display of leadership. She looked rather bemused at his attempt, that he began to become self-conscious. She said nothing, but took off her blazer and unbuttoned her shirt.

“What are you-” He began to question. “I didn’t order you to-”

Ishmael took a deep breath and bared a section of her midriff, showing the purple and yellowish splotches on her bruised ribs but also a litany of healed scars that the horrors of the Great Lake bestowed upon her.

Heathcliff observed thoughtfully and frowned. His hand ghosted over her flesh and she almost shuddered and pulled away. “Why does this one look like a rope cut into it?”

Ishmael let the fabric of her shirt fall back into place. “I used to be a sailor, I got caught in some of the ropes while we were dealing with a storm, amongst other things...” She explained in an uncomfortable and sighing voice. “It was a whaling ship.”

Heathcliff let this revelation sink in, looking at her thoughtfully. A small smirk soon twisted at the corners of his mouth. “So that's why you held your sword like that.”

Her gaze wandered away from him, she fixed her clothes as her anxiety bubbled from exposing herself in that manner, but she could not help but feel patronized by him. She had already lived what felt like lifetimes aboard that ship. She fell into working for the Kurokumo Syndicate because she was just a bystander who got involved in the backstreets brawl, and had to declare some sort of allegiance or most likely die. Just as well, as she was having a hard time getting assigned to a desirable fixer office. Though the tattoos were already stained and needled into her skin and her position was made, in the back of her mind she was always fixated on finding that bastard and making them pay. The more she climbed the ladder of this Syndicate, the more freedoms were provided, and she may convince the Kumicho to help her with her cause. At least, that is what she convinced herself as matters were more extended in the Hierarchy than that. If she survived running away, she would be more like her beloved lost to the sea, and would never be able to leave the Great Lake ever again. She would accept that ending if she could get her revenge.

“Hey. Why’d you join us?” Heathcliff asked, breaking her from thought. And once again, his status compelled her to answer no matter what.

Ishmael listlessly sighed. “You were there sir, remember? It wasn’t a very formal agreement.”

Heathcliff recalled he barked at her to either join them in the fray or become street meat, one of his most effective recruiting methods. Even though it was more or less extortion, he thought treated his units well. But that wasn’t exactly what he meant by the inquiry. “Okay.” He gritted his teeth slightly. “Say that you had more choice in the matter. What are your goals here?”

One of her pieces of hair fell from her precarious bun that struggled to stay contained. She sheathed her katana and went to work fixing it, and forced open her mouth to answer, hoping the words were carefully enough gathered. “Survive and use what skills I can to continue to survive. What else can I do?”

How obvious, he thought. He knew she was guarding her ambitions from him. “What brought you here in the first place? You’re a long way from UCorp aren’t you?”

She finished smoothing the bun as much as she could. “I was looking for a Fixer office to work for, so I could save up and find a way back into UCorp.”

“And now you’re trapped in the Backstreets.” Heathcliff said in a tone that hinted at a deep bitterness.

“Would you know something about that?” Ishmael replied, scanning down at his hands, as they fidgeted with the ring he wore.

He brought up his arms to fold them once more. He didn’t need to answer her, but she couldn’t do anything with the information even if he shared his entire life story. “I have worked to the bloody bone to get where I am. But I don’t intend to stay here.”

His position as second in command, or in the Backstreets under the Thumb, she was left to wonder which of the two he was referring to. If Heathcliff were to become Kumicho… She stopped the thought in its tracks. She found his leadership questionable at best, but there was no denying he was very good at getting results. But would he help her?

“I don’t intend to stay here either.” She tacitly admitted.

Heathcliff glanced away, pretending to not have heard it, so as to not be burdened with wonder. “I let you loaf about enough today. Report back to your captain.”

Ishmael customarily bowed and turned to exit his office room quietly.

Heathcliff cleared his throat. “And get your head out of the waves and wield your blade proper next time!”

She paused to turn slightly to nod and continued to exit. He may have seen through her after all.

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Whatever notion of status and dynamics they shared now, their familiarity did not stop them from bickering in public. Drinking parties, raids, scuffles, payment collection, it did not matter the setting, as long as the Kumicho was not there.

“Oi. I told you to slash that bloke’s ankles, not his stomach!”

“He would have had time to land his blade on you in that position, or do you like constantly being covered in bandages? Do you not wish to live long enough to become Kumicho?”

“You failed to listen to my order, bird.”

“I wish to remind you that my main mission is to protect you before battle execution, SIR.”

Despite their verbal clashes, for some unknown reason Heathcliff never subjected Ishmael to finger removal; others would suffer for the same boldness she had. Some of her fellow Wakashu noticed this light treatment and pointed out the Kashira’s kindness, but Ishmael would respond that his company was punishment enough.

“I find it interesting that your Hosa barely holds the leash.” Hong Lu mused, knowing his own found many opportunities to force their power like a noose around their necks. “My Hosa would have punished me for such impertinence. Or at the very least threatened it.” He smiled blithely.

Ishmael did notice that her Hosa barely spoke a word to her in recent months, and began to wonder if her behavior really was that obscene. She glanced back at Hong Lu, who sat next to her, filling another glass for their captain.

At this moment, several of the squads all sat around an izakaya-style restaurant, lines, and rows of tables filled with monochrome uniforms, as they all gathered to blow off some steam before the endless loop of street battles began again.

A man named Gregor was made into a Hosa, and though his drunk antics were often called insufferable, the Wakashu and their squads were competitive to work under him. Rodya, one of such Wakashu, was recently assigned under him, and she would openly say it was the most fun she had as a syndicate member in a long time. She sat across the room next to Gregor, refilling his cup. She noticed Ishmael’s glance toward them, throwing a small wave at her before slamming down a drink of her own.

Ishmael felt a tap on her back as she was pulled out of her conversation with Hong Lu, who remained unbothered.

“Ryoshu~” He greeted their guest playfully and began to make room on the bench. “Come to drink with us?”

The black-haired woman exhaled a puff of smoke in his direction as her answer, but Hong Lu’s resilient smile didn’t fade as he was subjected to it. He was used to her irascible manners and he even found a strange delight in her lack of them.

“Red hair, this way.” Ryoshu began to turn.

“Huh?” Ishmael responded. “Maybe she was tasked to fetch you?” Hong Lu suggested. “Better follow her, she won’t repeat herself~”

Ishmael wearily sighed and half-sprinted to catch up. “What’s going on?”

“K.A.F.Y.” Ryoshu uttered, but it only left her with more questions as she tried to decipher her code. Ishmael figured it out, though, as she was led to one of the private rooms of the izakaya. The door slid open, and she was greeted by her Hosa, and Heathcliff sitting at a table.

“Thanks, Ryoshu.” Heathcliff made a signal for her to return to her own devices. He lifted his gaze to Ishmael and pointed at a chair across the table from him. “Sit.”

She wordlessly heeded him, and took her seat, hoping to get a reason for this meeting. In the back of her mind, she feared that this was her long-delayed punishment that the other Wakashu warned her about. The silence began to choke her as the two men around her let it linger.

“Right. Let’s keep this brief.” Heathcliff produced a paper and a pen and slid it over to her side of the table. “From today on you will take on the rank of a Hosa, and become my apprentice, so sign this.”

Ishmael looked dumbfounded, but her Hosa kept a neutral expression, refusing to even look at her.

“Should I take your waffling as you’re not interested?” Heathcliff said gruffly, almost letting his underlying nerves show.

She snapped out of her shock to take up the pen, glancing through the contract. Her heart pounded, as she tried to actually read it.

“You may go.” He motioned to her former Hosa who seemed relieved to be dismissed. Once he was out of the room, he leaned slightly in her direction. “Are you gonna sign the damn thing or not?”

Ishmael wanted time to try to ascertain his motivations, still trying to read through the document’s conditions and restrictions, it was about the same as the original contract she signed at her Wakashu ranking, the loyalty clause and claims on her life still withstanding. She knew that there was no real choice, as long as her body bore that tattoo. She signed it and slid the papers back at him.

“Hm.”

She sat, wondering why he would do this for her, but to actually ask made her feel a little sick and giddy at the same time. Her face contorted into an expression of discomfort.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” His brow furrowed.

She bit her lip and sighed. The question would be coming sooner or later, so she may as well ask it. “Why did you promote me?”

Heathcliff sighed, scratching lightly at his neck. He knew she would be like this. “How else could I keep you in line?” He wanted to mention her desire to leave but left it to hang in the air.

“You’re a fool to do this.” She replied bitingly, testing his patience.

