Archive of Our Own

Don Quixote has always been… a rather unique, individual. Dreams, or rather delusions, of grandeur and justice play on repeat within her mind and on her very eyes. Like a spotlight beaming radiance, her presence and intentions are known by many, with very little means of dimming that light. Nobody would know this better than one cynical seafarer: Ishmael.

“Gallop onwards, Rocinante!” this, or “Lady Ishmael! Thine fairness is most fit for a proper fixer!” that, Ishmael would always hear Don Quixote’s enthusiastic cries and peculiar manner of speaking, and it amused her. Greatly, as a matter of fact. While she couldn’t stand Heathcliff’s brutish demeanor, Outis’ bootlicking, or Ryoshu’s… Ryoshu, she found comfort in how simple Don Quixote could be in the best ways possible. It beats questioning not only your intentions, but those of your supposed crew, doesn’t it?

But that’s what she did. That was what she has been doing for quite a while, lost in deep thought as the sailor peered through one of the many windows of Mephistopheles, tuning out the rest of the world. City streets, both ravishing and ruined, passed by as the bus traveled from district to district. Just for today, she didn’t have any problems with her usual suspects or any new instigator, but rather…

“... You.” The ginger muttered under her breath as she gazed upon the captain of the Pequod: Ishmael herself, or at least, another version of her. How couldn’t she? The very embodiment of ages upon ages of torment; a voyage into Hell itself on what might as well have been the river Styx. That woman. That DAMN silver-haired hag… Why must our faces be the same? I’m not like you… I can NEVER be like you…! Not when you’ve… Not when you’ve…

The once concrete jungle that those under Limbus Company found themselves in seemed to melt away in Ishmael’s eyes, only leaving a vast ocean of crimson red. Of rage. The occasional bumps of the tires translated to swaying above waves of doubt and depression, in a storm of intense repulsion and discord, and yet the person being reflected is still the same: that blasted woman. The smell of smoke permeates her lungs as she found gritting her teeth, clenching down with all of her might to try and see that damn pipe snap with a crunch and crumble under the crushing weight of her obsessive grudge. Ishmael doesn’t want to see it. Not anymore. This window, this mirror , can’t be showing her the truth. It’s not possible. 

The waves crash louder and louder.

“Stop it…”

That grimace Ishmael adopted soon came back as a dastardly grin, canines taunting and goading the loathing seafarer. The person that the fault lies with was you.

“Half of my fucking life… those days because of you…”
The sea’s salt slowly trickled down Ishmael’s temples in the form of sweat, just as cold as the waters she used to travel on. A voyage where a single bite could mean the end of it all.

“ ... I can’t... That damn…!!!”

A single bite.

“...MANAGER!!!”

THUD!

Ishmael banged the window of the bus with as much force as she could with her fist as a hammer, her teeth sinking deep into the flesh of her lip so hard you could’ve sworn she would’ve bitten it clean off. Miraculously, she didn’t break the glass of the window, but she wished she did. Her fist trails down the cold glass that reflected her hatred personified as it eventually unfurls in defeat, her head sagging down with it. The usually noisy bus falls silent.

“BLOODY HELL-! What’s got your britches in a twist now!? You a proper loon!?”
The sudden act startled a couple of the sinners, namely Heathcliff rose up, bat in hand, to make her go quiet again just as she was before, something that wasn’t common between the two. “You were actin’ quite dandy before! Did a gnat tick ya off that much!?”

< G-Geez, Ishmael! I can hear you just fine! > The reluctant manager turned back to face the sinner, the minute hand on their clock head ticking back and forth in surprise. Their title was explicitly roared out, and so they feared for the worse. < Was it something I said earlier? > Knowing her, slip-ups weren’t forgiven as easily as some others, which was something our clock-headed friend was unfortunately prone to. That casino wasn’t their finest moment.

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” Ishmael forced the words out of her mouth, seemingly using all of her strength in her attempt at shattering company property. Things could’ve gotten worse though…
“ISHMAEL!!! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?”

And it did.

The olive-skinned soldier skyrocketed straight up from her seat and stormed to the back of the bus. Visible contempt was on her face as she lunged for the sailor and grabbed her by the collar.
“Speak! Explain your damn tone, and choose your words carefully!” Outis violently shook Ishmael back and forth, with the fires of Helios himself in her eyes greeting Ishmael’s cold green ones, too lost in their own personal prison to properly perk up. “Our Manager has brought us back from death numerous times, through our very first meeting up until our melting at the hands of some insane tyrant, and yet you STILL continue to act in this way!? Do I sense mutiny, then!? Aren’t sailors such as yourself more inclined to-” She kept going. On and on. Ishmael’s plentiful hair swayed back and forth with each tug by her fellow sinner, her head pounding both mentally from the stress of it all and physically as it kept crashing into the seat behind her. It was relentless. Vicious. Outis kept pursuing bitterly, pressing onward and onward, as if there was no end to her now divine wrath. Mockery. Slander. Bile. All of it hurled towards Ishmael. “ Just like her…” Ishmael thought. “Now out with it! Speak!”