He ached with a strange familiarity in her acts of temerity towards him. “You’re just the same. I could have had you killed many times over by now. Maybe I should have?”

Ishmael nodded. She wondered if this was his way of finally tightening his collar around her neck or his way of loosening it further. A sigh escaped. “Thank you.” She even felt a bit more relaxed as the words came out.

“Sure,” Heathcliff responded, tossing a kimono her way, hitting her straight in the face. “Put that on and follow me.”

Ishmael annoyedly swiped the article off her face, shrugged off her blazer, and put on the kimono loosely over her blouse. She didn’t like what the next part implied but did what she was told. He led her to the back of the house of the restaurant, where the majority of their forces sat. Heathcliff addressed the population and formally introduced her as a Hosa, where her new authority was now fully on display. He then retreated back to his private room, and she was left to be poured drinks and addressed by those below her.

Rodya cheered for her possibly the loudest at the introduction, happy to have another promising captain and another she considered a friend.

Ishmael refound her spot next to Hong Lu, who somehow convinced Ryoshu to join him in the interim of her absence. His smile was slyer than before. “Ah, so that is how it is~” He insinuated.

“I assure you, it is not.” Ishmael replied, taking up the full cup placed before her. “I think he intends to make my life even more a living hell.”

“K.F.”

Hong Lu laughed at Ryoshu’s comment and his blue eye twinkled with amusement. “You figured that one out, right?”

Of course, 'Kashira’s Favorite'. “Should I sit somewhere else?” Her eyes narrowed on them, but it wasn’t much of a threat. Ishmael did end up spending time at Gregor’s table, as he drunkenly spouted his wisdom for being a successful captain as Rodya poured herself and Ishmael many drinks.

The night began to wane to the impending gray sunrise and she was determined to get a bit of sleep before the morning’s mandatory meeting. She was also sick of being forced to drink, her constitution hardy from the ale she used to consume with her fellow sailors, but the taste was strong in a different way.

Heathcliff had finished his own meeting with the Kumicho, who had just departed for bed. The meetings were less formal between them, but as second-in-command, he had to see to every whim they had while also overseeing their forces. He was taking a walk to grab some water before retiring for the night himself, as he saw his new apprentice wobbling up the stairs to the Wakashu quarters. She was definitely drunk; but her face was comically serious, as if she was trying very hard not to show it.

“Oh. it's you.” She slurred a bit casually. “Gooood evening.”

“You good?” He almost wanted to laugh, barely stifling it before reaching out to steady her as she began to slump against the wall. He noticed her bun had all but fallen down, her hair wildly snaking out of control. “Have you vomited yet?”

“Trying not to.” She choked, hiccuping after. Just the thought of how much alcohol she consumed was making her nauseous. “I think I am going to...” She choked back a heave.

“Hell, not here, lass!” He backed her into the restroom at the end of the hall quickly and ended up holding her mass of hair as she discarded an expensive amount of alcohol out of her stomach into the porcelain bowl, coughing as it finally ended. Her face was streaked with involuntary tears and she got up to immediately wash her hands and mouth. He still held a bundle of her hair as she turned to thank him for keeping it out of the way.

“It's a wonder no one has cut this shaggy mess off yet.”

She pouted, grabbing her hair completely away from him, attempting to put it back up before giving up halfway through. “I don’t want to.”

“Hrm.”

She walked towards the exit to leave, but some voices came down the hallway as Heathcliff pinned her to lock the door, in case someone else couldn’t hold their alcohol and spotted them. Ishmael went silent as his body held her in her place, standing against it, waiting for the noises to pass. They stood quietly, with each other breathing becoming noticeable company for several minutes, as some Wakashu continued to loiter in the hallway socializing. Heathcliff understood the weird position he put them in and removed himself away from her, but he tensed up as someone came by to open the door, wiggling the doorknob. “Ugh.” Ryoshu’s voice uttered.

“Aww, someone might be having a bad night.” Rodya’s voice could be heard. She knocked on the door. “You doing alright in there?”

Heathcliff and Ishmael looked at each other in panic. It made far less sense for him to be in there than her, so Ishmael put on a strained voice. “I’m fine, just had too much to drink.”

“Oh my, Ishy is that you?” Rodya asked, wiggling the doorknob even more. "Let me help you keep your hair out of the way!”

Heathcliff’s brow darkened at the prospect of them coming in. “Do not.” He whispered. Ishmael rolled her eyes, she would never even consider it. “I am fine, just leave! Go to the other restroom on the other side.” She replied hastily.

“Are you sure?” Rodya removed herself from the door, still worried.

“I said leave. Tell everyone I said for them to get in their rooms now.”

“I.T.A.O.?” Ryoshu questioned.

“Yes, that is an order,” Ishmael affirmed, sighing. She didn’t want to treat them like this, but it was the only way.

“Oh. Okay, feel better.” Rodya said tensely, shrugging at Ryoshu. “Come on, orders from Captain Ishmael to go to our rooms!” She shouted across the halls. “Its bed time!~ We’ve got a curfew and it's noooow!” Her words slurred, evident she was still drunk herself.

“They’re not gonna like that.” Heathcliff chuckled.

“Shut up.”

“Such a tyrant.” He teased.

Ishmael flashed him a murderous look, and they went silent as they waited for a myriad of doors to shut as the hallway went quiet. She exited and let him know it was clear for them to escape.

Her quarters were just a few yards away, but he turned to yank on her arm. “Take a walk with me.” He instructed.

“Fine.” She sighed, wanting only to sleep. She followed him to the kitchen, not yet manned for the morning shift and luckily, also eerily quiet. He got his glass of water, and she took one too, as her throat burned a little as she sobered up earlier. “Thanks.”

“Mhm.” He took a seat at a vacant table. She assumed a place next to him, and he felt an odd sense of relief when she did. “Do you know why I asked the Kumicho to allow me to promote you?”

“Absolutely not.” Ishmael replied flatly. It was the truth, at least. “Are you going to tell me?”

Heathcliff rolled his eyes. “Yes, I suppose I have to now.” He took a long sip of his water before looking back her way. “Our conversation a while back, when you showed me your scars. The way I see it, we both have similar goals.”

“Do we?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oi. Don’t make me regret this.” He flicked her nose, his voice grew to a quiet grumble. “You want to go back to the Great Lake, and I want to head back to my home turf too. But those black clouds will hang over our heads until the bitter end.”

“What about the Kumicho? The Thumb? Hell, the whole hand?” Ishmael gritted her teeth. “I was damned that day I wandered into that part of the Backstreets and...”

“Calm down, everyone starts somewhere!” Heathcliff interrupted. “And I sure as hell will not end here. What about you?” He extended his hand for her to take.

Ishmael understood what he was asking of her. She was reminded of a conversation she had with a beloved person long ago. If she partnered herself with him, could they break free away from the Syndicate or use it to their own ends? He has proved himself capable, after all. What better choice would she even have? “I refuse to die here either.” She placed her hand in his, sealing their pact.

He shook her hand and let his hand rest onto the table, as she slowly removed hers. Once his hand was completely empty he picked himself up to retreat finally to bed. “See you in a few hours.”

“Okay.” She replied, knowing she would not be able to sleep at all. “Goodnight.”

He stood for a long moment, before returning the sentiment. “G-goodnight.”

She had no idea what to make of that but withdrew to head back to her quarters as well.

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What became of those two?

Dante wondered, as the two Identities were extracted at the same time. Try as they might, no further insight into that Mirror World could be gained aside from the small gleanings offered to them. All things considered, their Ishmael and Heathcliff were not all that different from those versions, though they seemingly got along better tactically, as well as the fellow Kurokumo identity holders who also seemed to smoothly follow their lead.

Despite Heathcliff’s rank being above, he seemed more than willing to shield his subordinate, who in turn would scold him for bothering. As with any Mirror Identity, once taken off, a slight influence remained outside of battle.

The second part of the team had been coming back from a dungeon as they settled back into themselves.

“Oh~You guys have been getting along so well!” Rodya pointed out.

“Huh?” Ishmael asked, reflexively taking two steps away from Heathcliff.

“Don’t you guys think so? I mean you still bicker occasionally but it's kind of a different vibe?” She continued, gesturing between them.

“I believe you could call the state of their rivalry currently… playful?” Hong Lu chimed in with amusement.

“Hah. Playful?” Heathcliff replied. “Are you all touched in the head? Oi Clockface, I think they came back wrong. Should I reboot them?”

“We’re fine. I think it's rather nice if you and Ishmael are buds.” Gregor spoke up, but retreated when Heathcliff raised his bat. “Okay, sorry for implying you had a friend at all!”

Ishmael scoffed. “That is enough. I think you guys are seeing something that is not there. Stop playing this joke on us.”

<It's not a joke, it has been nice to see you two get along.> Dante ticked, causing Ishmael’s face to grow red and Heathcliff to become further irritated.

“Oh come off it, not you too…” She whined. “We’re just working together as you asked.”

<Thank you for working together, then.>

The other squad of sinners had already exited the corridor back into the main part of the bus, awaiting the stragglers who just finished the final stage. Everyone came through the back door one by one, Dante accounting for all the sinners as they appeared.

Heathcliff held the door open for Ishmael. It made her pause, looking up at him and getting a sudden flashback from another life of them both standing against a door. She turned away suddenly and walked past him to take her usual seat, muttering a “Thanks.”

He gathered in his seat behind her and pretended he didn’t ‘remember’ something similar. He also wondered if that version of them ever made it out the backstreets, as he drifted into a nap.

<That concludes today’s business.> Dante announced some time later and the sinners began to disperse for their respective rooms. They stopped and wondered if it would be safe enough to rouse him awake, but Heathcliff had some mean reflexes, and still had a bat in his hand.

“I’ll get him.” Ishmael stated, coming over to nudge him from his sleep fearlessly. “Hey. Go to bed.”

<Heathcliff?> Dante ticked, still keeping a safe distance.

The man roused, seeing Ishmael he sleepily smiled, instead of becoming grumpy as expected.

“Okay. See you in a few hours.” He yawned out, getting up to sleepily walk into the corridor. “Goodnight.”

“G-Goodnight.” Ishmael replied, surprised at how easy that was, She turned and bid a second goodnight to Dante before catching up to Heathcliff to rein him to the right door.

Though nothing else could be learned, Dante was just glad they were able to work together.

Chapter Text

Heathcliff barely registered how he got back into his room. He lumbered over to the bed in the corner, only wanting to continue his rest. Once his head hit the pillow, the room's nature remained static as the standard issue dorm; his mind more at ease today. Soon he was asleep, and gray clouds began to manifest above; but they didn't threaten to morph into a wuthering storm that would surely wake him.

He began to dream.

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The Kumicho had requested Heathcliff’s presence in a meeting with some of the Thumb’s representatives, to pass along effectively what the latest agenda was for the clan, in addition to their other day-to-day shakedown operations. He had to train to keep himself absolutely neutral and unbothered no matter what the task was presented, though the Kumicho did not promote him to such an esteemed position for being cool and level-headed. It was Heathcliff’s doggedness that ultimately won over the Patriarch’s heart several years ago; when a teenaged boy was found in the backstreets initiating a breakaway from a squad who were trying to provide him ‘protection’.

“I can take care of myself!” The young man spat out blood, with bruised eyes and wounds that needed immediate tending. Still, he swung that club wildly, threatening anyone who came closer. “I didn’t ask any of you nutters for your blighted protection!”

The original aggressor was long dealt with, a scuffle that the Kumicho long forgotten the reason for. Even though he knew the young man who resisted them could never afford to pay their fee, it seemed a waste to sic their blades to take up his organs instead. “Round up the boy alive, we will take him on as a little brother.” The Kumicho added to his order: “If anyone marks him with their blade, they shall be marked twofold by me.”

The aftermath of that day: Heathcliff managed to elude the large forces for hours, but was eventually cornered on a roof, hiding in a scrap shelter made of boxes. Afterward he was brought in, tattooed and disciplined into becoming part of their ranks. In the beginning he operated with a hollowness, going through the most basic of motions only to stay alive. But he soon found that the work could agree with him, once given plenty of opportunities to work out his twisted anger. In this, he raised ranks quickly as he showed great follow-through and zeal for both recruitment and payment collection, the books even reflecting a period of prosperity. Eventually, as a newly legal adult, Heathcliff was already being considered for the position of Hosa, where he apprenticed under the former Kashira.

The Kumicho kept tabs on his performance throughout the years with great interest. When Heathiff was promoted to Kashira at the untimely death of his former Master, the Kumicho had admitted that he always saw a son in the young man, who held the sentiment as deeply unnerving rather than flattering, even admitting it to the older man's face. But Heathcliff’s sharpness and lack of polite words only made him like him more.

The agenda of the present day meeting they were both trapped in was nothing surprising or new; they were given a hit list of targets that the Thumb couldn’t be bothered with. Another clash with Blade Lineage was also becoming imminent, but they were to hold off until a more opportune moment presented itself.

The meeting finally ended, but Heathcliff was not yet released to his other duties, though he itched to leave.

“I asked for your kouhai to come here.” The Kumicho spoke with grin. “The one with pretty red hair, it's a blessing such a color can still be observed in this miserable gray place.”

Heathcliff’s face failed to remain neutral, as his brows lifted. “Ah, what for?” His voice came out a bit higher than he expected and he cleared his throat. “We both have tasks that need to be seen to.”

The Kumicho waved him off. “We have plenty of Hosas that can take on the burden for one night. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were unhappy to share her attention for a few hours.”

His anger buttons were successfully pressed, but he knew better than to bare his teeth about it.“I just didn’t want her to bore you. She’s quite scrupulous about the job and not really a gabber.”

“You must enjoy her company quite enough to recommend her as your successor.” The Kumicho smirked knowingly. “Interpersonal connections are important to the business, after all. I should make a better friend of her as well.”

Heathcliff was uncomfortable with the notion of his apprentice being used for an evening's entertainment, he wouldn't hesitate to kill the old man if he could do so easily.

Ishmael soon arrived in the meeting room, accompanied by Ryoshu, who had also become a Hosa recently herself, purely from the merit of her kill count. The black-haired woman smirked and bowed to leave her. “G.L.”

Good luck, indeed. Ishmael was ambushed earlier by two of her Wakashu cohorts: Rodya and Hong Lu; because of their amiable bonds with each other, but just as equally for the length of their hair. Earlier in the day they were rounded up to serve Ishmael and prepare her for meeting with the Kumicho, in which they were given instructions that he wished to see her hair up, and for the Kimono to be adorned more formally. Ishmael’s hair took the majority of their effort, as Rodya’s hands nearly cramped as she finally got it tangle-free. Hong Lu, who was tasked with getting up, made a half-up bun, taking painstaking care to make it as neat as possible, then braided the remaining length to twist and pin up around it. He finished it off with some metal pins and ornaments, the final look felt very heavy for her head. There was a light application of cosmetics to her eyes and lips that felt like overkill. Since the make-up was in the bundle they were provided to carry out their services, and Rodya insisted they might as well use them, touching up her own look in the mirror at the same time.
The door opened suddenly, “I’ll fix this.” Ryoshu ultimately was the one to dress Ishmael in her kimono, being one who understood the Kumicho’s customs better than most. She was also subjected to similar demands on routine occasions. She put out her cigarette and tugged down on the fabric to show off more of Ishmael’s neck and tattoos, sitting it lower on the shoulders, and securing it tight before getting to work fixing her obi. Her model didn’t have much room to interject or any fight in her to disobey, already so far out of her depth. Ishmael had time to glance at her stranger self in the mirror for a brief moment before her arm was entwined with Ryoshu’s. She heard trailing words of encouragement from her aestheticians as she was led away. The walk up to the appropriate apartment felt extremely long in her wooden sandals. A shyness overcame her knowing the eyes of passing bodies gravitated toward her. She was never a very vain person, though she always tried to at least keep a decent appearance, but being made a spectacle felt equal shades of nice and embarrassing.

Once her escort had left her alone to join the two men, she bowed in a delayed fashion near the doorframe. The Kumicho spritely laughed at her nervousness and beckoned her to come take a seat with them. She obeyed, unsure of where to settle her eyes. They met Heathcliff's briefly; but he broke the gaze almost immediately. He looked surprised to see her, but also another emotion she could not pin down, having never seen it from him.

“Thank you for the invitation, Kumicho.” Ishmael finally spoke, deciding to focus on the Patriarch as a show of respect.

“It's a pleasure to host you.” His hand hovered in the direction of where he wanted her to sit. “Thank you for your hard work watching over our Kashira.” The Kumicho took a moment to look her over. “I also thank you for indulging my detailed request regarding your appearance. Rest assured, this effort will just be for tonight. It's my selfish hobby to dress others.”

Ishmael found herself immediately more at ease knowing this wasn’t a permanent uniform change, her head was already hurting. “I would admit I almost didn’t recognize myself.” She smiled politely. “Thank you for showing me this version.”

Heathcliff was sipping from a small cup when the Kumicho clapped a hand on him. “Where are your manners, boy? You didn’t make any effort yet to greet our guest.”