“L-Lady Outis, that is far enough! Prithee, thine venomous tongue hath made our already afflicted maiden worse!” Don Quixote has charged in after the woman, attempting her very best to pull the enraged Outis off of Ishmael by pulling at her waist. With all of her surprising strength and Rocinante valiantly supporting her, Don tugged with all of her might. Such toxins being sprayed towards Ishmael would only serve to make her wither even further, and how could Don watch as such a beautiful flower wilt like this?  “Thine actions are most unbecoming of a fixer! A knight mustn’t stand idle! If fair joust is all that may soothe such feverous fury, then on mine honor, I shall-!”

“Enough.”

The third and absolutely final interjection. The alpha and the omega himself. The humble guide, ready to make sure these sinners never go astray. The Red Gaze: Vergilius. His chilling word sent shivers down every sinner’s spine. Each step, the tension in the bus splashed as if it were a puddle. He brought fear to create order, and his piercing red eyes locked with all three of the women at the back. His approach was slow and painful, almost excruciatingly so. That horrifying gaze never left the group as he finally made his way to the back of the bus, towering over them.

At this point in time, Don Quixote most certainly knew what a color fixer such as himself could do, and spares no time in disengaging from sinner number 12. Fortunately, all she was met with was a cold side glance before Vergilius directed his attention to the vengeful veteran and the nearly hollow harpooner.

“You two. Explain yourself. Clearly. No ‘why,’ but ‘what.’ ” Incisive as ever. Time has seemingly stood still for everyone but Charon on the bus. Judgment has come. Outis did not release Ishmael, however, bravely (or rather foolishly) defying Vergilius with a simple stare back. 

“... Sir, I was merely trying to ascertain her motives for whatever asinine action she just made. Under our brilliant Manager, we cannot afford any possibilities of discord or unrest between our ranks. As you have demonstrated before, it is vital that we settle any and all disturbances quickly.” Outis would give a quick look of stone over to Don Quixote, who has already found her way bunching up close to poor Yi Sang. 

“ First, was an order given?” His gaze only intensified.

“... N-No, but-”
“Second, I did not ask for a justification. I was sure that we would not make this mistake again.”
For once, Don Quixote seemed to be the most rational one in this mess of a situation. Vergilius leans forward towards Outis as she inevitably crumbles and releases her grasp on Ishmael’s uniform, who slumped down as soon as she did. “I do not like repeating myself. If you are so keen as to cite my own actions, I would advise you to learn from them.” Visible regret was shown on her face. For once, Outis was properly silenced. That tempest of complete rage and spite that she acted upon in the name of another who did not call for it evaporated as quickly as it was whipped up. “ Am I clear, Miss Outis?” The final question.

“... Understood, sir.” She had to swallow her pride here, or whatever that sent her into this state. The only possible answer to such a statement from Vergilius was a definitive yes. Despite her feeble attempt at defiance and justification, Outis more than anybody aboard Mephistopheles should know that she cannot talk to her superiors like that.

“Good.” By now, she has shuffled back a bit. The only one left to talk to was Ishmael, who, rather dejectedly, gazed up upon the Red Gaze himself. His oppressive aura relents just a bit, as he asks the same question to her: “Miss Ishmael. Explain yourself.”

“... I nearly broke one of our company’s windows. I also cursed out my own Manager in a fit of god knows what. I’m sorry. I promise it will not happen again.” Ishmael dryly and concisely recounted the events that just occurred, but she is still very much lost in her own thoughts. Her own white whale, haunting her far from the ocean. Blood drips from her lower lip, staining the white of her button-up shirt in the very same crimson red that filled the waters she saw, but she didn’t seem to care about it. A bite was all that it took to end that nightmare, and a bite was what was needed to get her out.

“I see. Then any and all grievances should be directed towards them, and not towards our means of transportation. Isn’t that right, Charon?”
“Do not hurt Mephi. Mephi only goes vroom-vroom.”
“Right. If you do not wish to make Charon sad, then take extra good care of the bus.” Vergilius finally turns his back, walking towards the front of the bus with Charon once again. He stops midway, though, with one final beam back at the ginger. “It is not only company property, but your home for now. Keep it clean.” He resumes his steps, and eventually, so does the much quieter chatter within Mephistopheles.