“To be fair I have not greeted him either, Kumicho,” Ishmael spoke up, bowing her head in Heathcliff’s direction, ornaments in her hair clanking together. “Good evening, Kashira.”

He cleared his throat of liquid, taking care to not cough it, shifting a bit in his seat with discomfort. “Evening, Ishmael.” His voice was scratchy.

They exchanged stilted, toothless smiles; neither of them were in their element. Heathcliff was then subjected to a period of the night purely as a third-party observer, as their Patriarch monopolized Ishmael’s attention in a fit of conversation, where they spoke of many things; the business, her hobbies, if she liked beer or wine better, what her favorite was, what she thought of cats, what she thought about working for such a boss, her favorite sword techniques, did everyone have red hair from where she grew up. And so on.

The older man pulled out a pipe and began to light it. “Do you smoke, Ishmael?”

“I have, on occasion.” She nodded, her polite smile still unflappable.

“Many sailors do in my experience.” He exhaled a puff of smoke away from her face, which turned pale from his comment. “Why do you look so puzzled, child?”

Heathcliff’s attention went from dissociating in the corner to meeting her face with mirrored confusion. He never mentioned it to him, either.

“Oh, I don’t remember sharing about my time at sea, sir.” Ishmael remained even-tempered but her simpering ceased.

“Around your wrist child, that bit of rope you usually wear in your hair. Also, the type of ale you mentioned is not very common in these parts. In my experience, it's usually imported from The Great Lake.”

She looked down at her wrist, forgetting she tied it there for safekeeping. She supposed he was right, the rice wine was far more plentiful than what she spent years drinking.“Oh, how astute, Kumicho.”

The older man pulled Heathcliff over by his collar, making him stumble a bit. “That reminds me, I remember one night, a couple of years ago, this one came back laughing about a new little sister of the clan that threw her sword like a harpoon.”

Ishmael blinked, feeling her cheeks heat a bit in embarrassment. “Oh, that must have been me. I remember when I ranked up to Wakashu I fell into the habit again and the Kashira called me in personally to correct it.”

“And correct it you did, you must have, as your diligence has surely led you here.” The Kumicho filled her glass.

Ishmael nodded, glancing over to Heathcliff who had still not said a word since his greeting.

“Heathcliff, go grab the machine.” The Kumicho ordered suddenly. Heathcliff looked back at him, his eyes full of fear, ready to protest.

“Sir, I don’t think-”

“It was an order.” He affirmed, downing a drink that he made Ishmael pour him earlier.

Ishmael looked equally wide-eyed at the mention of a machine. She watched the form of her master opening a door to drag out the said contraption; it had a monitor, speakers and some microphones stacked on top of a rolling cart. She felt less afraid.

“You know the song I like to start with.”

Heathcliff started up the machine and dialed on the desired song, handing the mic to his master, looking sheepish as he took a seat next to Ishmael, handing her a tambourine.

He folded his arms further in protest, as their leader began to sing something in a language neither of them fully understood.

“Just tap on the damn thing on beat and we might be able to bugger off within three songs.” He whispered to her desperately.

---

It took six songs, with rest periods in between for them to down more alcohol at the behest of the Kumicho, who sang three of the six.

“You are actually not bad at that wailing.” Heathcliff mused, the both of them departing from the apartment after finally seeing the boss to bed. “Know any shanties?”

“I will never be drunk enough to sing one of those for you, so please don’t ask again,” Ishmael warned half-heartedly, already in the middle of removing implements from her hair. “Now your voice, that was something else.” She smiled slyly, recalling a drunk Heathcliff singing his heart out to some ballad.

He flashed her a thunderous look. “That never happened, you imagined it.”

“I hope to imagine it again sometime.” She replied, trying to fish out the end of a dangling pin that was getting trapped in her hair.

“You’re making a mess of it.” Heathcliff ‘tsked’ at her. “You said that long-haired ponytail-wearing lad did it for you? Worked a miracle, from what I can tell.”

“Yeah, Hong Lu and Rodya, it was a tag team effort,” Ishmael replied. “Well, they ganged up on me, honestly. Rodya’s grip strength really is no joke.” She let him lead her suddenly into his office. “Why are we here?”

“Sit.” He instructed once the door was closed. She did, kicking off the geta sandals that may have given her a blister. He joined her in the opposite chair, scooting close. “Turn around.”

She did, and he then got to work removing the rest of the pins carefully for her, letting her hair fall down from the concentrated weight that was making her neck ache. She immediately groaned in relief. “Thanks.”

“Looked heavy.” He replied simply, looking her over as she rubbed her neck.

“It was.” She turned to pile the pins on his desk, unsure if they needed to be turned in or something after her temporary makeover. Turning back, her face was inches away from colliding with his, as he had hovered closer. Close enough to smell the faded alcohol that still lingered on their collected breath. “Heathcliff…” She said invitingly, making no effort to move away from him.

He almost closed the gap between them, but his eyes were suddenly distracted by a wax-sealed envelope that was left on his desk. Normally he would just let it wait until the morning, but its design was unmistakable; it was embossed with flowers from his childhood. “C-Cathy!” He said fearfully, taking himself away from the woman in front of him quickly.

“Cathy?” Ishmael repeated, confused and a bit frightened by his sudden jumpiness.

Heathcliff swallowed, his face turned flush, berating himself, unable to face her as he clamored for the parcel. “You should head to bed.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just go!” He commanded.

“No, what’s wrong with you?” She repeated.

“LEAVE.”

She stopped herself from responding, disappointed at herself for lowering her guard. Clearly, she must have misjudged the situation or he was toying with her. Just as well they never crossed that boundary, how would she face him in the morning if he was this flippant with his desires? Embarrassed and angry, Ishmael left his office in a hurry, which left her barefoot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heathcliff did not appear at the morning meeting to address the Hosa, the Kumicho himself was there in his stead; all in all, it was a brief meeting. Ishmael was charged with the hefty task of overseeing payment collection, which took the better part of her day. It was a welcome distraction that she immersed herself in straightaway, even though the task itself often demanded cruelty. She found herself capable of being cruel if needed, unbothered by the screaming that followed. Her thoughts drifted to mermaids from gone days when she heard it.

In this line of work, she was long desensitized to the needs of other families; as long as her ‘family’ prospered. It was like that on the ship, too.

Hours passed; street meat was carved. She returned to their building with blood in her hair, heading straight to the baths during the hour most of their lower ranks were eating. Once she left the bath, she only wanted to sleep early to face the next day and to avoid thinking about things better forgotten.

Gregor ran into her, most likely on his way to eat with his squads. “Hey, there she is!”

“Hm? Were you looking for me?”

“Oh, I was just wondering, I thought you would know perhaps, but is our Kashira doing okay?” Gregor asked. “I saw him getting something from the kitchen, and he looked rough. Couldn't get him to say a word though, bad hangover, maybe?”

At the mention of Heathcliff, Ishmael’s eyes clouded over. “I don’t know what his problem is, if he can’t handle his alcohol he shouldn’t take it out on others.”

“Hm?” Gregor seemed curious about her tangent. “Oh, do you mean missing the meeting? Ah, I don’t mind if he needs a morning off for that. We basically can run those on our own. If you haven’t already talked to him, maybe it’d be a good idea to check on him, yeah?”

It wasn’t a command she had to follow since they were of the same rank. “If I have some time, sure, though I do have other things to do.”

“Are you two fighting?” He asked, finding her noncommittal response interesting.

“We’re not!” Ishamel snapped.

“Though I trust you know what you’re doing, but if you were, it’d be your responsibility to make up first.” He replied matter-of-factly. When he wasn’t drowning himself in alcohol, Gregor was pretty damn apt at keeping up with the affairs of the organization, as well as being a proven leader.

“Well, no need. His self-isolation has nothing to do with me.” She sighed, but she would admit she was a bit worried about what caused the sudden shift in his mood last night, and they would need to get back to somewhat normal, or working with him would be unbearable. “Fine, I will check on him.”

Gregor could sense that was all he was going to get about the situation from her, satisfied with that conclusion. “Alright then, have a good night, bud.”

Ishmael didn’t bother with a response. She stopped briefly at her room to put her basket of bathing supplies away. She first tried knocking on the doors to the Kashira's quarters, but there was no response. She admittedly only gave it a half-hearted knock before making the trek over to his office. She heard rustling before she attempted a knock, evidence that he was inside. She opened the door immediately, demanding to know: “What is going on with you?”

A knife zipped past her, inches from her face, sticking into the door frame.

“Oh, it's you.” Heathcliff wiped his face, it did nothing to hide his disheveled appearance or the fact he’d been crying.“That was meant for someone else.”

“Gregor?” Ishmael asked, closing the door behind her. “He wanted me to check on you.”

“Oh.” He replied dejectedly, wanting to ask if that was the only reason she had, not that he blamed her for keeping her distance from him.

“Well, I wanted to as well, of course.”

“Uh...thanks.” He murmured, knowing he didn’t deserve her wellness check, after the way he discarded her. “But you didn’t have to.”

This was getting nowhere. “Oh. Bye then.” Ishmael turned to go.

“No! Actually please, stay please.” He begged her, throwing down the other knife he had in his hand to meet her at the door. He looked a little crazed.

“Only if you explain yourself.” She thought to wipe away moistness from around his eyes, sighing, scared by how much she wanted to touch his face. “This is terribly unprofessional of you, look at this mess.” She motioned to the dishevelment of his office.

“I-I don’t care right now.” His arms snaked around her as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. Tears began to streak down her shoulder, but she allowed him to remain draped over her, his only pillar of support. In the midst of his emotional turmoil, a part of him was reprimanding himself for every inch of her he touched, frightened she only remained and cared to check on him due to her obligations. He began to mumble apologies into her ear.

Ishmael had nothing to say, this Heathcliff was almost foreign to her. She reached to pat him softly on his head, to provide some sort of placid comfort. Her eyes drooped down to the arms around her, her gaze catching the ring he wore on his finger. It was too plain to have been a gift from Kumicho, but he was never without it. “Does it have something to do with this?” She asked gently, touching the ring lightly with the tips of her fingers as if it might burn her.

He choked away his sobs that started again and pulled away quickly, scowling and wrenching the ring off his hand to throw it across the room. He was snarling, “I was a fool to think I'd make it back in time. I was a fool to think she'd wait for me!”

“Who was supposed to wait for you?” Ishmael asked, remembering that name he called out last night while trying to convey utmost patience in her tone. She would be lying if she said she didn't feel prickly and agitated already. Suddenly, she was hyper-aware of the tears that slid down her chest moments before.

Heathcliff picked up a folded piece of luxury quality paper, slightly crumpled and marked with dust from its journey to him, and handed it to her reluctantly. She accepted it, taking it delicately; by what she could gather in its contents, it was a wedding invitation. This had to be related to the name he called her before; Catherine is Cathy. The shadow that loomed over him must have been for her. Why he wanted to leave the Backstreets; his reason to go home.

And still, she couldn't help but envy him, as at least he had confirmation that this woman was still alive and that there was hope to see her again. But she also knew even with their grand plans such a reunion may still take years to pull off. She watched Heathcliff sadly retrieve the discarded ring and pocket it, as his steadfast devotion to the memory of that person still remained. She hated him at that moment for playing with her, but her pity was stronger. Placing the invitation gently down on his table, avoiding meeting his eyes, her hand hovered over the piece of rope she wore once again in her hair, grimacing. “At least you know she's alive.” She mumbled out.

Heathcliff coughed and forced himself to take a deep breath, knowing what she was getting at. Though Ishmael hadn't revealed much of her own past, he may look like a quibbling fool in comparison to her misfortune. He found himself wanting to know her better and to do better by her. “Hah..you're right.” He sighed, though his heart was still actively breaking, he took steps towards her, seeing the slick trail of his tears that slid past her collarbone. “You can leave if you want.” His voice obviated that he didn't really want her to depart just yet, but he owed her the space to run after what he's already subjected her to.

Ishmael took a loop about the room, pacing and ultimately landing to sit down at his table. She honestly pondered running away again, but his current state didn't seem compatible with any more solitude today. She did have more questions about the situation, whether or not Cathy was in a dangerous marriage out of necessity, but that quality paper implied her husband had means and money. She also made an excuse that he would be a poor master to work for if he was consumed by these negative feelings for another business day just because of her negligence. She would stay to avoid that, and to sate her personal curiosity. She pushed out a chair for him to join her, hoping to find more adequate words to console him back to normal.

He was resistant to have her take on such a burden to comfort him, knowing how he left things last night, and he had already leaned a bit too much on her tonight, quite literally. Instead of taking a seat next to her, he knelt on the floor by her feet, as he was still in a place of shame, and in their clan, contrition was shown with lots of kneeling. His head was parallel to the ground, as he spouted off another apology.

The display freaked her out, not expecting him to go that far. Especially since she already made up her mind to forgive him. She met him on the floor, forcing him to sit up. “Okay I forgive you, but knock it off! I fear you might have actually lost it!”

His brows were furrowed, as they often were, but it was cast with a troubling sadness. He did feel lost in a general sense, but nowhere near free of his mind. He went silent.

“So this Cathy…” Ishmael started carefully. “Was she your girlfriend?”

Heathcliff sighed wearily, knowing the question would come sooner or later. But thinking of the situation again made him angrier than he expected. He wanted to drop the topic. “It's not like that!” The words came out biting.

“Can you explain to me how it is then?” Ishmael’s expression showed she was also becoming agitated. What was this woman to make him act like this if not a lover? Why did he spiral like this? Why did she care so much?

“It's difficult to understand.” He tried to brush her away, wondering if even he could fully understand the bond he shared with Cathy, but he felt that it was impossible for someone else to even comprehend a hint of it.

“I want to understand you,” Ishmael said solemnly. “But if you don't wish for me to know the real you, then we must clearly set up these boundaries now, so I can keep myself from wondering.” She removed her hands from him, sliding away. “If she's not your lover, why did you act like you were going to be smited from above if you were to kiss me?”

“You're wrong!” He yelled sputtering, but he failed to specify which part, not quite right with himself, having spent a day tantruming and bemoaning things he couldn't change. He wasn't in a condition to make arguments. “You misunderstood.”

Ishmael’s eyes stung. She got up from the floor. “Oh. I see. My mistake, then.” Her voice was hollow. She paced towards the door again.

That wasn't his intention, and his heart pounded fiercely, something within him unable to bear being abandoned again. “Don't leave! You cannot leave!”

“Take a finger, I don't care!” She began to open the door but her body was pulled forcefully into the room by him, holding her close he reversed their footing, putting his body directly in the way of the door, effectively barring her from exiting. She wrestled out of his hold, punching and kicking him. “Let me go, now! I can’t stand to be here with you any longer!”

“You can hate me, just don’t leave!” He let her beat on him, as he held her shoulders to keep her away from the door. She didn’t hold her punches, a blow to his stomach made him keel over, releasing her momentarily. He quickly moved his hand to shield the doorknob. She was far-gone in her rage against him, removing the knife he had thrown earlier out of the doorframe.

“You'll really stab me?” He shuddered out, exhausted, bruised, and tired. “I'll let you draw my blood, just please don't go.” He pleaded.

His pathetic state made Ishmael quickly recover from her anger, the knife clattering to the floor. She kicked it out of the way and immediately came to support him, dragging him into his executive chair, and taking out a first aid kit from a drawer to tend to him with compresses and painkillers.

“This aggression just means you're fond of me, right?” Heathcliff said sarcastically, breaking the silence, holding one of the compresses in place.

“Did I accidentally hit your brain?” Ishmael pouted, blushing but not refuting his claim. She sighed, not proud of her unleashed anger. “I'm not satisfied, though. I really do want to understand you better, and I'm not any closer to getting actual answers.”

He did want her to know him, as he longed to know her, but he also found discussing that woman would still be extremely difficult for him. “I want to understand you better as well, Ishmael. Bah, I don't even bloody know where to begin.”

“The beginning, where else?” She retorted.

“Hmm..Ah..the beginning-beginning? That kind of goes way back.”

She had finished mending him, lifting her hands to his cheeks, wiping away at the already dried trails of tears, and settling his chin to look up at her. She could tell he was enjoying her doting on him. “Well, yes.” She sighed, releasing him. “But how about I go first?”

__

The two of them spent the remainder of the night learning of each other's hopes, fears, and the hells that led them to where they were. Those loved and lost, and those they wished still to vanquish.

Now with the full context finally revealed, Heathcliff felt Ishmael's desire to return to the Great Lake was little more than a glorified suicide mission in the honor of her most-likely-dead girlfriend, but he could not judge her desire for revenge too harshly. Inversely, Ishmael understood that after what Heathcliff went through at Wuthering Heights, she couldn't blame him for ‘treasuring’ Cathy (though the stuff about her being his soulmate made her want to hurl). She also understood his desire to prove to his detractors he was a man worthy of her and status, and not the simple ruffian they made him live as. Many parts of their revealed stories answered their secret questions and formed a deeper respect for one another.