“Fuuuccckkkk…” Ishmael groaned, finally collapsing on her seat with her hands covering her eyes, completely and utterly drained.  She couldn’t bear to look at it again. Not that glass. Not the damn reflection. But even still, that image of her has been forever scarred into her mind’s eye and soul: an Ishmael who charged towards the sea with a blind obsession, a harpoon for a leg that propelled her and several other weapons like it out into the fierce waters for their supposed holy grail. Cruel and unyielding, this Ishmael was proud of what she’s ‘accomplished.’ What she has done to other people, to people like her. To think that things could ever end up like this, that in the sea of countless realities, there was at least one where she was like that, and at some points in her journey for the Golden Boughs with Limbus Company, actively becoming that person…

It disgusted her. Violated her. Terrified her.

All she saw was an all-consuming darkness that spawned from this concept, and the eventual realization that she would have to meet with her again, just as Sinclair did with his oppressor not too long ago. There was no North Star. No way to navigate this personal hell. 

But you can’t stop dreaming.

“My fair Ishmael, art thou suffering through turmoil?” The voice of the daring dreamer reached Ishmael’s ears in this vast abyss. She lowered her hands, her chin resting in the palms of her hands, as she places her elbows on her thighs and peers over to Don Quixote.

“Haah… What makes you think that?” She asked weakly, a very obvious hint of snark that isn’t uncommon with her. “Was it the window? The doormat that jerked me around? Or the blood from my lip?” The glistening of her own agony caught the other sinner’s eyes, as more and more of it trailed and tarnished her white shirt. It was a most depressing sight, seeing her like this. Her once blossoming lily, now crumbling under some unforeseen force. “It’s fine. We’ve died more times than anyone else needs to. This is nothing.”

“Th-That is not the point!” Don Quixote gets flustered. Despite her good intentions, asking such a question now feels rather silly of her… which should be saying something. “Nevertheless, if thine heart aches, then so doth mine! If death numbs thine soul, then I say it joins us instead! Your blood is most sacred! I do not wish to see it be shed so casually as if it were tears! ‘Tis an act that wounds me so!” Don beams with such vigor, reaching for the breast pocket of her coat to procure a white handkerchief of some sort. She extends her arm out, wishing to wipe Ishmael’s face clean. “Come, Lady Ishmael! Express thy sorrow, and I, Don Quixote, shall lend you mine aide and services!” Her eyes radiate such passion. Such… honesty. Valor. Empathy. Sometimes, Ishmael swears she sees nothing but delusions within those eyes; a world of their own, an entry to another realm that is disconnected from our own. The stars behind Don Quixote’s eyes used to seem so detached to the orange-haired girl, but now they are beaming down directly at her. Don’s full attention is directed towards her.

Ishmael almost seemed entranced by those eyes, but not in the same way as she saw her reflection. She saw something… greater. Sweeter. A possibility that she might be yearning for, unlike the other she so vehemently rejected… and this one seemed more real than any other. Such sparkling… sweet... serene, eyes…

“Lady Ishmael?”

“A-Ah. Sorry. Thanks.” Snapping back to reality, the sailor took the cloth and wiped the blood off of her lip thoroughly. Looking down on the now stained handkerchief, Ishmael meekly responds. “So, about the ‘grievances,’ thing Vergilius talked about. I… uh… really, really don’t like that mirror identity thing.” Ishmael finally admits, grasping the bloodied cloth harder. “Dante… Their first use of that thing happened to pick another version of me. Some kind of assassin, right? And it felt… weird. Like I’ve somehow become a stranger in my own body, but it’s still ‘me,’ I guess.” A heavy sigh escaped her lips, shoulders drooping down even further as her right hand grazed her forehead. Ishmael gave yet another exhausted look at Don Quixote, the light in her olive green eyes waning as she reluctantly speaks once more. “But it’s not like E.G.O, where I know it’s something else roaring in my mind, it’s still me. My own thoughts. My own actions. My own experiences. Maybe not in this world, but… in a different one. One that feels too real. I’m sure you’ve felt that before, right?”

Don ponders the thought before giving an enthusiastic answer. “Why yes! Manager Esquire has managed to assign me the identity of a most wondrous fencer and duelist! Mine newfound strength through such a power allows for justice to be brought forth! Pray tell, my dear Ishmael, wherein doth thine issues lie?”

Ishmael grits her teeth once more as that revolting reflection appeared in her mind’s eye once more. “Ngh… You got lucky, then. You see, Manager Dante… somehow, got a hold of someone I really don’t like. That’s… that’s the gist of it. A me in another world where I’m the person I despise the most…” Her grip on the handkerchief tightened even more, almost inhumanly so. Ishmael’s fist was shaking, that boiling resentment of that captain grabbing hold of her once more, before giving herself two quick slaps across the face as if to remind herself to never go there again, lest she causes yet another incident.