It was now quite late in the night as dawn slowly crept. Heathcliff’s voice was becoming a bit raw from the stress he put on his throat. They sat together currently in his executive chair, Ishmael on his lap, both halfway to falling asleep.

They'd need to depart for at least a short nap or a coffee before the morning meeting.

“Hey, so I know I just spent hours yapping about another woman-”

“Hm. Well, so did I?”

“Uh but- last night, or the night before- you know what I mean-” Heathcliff began to explain. “You didn’t misunderstand anything. I was going to.”

“Going to what?” She feigned ignorance, but her heart raced a bit, recalling.

“You're really gonna make me say it?” He huffed. “Cheeky.”

“Or lippy, if you prefer,” Ishmael responded flatly.

“Careful, I actually might think you fancy me.” He stifled another yawn. 

“We should go to bed.” She announced in defeat, unable to deny it.

“Yeah, this chat is getting dangerously honest.” He conceded, tapping on her thigh as a way to ask her to get up. Once he was free from her weight, his legs felt jelly-like from the lack of energy, but he forced himself up. “Business as usual tomorrow.”

“Hopefully my boss will be in.” She replied teasingly.

He nodded, fatigue setting in. Tomorrow will be a difficult day at this rate, with the lack of sleep compiling from the last two nights. Though he could easily schedule them a break after the morning meeting, they would need to work the night patrol shift and then work their day shift right after, which would also be rough but the short term mattered a bit more.

“Okay, sounds good.” She agreed once he shared this proposition, knowing they burnt too much time to get any good rest before the meeting now, which was just a bit shy of a couple of hours away.

“So, what will we do until then?” He asked. “Card games?”

“We could keep each other awake?” Ishmael murmured into his ear, deciding she wasn't going to let that moment escape. Heathcliff felt his skin react first, and he soon ended up pressed up onto his desk, leaning up to allow her to meet her mouth against his finally, and they kissed roughly for a long spree of a moment, before breaking away languidly to catch their breath.

“Huh, that took way more energy than I expected.” She leaned against him lazily.

“I was hoping to get a second wind from the excitement, but hell, I'm still knackered.” He breathed hard, letting his weight rest on the desk, but the temptation of sleep was still too great, so he forced the both of them back to their feet. He looked at her, smirking. “First you mangle me, then you snog me, I think you're bad for my heart.”

‘Not any more than Cathy seems.’ She thought to herself; but kept it buried. “You’re no better.”

“Tch.” He mussed her hair a bit, before checking a clock and sighing. “I should go clean up, I’ll meet you at the hall, try not to fall asleep.”

“I won’t.”

--

Gregor was nursing a tiny hangover like usual, but that didn’t stop him from arriving early to the hall he frequented most mornings. He was in the habit of bringing himself some coffee and one for someone else, usually Ryoshu- who would otherwise harass him or take his cigarettes. He spotted at a table the Kashira, whose hair was wet; and Ishmael, whose hair was a bit unkempt. He was happy to see them together, playing a card game, as that meant that whatever problems they had seemed to pass.

“Got any queens?”

“Go fish.”

Heathcliff sighed and grabbed a card from the pile. He lost count of how many rounds they played. “Oi. Stop hovering.” He said hoarsely to Gregor, who was observing them in a way he didn’t care for.

“Ah. Yes sir!” He replied, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

“Wanna play the next round?” Ishmael invited, glancing at the cups of coffee longingly.

“Ah, do you want it?” Gregor offered a cup, believing he had enough time to get a replacement. He did notice both of them had large dark circles under their eyes, but his boss clearly looked the worst of the two.

“No...I shouldn’t.” She shook her head, declining. “We’ll sleep soon enough.”

“T-Together?” Gregor muttered to himself, fixing his glasses on his nose.

“Huh?”

“But sure, I’ll play.” He chuckled awkwardly, retracting, waving his hand, and insisting he didn’t say anything, as he took a seat to join their game. “So how were both of your nights?”

“Got any eights?” Heathcliff ignored him.

Ishmael slid him a card, also refusing to answer Gregor either. “Do you have any sevens?”

“Go fish.”

Chapter Text

Things had grown even more restless in the streets.

The members of the Kurokumo Clan were embroiled in their day-to-day affairs and managing their forces, enforcing their protection to squeeze out every bit of spare change possible on their turf. Sometimes work trickled in slowly, and certain restrictions from their higher-ups made it even more difficult to make ends meet. Every month was a mystery whether or not they had enough to keep everyone from starvation. In times like these, a bartering system with local businesses was forced into place, a rotation of sorts, where in exchange for food and necessities, the involved businesses would suffer no harassment from their ‘protectors’, or otherwise while the system was enacted. After all; the city was a delicate ecosystem, and simply murdering while people still had valuable skills and assets diminished future returns. Why butcher the cow if you could milk it? Even still, the milk can dry up, and butchering is the only option left.

It was the Patriarch’s job to make sure his ‘children’ did not suffer during these droughts, Rent provided by seized apartment complexes and other ‘legitimate’ businesses offered some relief, But as it always is with the City, nothing was guaranteed to stay; whole buildings and such businesses they relied on could disappear in a fit of chaos, years of work and agreements gone within minutes. At that point, the only thing left was to sift through the remains for anything useful and then move on, often involving the relocation of the clan.

Luckily, today was not such an occasion of a disaster or moving, nevertheless, Heathcliff found himself drowning in forms, which if given the choice, he'd preferred the rubble. He had no idea that a below-the-table glorified gang of thugs would be so enthusiastic about pushing paperwork. He tried to petition Ishmael for her aid, knowing her aptitude for such detailed busywork, but she declined him. She made it clear that he'd need to be serious about this side of the business if he ever intended to become their leader. He was indeed serious; seriously bored. His eyes glazed over when he was greeted with the stack of documents; permits, licenses, payment slips, and other bureaucratic nonsense. His task was to review, sign, or forward to the Kumicho as needed. He’d much prefer fresh scars to ink stains at this point.

Heathcliff was itching for more hands-on work; he needed fresh air and a payment collection appointment would do well. But all available tasks were more than handled by his captains, who would only be overwhelmed by his presence should he supervise them. Ishmael, noticing his drained spirit, decided to organize time for a sparring match between them. He accepted the offer, wondering how desperate he looked.

While alone, he admitted to himself he never wanted to be Kumicho. Ever since the beginning he often had the desire to slip away in the night and finally get back on track with his life. In a box under his bed, he had some savings that were carefully stockpiled over the years that could afford a modest living for a few years, maybe even outside of the backstreets and if he was hopeful, in one of the more affordable Nests. If such a place existed. Of course, these savings were for his journey back to Wuthering Heights, his reunion with Cathy.

Her name was different now. Cathy, who didn't wait for him. He wondered if she cried on her wedding day, feeling that same deep pit of hollowness he felt. Felt? Feels. His soul burned for her still, that much he was sure, had to be. But, the memories he had replayed over and over in his mind began to fade altogether. The place he used to wander in his mind was with her, with her hair blowing in the wind as they trekked those fields, laughing and free. Did that change? He shut out a half-formed thought as he heard a door in the hall open, but a knock asking to enter never came.

He sat up straighter, returning to his thought: of course, he yearned to be with Cathy! He had to see her again or she'd never forgive him. He would never forgive himself, as he never told her how he felt, not just his held affection; but about the moment she threw him away. How low she made him feel. She was an indelible part of him. He only left to make her see him better. To make himself worth seeing. He never did make a plan, but things went awry. After a stint in some of the wrong crowds, he fell into another crowd, and soon after was forced into another, now, he was close to being the leader of it. Heathcliff wanted to laugh about the cruel irony of it but he could only grimace.

He thought of others who had ended up in the same fate where he was. Surely this sentiment was not unique among them. Heathcliff never considered anyone who had worked for the clan to be below him or stupid for doing so, his agitation more laid with those who thought themselves better (he made sure that they never did last long). Speaking of better, Heathcliff sighed as his thoughts naturally drifted to Ishmael. Dependable, almost annoyingly responsible, and full of depths that she had barely shared with anyone. He did remember when she was first starting out it annoyed him to even look at her, a lot of growing pains for her to acclimate to the ways of their business, her shoddy swordsmanship only the tip of it. Luckily, her survival skills made her a fast learner, but she continued to struggle with the moral side of things until the desperation set in, and her upset finally calloused over. Now to think of it, it was surprising how much he had been drawn to her from the start, as he had overseen hundreds of newcomers. Maybe it was her hair. The day he enforced his protection on her, he had to do a double take, it was like seeing someone he knew in his peripheral vision. Remembering that day she was made a victim of the streets made him feel a sense of guilt too; the closer he became to her and learned of her hopes and dreams, the more he wished she was able to run away from them.