Finally, Ishmael put the bloodied cloth aside and took hold of Don Quixote’s arms in desperation, gazing deep into those stunning stars she saw in the eyes of the dreamer, tears gathering at the edges of her own.

“How could they just do such a thing!? How could I live with myself now!? It’s like I’ve been cursed by my own fucking hexes! No matter how much I run, I can’t ever fucking escape it…! Because it’s me!!! ” Tired gasps and wails escape Ishmael’s mouth, her breathing uneven, yet she still tries to remain composed as to not cause yet another scene. She’s buckling under her own trauma, letting it expand and deflate over and over like her quivering lungs trying their best to keep her afloat. “Imagine if Sinclair became one of Kromer’s lackeys, or if Gregor had to go back to being another pawn in the old G Corp’s war campaign…! How could you ever live with yourself, knowing that somewhere out there, there’s a Don Quixote who’s skewering innocent bystanders just for the hell of it… and then clockface happened to bring her to you…! To have everything you loathe on the very skin you wear… I can’t… I…” Ishmael crumbles once more, burying her face right up against Don Quixote’s chest. Weak and muffled sobs were almost all that Don could hear from the sailor, as the knight did her best to console her. She caressed Ishmael’s orange locks gently, allowing her to remain close and let it all out. Amidst the cries, Don could’ve sworn she heard one final plight from her fair maiden: What if another identity consumed you? What if I lost you to that shitty mirror?

Don Quixote was left struck with grief, knowing that her beloved was suffering in such a way. Her immediate thought was retribution: the fiercest, loudest, and most stern speech she could ever give to Dante at the top of her lungs, shouting whatever obscenities she could if only to soothe Ishmael’s sorrow and relay such misery in her stead, but she most certainly couldn’t ignore the state Ishmael was in. Manager Esquire’s comeuppance will have to wait, and so now the knight of justice, Don Quixote, must offer Ishmael her warmth and solace within an answer.

“... Then she is Don Quixote only in name, and on my honor, I shall never lose to such a vile imitation of mine glorious moniker! Even if tens of– nay, GAZILLIONS of such impostors dare speak of justice, ‘tis up to me to carry out mine duties for this City as rightfully as you command!” Don Quixote lifts Ishmael’s head, clearing the tears from her eyes with her own fingertips. A gloriously enchanting smile stretches across the sinner’s mouth, reassuring Ishmael of her sense of self and purpose. “‘Tis nothing but a mirror, and such mirrors I have seen in mine journeys may yield distortions rather than what is true. If you wish to see thyself, then I more than capable of accounting such a delicate lily’s beauty!” Her gaze glimmers ever so. Golden dreams of justice and love gleam from behind the short-haired hero, and Ishmael can’t help but follow them. “I say to you: a treasured Ishmael is all that I see, her speckled face and mane of sunset blessing our very sight! A Lady Ishmael who hath done me no wrong, and I owe mine heart to! With such invaluable experiences we share, there cannot be any other! Now, tell me! What sight do thine eyes behold in mine own?”

The tears relent. An impossible dream, she thought, an unreachable star. The clouds cleared from her olive eyes; the storm has passed and all that there is left is the light of the greatest star of them all, illuminating the ocean with glimmers and glamour across its surface. Ishmael’s blood no longer pools to her lips, but her cheeks as she stares ever so deeply into Don Quixote’s eyes. Her Don Quixote’s eyes.

“I-I… I see you. And us. Together, like usual. I also see stars… lots of ‘em, actually. And they’re pretty, but not as much as you right now…” Ishmael puts both of her hands over Don’s cheeks, quite literally seeing stars. “S-So, there it is. There’s my answer.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Now… may I…?”

“Indeed you may!”

And from then onwards, their selves were forever locked. In every world, sealed with an oath of love.

And Ishmael started dreaming herself. Her time to confront the nightmares once again, although soon approaching, she knows she does not have to face it alone anymore. She isn’t stranded, fending for herself in an ocean of her own spitefulness. She dreamed of a lake, but a much smaller one. She dreamed of stars. Of greenery. Of peace. And in every single one, there would be someone special to guide her always. Her North Star. Her noble knight. Ishmael sways happily within the comfort of her hammock in her room, wishing to see that star again.

“MANAGER ESQUIRE!!!!!!! TO WHERE IN THE WORLD HAST THOU DISAPPEARED!!!!!!!!!!!”

And she will. Every single day.