Now he had her even more entangled, working under him, learning to replace him. She worked him up too. Their working relationship was pretty smooth in the times he was able to join the field, and she still annoyed him, making a sport out of tripping him up on his words whenever she could. He also really liked her victorious smile, despite it usually being worn against him.

He felt warm recalling their moments together, but Cathy’s face suddenly came to his mind and he almost shivered. His head fell into his hands as he slumped on his desk. Why did he have to feel terrible about that? Cathy had given herself to someone else, why can’t he have this?

“Headache?” A voice asked as the door clicked shut. Ishmael had quietly let herself in.

“I’m fine.”

“You look defeated.” She replied, coming to snoop over the papers to check his progress.

“It’s not- Hey, come off it, woman! I’m getting it done.” He felt the color rise back into his face.

“Let me see them. I’ve studied these forms well and can make sure whether or not they’re complete.” Ishmael knew this type of thing made him weary, wanting to help.

He sighed and slid the completed stack over for her to look. She went through the pages, he missed some initials on a few. She decided to quickly sort the remaining documents and had him sign at the appropriate lines, then stacked them into categories for the handoff.

The task was finally done. She had a pleased little smile when his desk was cleared. “What would you do without me?”

“Get someone else to do all this useless paper shuffling. But thanks, I’m chuffed.” He murmured, getting out of his chair. “I want to get the hell out of here.”

“Sure, let's go. How about the roof?” She suggested, neatly positioning the paperwork to be picked up later.

He waited for her by the door, expectantly. She was ready to exit but Heathcliff paused by the doorframe. He hovered close to her, staring. Ishmael blinked, waiting for him to say what was on his mind. Her master sighed, he didn't want to beg Ishmael to kiss him, but his position made him avoid asking. Forcing her was totally out of the question.

“Well?” She acknowledged his hesitation.

“Erm-It's been a long day.” He tried to hint.

Ishmael knew what he was getting at. This softer side of him may actually be charming. She lifted a hand to touch his face. “So? Get used to it.”

Heathcliff was frustrated, but that was so like her. “Never mind.” He grumbled and began to pull away to open the door, but he was interrupted by her arms pulling him closer, and finally kissing him. He enthusiastically returned her affection, as his kisses began to trail away down her neck. Still in her wits, Ishmael lightly pushed him off before they became carried away. He looked pitiful, questioning her sudden rejection.

“Don’t get me wrong, I liked that, a lot. But I think it’d be in your best interest to head up to the roof to spar.” She started to explain. “I asked someone to help us out.”

He had other things in mind, but he was happy to oblige, already cramped in his office for too long today. After a brief moment of adjustment and remembering to grab their katanas, they headed up. Ishmael bid him to limber up because it won't be easy, and he laughed.

--

Hong Lu was waiting on the roof, enjoying the breeze with his eyes closed. A picture of serenity. He took up this task at the behest of Ishmael. He should take that as a compliment, even though he wasn't the only one involved. Still, it broke up the monotony and melancholy, at least. He listened for the door to open, silently palming the hilt of his blade.

The door finally clicked open, and Heathcliff was face to face with a blade. He got low, and kicked the assailant away, buying himself time to unsheathe his sword. “No hesitation, or warning huh?”

“Oh~ but look how intact your reflexes are, Kashira.” Hong Lu replied, ready to strike at him again. “Let’s have some fun.”

Ishmael appeared from the stairwell, blowing a whistle and the rustling of more footsteps began.

The noise distracted Heathcliff and made him turn for a brief moment, and Hong Lu took the opening to close in on him, and barreling in from seemingly nowhere, Rodya came at him from the opposite direction. He parried their attacks with some difficulty due to the distraction, but he managed to get away and knock them back.

“Hi Heath! Been a while, huh?” Rodion casually greeted as she got back to her feet, and immediately took swipes in his direction. The two Wakashu tested him, enthusiastic in their attacks, but luckily with some great effort, he was able to counter them. While they were briefly staggered, two more blades came swinging at Heathcliff’s head.

He ducked, but it was another close call; he breathed heavily as his muscles burned a bit from the strain. The owners of the blades were Ryoshu and Gregor who appeared suddenly, with their gaggle of squads, including other Wakashu and lower-tier goons. The two Hosas/Captains were the only ones actively attacking him. Ryoshu was a fierce opponent, her strikes wild but precise, each leaving him very little room to dodge while Gregor threw his strength hard in every clash of their blades. Soon enough Rodya and Hong Lu were back on their feet, ready to rejoin the fray.

Near the door of the building, Ishmael observed but didn't interfere, but she kept the whistle ready at her lips to cease the practice if blood was drawn.

Heathcliff was almost coughing as his lungs burned, trying to counter frantically without using his augmentation tattoos for that extra push. The pressure was on, with so many eyes including Ishmael’s on him. The least he could do was try to make a good show. His reputation was on the line, too, as this was standard practice and a test for someone of his status. The arena of their battle was becoming narrower as more people came to the roof to watch.

“Away, ye dogs! Those not called here are to go back to their tasks!” Ishmael yelled at the crowding lower ranks, which in turn they grumbled, but her order was absolute so off they lumbered back down the stairwell. Once the mass was cleared, she closed the door. But the whole movement kept her distracted away from the action.

Using his vision against him, Heathcliff managed to cut Gregor first, a shallow slice on his side. Gregor countered, knocking him back so the others could get at him, before removing himself from the arena. Ryoshu was still wildly trying to mark him with her blade, he ended up kicking her smaller body brutishly away, now fighting more like a rabid animal than a swordsman. It distracted her long enough for him to make a light swipe at Rodya, drawing blood on her leg. She used her last move to knock Heathcliff to the ground, who narrowly rolled away from Hong Lu’s next attempt. She joined Gregor with the remaining crowd and they comforted each other about their defeat; it is what it is.

The clash continued, Ryoshu’s defeat came from a swipe on her shoulder after she had managed to make a tear in his jacket, but the skin was not grazed. She sheathed her sword and lit another cigarette, giving a thumbs up to Hong Lu. “Tired him.”

Hong Lu made a small laugh. “You do look tired.” He said to Heathcliff, who couldn’t deny it, he was covered in sweat and breathing laboriously. Hong Lu was a bit ragged as well, but his unbothered aura made it harder to tell. He was determined to make the most of his solo attempt.

Heathcliff was determined to end the exercise, catching a look at Ishmael, who simply nodded at him. The two men played cat and mouse across the arena, though it was hard to tell who was which. Finally, they both struck at each other simultaneously, Heathcliff’s blade being twisted away by Hong Lu’s parry, and Heathcliff was knocked to the ground struggling to recover. The final swipe was about to be made, but the long-haired man froze.

“Oh. I lost.” Hong Lu palmed at his cheek, a sliver of blood beginning to form, and sheathed his blade. His mysterious little smile returned. “Guess that's why you’re our Kashira, huh?”

Ishmael blew the whistle, signaling the end of the exercise. Heathcliff let the man who nearly won help him up. “Thanks.” He groaned in pain. He was glad he managed to scrape by, both impressed by his sparring partners and disappointed in himself for his lack of refinement. He’d make a point to engage in combat more often. The lower ranks that were permitted to stay cheered for his victory, as many lauded him with words of admiration. Heathcliff told them to get back to work in response, embarrassed. He put his hand on Hong Lu’s shoulder. “You. Why aren’t you a Hosa?”

“Hmm. You should ask my captain?” He shrugged.

“I’ll have it sorted.” Heathcliff nodded, releasing him. “Good show today.”

Ryoshu uttered something she could have made him into art but had to restrain herself, and no one wanted to ask for details. Ishmael had tended to the cuts of her chosen warriors and thanked them for their participation.

“It was fun!” Rodya grinned. “Ask me again anytime, but when do we get a treat for this?” Ishmael made a half-hearted promise to buy them food, and she was already holding her to it.

“Sure.” Ishmael sighed. “Let’s get into that later, keep it small, I am not paying for your whole squadron.”

“Aww.” Rodya sighed. Gregor decided to catch her attention by promising her a round of drinks later. “How about lunch? Let’s get skewers!”

“I think we have time before our next appointment...” He nodded nervously, knowing he may regret the offer.

“Well better get going, ‘ye dogs’, or she might start yelling again.” Heathcliff chimed in, getting a cross look from Ishmael.

They were all dismissed, leaving the two of them on the roof. “Thanks,” Heathcliff mumbled, he knew that she set all this up for him. He needed it. “Surprised that you didn’t join in with them.”

“I could have, but I figured we shouldn’t kill you.” Ishmael smiled. “We need you alive if you’re gonna become the patriarch.”

Heathcliff sighed, annoyed by the thought. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t really have a choice in that now, do I?”

“Of course not, Heathcliff.”

The air became tense between them, as discomfort spread. There were some uncomfortable truths neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

“I mean, what else did you think?” Ishmael asked warily. “We’re already here. The Kumicho is aging and no longer joins in battle. It's only natural to prepare yourself for it.”

“And you still want to go back to the Great Lake?” He questioned, his voice was hardened.

Ishmael bit her lip. She tried to put that part of herself away, but it was useless. Nearly every time she slept, she dreamed of being rocked by waves and nearly drowning. In those recollections she clung to Queequeg’s coffin, miserable from being unable to know her fate. She knew that the bastard Ahab was still alive at the expense of the crew, all lost to the waves created by that monster. All these memories and questions would haunt her as long as she lived. Perhaps that's why when she woke, she was so good at burying herself in work, it was all a great distraction. And she knew it was poor for her to think of her current life that way, she was distressed at how much she grew attached to these trappings, especially Heathcliff. While she had little choice in the matter, things could have been far worse. Her eyes began to grow shiny from welling up tears. “I have to. If I don't, I have to die trying!” She screamed angrily.

Heathcliff grimaced and his rough hand swiped the tears from falling. “I get it.” He relented. “I know.”

His touch then reminded her of Queequeg even more, but the way he looked at her set him apart. “So does that mean you still want to see Cathy?” Her eyes went downcast, unable to face him.

Heathcliff sighed again and leaned in to hold her. “I have to try. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. I'm not.” She embraced him. Her mind wandered again into the ways they could manage these aspirations, remembering the night it all unfolded. “How did you receive that invitation, anyway?” She asked gently.

“I paid off some bloke of a courier to send a letter to her a long time ago, and this was the first time I was able to get them to retrieve anything back despite paying them every month.”

“I see, so that's why you were so shocked to see it.” She exhaled, calming down.“I am sorry for what it was.”

“I am not. Well, not anymore.” It was a half-truth and even she knew it. “And we’ll figure something out, I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was buzzing energy among the monochrome alleys. Word of mouth spread through the ranks that a clash with Blade Lineage was to take place soon, as scouts relayed that their members seemed to meet in a building mere blocks away.

The Kumicho was determined to continue the bad-blooded rivalry, his dream was to exterminate their forces altogether, to finally ‘win’ whatever caused them to be such enemies in the first place. He barked orders to Heathcliff to head the assault and rally men straightaway. Kurokumo clan members were groomed to foster a notorious hatred for those in the Blade Lineage Syndicate, relishing every and any opportunity to bring harm to them.

The Kashira didn’t want to exacerbate the issue and an attack on his men was unavoidable at this rate. Despite their fewer numbers, those of the Blade Lineage slaughtered at any cost, even their own. All of them murderous nutters, getting rid of them would be one less thing for him to worry about on his growing list of responsibilities.

--

The intel was flawed. By the time the majority of their forces were diverted, their current building was infiltrated by a single member of the opposition, who managed to slay all the lower ranks that were set as sentries in the halls, and even worse, they got to the Kumicho.

By the time Heathcliff realized the error, he witnessed only blood spray. The smaller stature of the infiltrator could not be caught in time and was barely seen, as they vanished after flinging themselves through a window on the same high floor as the apartment.

Heathcliff, his face growing dark, grabbed the body of the former Kumicho and screamed in rage. “You stupid old gaffer! How could you do this to me? How could you condemn me to this?! ...Why did you die? I’m not ready!” He nearly wept but struggled to keep himself together. The old man would be pleased by his tears, and he cared very little about what he wanted.

Ishmael had made it to the room and ghosted the doorway. “Heathcliff…” She had even more bad news, much of the Blade Lineage had also slunk away after injuring and killing many of their men. She came to his side and hugged him from behind, before forcing him up. “We have to keep going. They’re waiting.”

Heathcliff was thrust into the position of Kumicho that night, but he did not last long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was not Blade Lineage that had done this. Nothing human could have possibly caused such destruction. Nothing presently human, at least. Monochrome-uniformed bodies lay strewn across the concrete.

Heathcliff felt the hard debris under his arms, as he dragged himself because he could no longer use or feel his legs. His vision was blurring with dark shadows, the faint red glow of her hair in the sunlight was the only thing that led him to find her. She struggled to turn to face him, the blood leaving her torso too fast.

“We are…still in the backstreets.” Ishmael coughed out, smiling bitterly with regret.

“Nothing.…to do about it, now.” He replied, feeling his consciousness beginning to slip.

“Heathcliff...” Her voice was so quiet.

“...Y-Yeah?” It hurt him to talk. He thought of saying something lovely to her, snaking his hand to hers with his last bit of strength.

“We’re street meat.” She managed to choke out, and he couldn’t think of anything better that could be said. He began to laugh, and she laughed too. Peace washed over them, as they let go from their bodies.

They shared the same final comforting thought: maybe in another life, another version of them succeeded where they failed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heathcliff jerked awake, catching a view of the dissipating clouds that previously hung over him. The landscape of his room on the bus was becoming normal again. He checked the clock, it was still the early hours, way before he needed to report for work. He could probably lay around and drift into more sleep, but his recent memory made him decide against it. After getting dressed in a new set of clothes, he then exited into the corridor, making a once-over look at the endless hallway beyond that he almost got lost in once before heading through the door to the bus. He was surprised to see Ishmael pacing around when he came out. He remembered he slept in his uniform, as she was still in her pajamas.

“Ah!” She was surprised to see him, seemingly avoidant to look at him. In the dim track lighting of the bus, he could have sworn she was blushing. In her hands she had a notepad and pencil, she had been writing something down.

“Making a shopping list?” He asked, taking his seat. “Or did you have trouble sleeping?”

“Just trouble sleeping. The lighting isn’t very good in my room.” She replied, closing the notepad. She felt weirdly relieved to see him, even though she knew it was just the influence of the dream she had. Is that why he was up so early as well? “How about you?”

It was his turn to glance away. “I woke up and just didn’t feel like going back to bed, since I passed out early yesterday.”

“Oh.” Maybe it was just a coincidence, after all. Still, she wanted to talk about it, feeling a strange intimacy towards him even though her average interactions with Heathcliff were mostly to antagonize each other. Maybe the mood change would slip away in time, as it was still fresh in her mind. “Uh. I had a dream. Don’t take it the wrong way, but you were in it. Well, we were those new identities that Dante set us up as.”

She was ready for him to show disgust or tease her. “That so?” That was all he replied with, but he at least looked a bit embarrassed.

“You’re not the least bit curious?” She asked, wondering if she should drop it and give up.

“Did we die together?” He finally asked.

“Yeah…we did.”

“I had the same dream.” He murmured.

Ishmael looked surprised. “Well, that's troubling, this is the first time this has happened with the identities, we should tell Faust or Yi Sang later.”

“You can do that.” He stretched. “The way they prattle on in those explanations gives me a headache.”

“Okay, but if I am going to be the only one to tell them, can you share what else happened in your dream? What if there’s a difference?”

“Fine. For now, just sit next to me.” He pulled on her sleeve slightly to join him. “Just for a little while. I‘ll tell you anything you want about it, from what I can recall.”

So she wasn’t the only one feeling a bit strange. Ishmael was surprised, but she sat next to him with ease, ready with her notepad to record any discrepancies from his account.

--

Dante left from their office before the rest of the sinners came out of their rooms, finding an unlikely couple asleep, Ishmael lying against Heathcliff’s shoulder in that last seat by the door. They were extremely curious about how this came to be. The bus was parked for the night in a warehouse location monitored by the company, so they would have had it to themselves.

Dante noticed Ishmael’s state of dress and ticked and nudged her awake carefully.

She stirred, her brows furrowed as she was forced from her tranquil state. “Hn. Dante?” Her notepad fell to the floor, and Dante picked it up, handing it over to her.

<You’re in your pajamas. What happened?>

Heathcliff had woken up to the ticking sound. “Hm...Clockhead?” He glanced over to Ishmael, whose warmth was disappearing from his side. He gave her an extra push away. “Go get dressed.”

“Hey! I’m going.” She stopped to push him back, and then took her notepad and went through the door in a hurry.

Heathcliff looked awkwardly at Dante, who was still waiting for an explanation.

<How was your night? Is everything okay?>

“Did you do something weird to us?” Heathcliff accused.

<Huh?>