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It's three in the morning and Rodya nearly has a heart attack because Don Quixote's Bloodfiend father decided it's the perfect time to sit silently at the kitchen table with the light off to work on his knitting.
Hand over her heaving chest, she holds back a slew of expletives tailor made from spending over two decades growing up at the Backstreets of District 25.
"What are you doing?" Rodya exhales when she finally finds her voice and can loosen the curl of her fingers from where they instinctively reached for РАСКО́Л. The axe isn't even there because again, it's three in the morning.
Alonso at least has the presence of mind to look apologetic for startling her. The half-smile on his face looks downright innocent.
Seeing him there makes her feel a little off kilter and maybe a little angry too.
She left her room because she was sure no one else would be in the kitchen at this hour. Rodya's clad her night gown with a cardigan thrown over it, makeup off, and hair in its messy sleep braid. The last person to see her in such a state was Sonya years ago when they used to squeeze together on a shared mattress pad to stave off the worst of the cold.
These days, Rodya makes a habit of at least having her hair or makeup done before she goes out and interacts with anyone else. Now here she is caught off guard by someone she hasn't even known for a full month.
It's aggravating in a way she can't rightfully convey without seeming unreasonable.
"Forgive me for startling you, Lady Rodya. I found the walls of my room to be constricting, so here I am."
This is another thing that throws her off about Alonso—he's so polite to everyone on the bus despite being the strongest one on it. Or maybe second or third depending on the day and who's doing the asking and answering.
People with power usually flaunt it, and maybe he did back in the day, but seeing him now, no one would immediately expect him to be a First Kindred.
If you ask her, that makes him all the more dangerous. All least Verg has the consideration to look mean and scary so people know not to bug him, for all the good it does him when dealing with the 13 of them.
She waves Alonso off with a huff and a flap of her hand as she makes her way to the snack cabinets, slippers sliding across the floor with the drag of her steps.
Waking up hungry always puts her into a less than stellar mood. Better Alonso deal with it than anyone else. He doesn't know enough to ask questions about her behavior.
"The kitchen isn't off limits."
She was convinced it would be when first joining the company. Granted, at the start of the journey things did have to get rationed appropriately due to being low on funds. Now, for the first time in Rodya's life, she doesn't have to worry about going hungry just because she's a few Ahn short of a meal.
From the cabinet, she grabs a granola bar from the box her, Heathcliff, and Don Quixote like to go in. There's only one left once she gets hers. The other two can fight over who has the last one later. It'll be funny. Rodya's at least nice enough to make a note of needing more on the steadily growing grocery list tacked to the fridge with loaf of bread shaped magnet Hong Lu found from who knows where.
When she turns back around, Alonso's knitting again; a just started project she has no idea what to make of yet. The yarn's a different color from whatever he was working on earlier though, a light purple rather than the red.
It'd be an easy thing, trudging back into her room and pretending this never happened. Something gets Rodya to stay, however; she slips into one of the table chairs and peels open the wrapper of her snack. The crinkle of it is louder than she'd like in the dark, but that's always the case.
"Wouldn't the lounge be better. Chairs are comfier and there are blankets."
Alonso doesn't look up from his work, but he does quirk another smile.
His methodical motions and steady clicking of his needles remind Rodya briefly of the older people of her District, how they'd try to make threadbare blankets for the younger children when they could scrape together enough materials. It was never much, but it was better than the nothing they had before.
She immediately shelves that train of thought.
"True, it would be more comfortable," he answers. "Quixote and Young Meursault make a habit of waking up early in the morning and reading the paper over coffee, however. I have been joining them occasionally. If I am already here, I won't have to worry about moving my things through multiple rooms."
Rodya chews. Swallows. Chocolate sticks to the back of her teeth.
"Guess that makes sense." She can understand wanting to move as little as possible. "Does Donqui even like coffee? She always turned her nose up at it because it was so bitter, and stresses Greg and Outis out with how much cream and sugar she uses. Oh, but one day Heath dared her to drink a sip of his. Thing is, he likes it black depending on the brand."
It was funny, still is funny to think about Don Quixote's screwed up expression because she was too stubborn to spit it out.
"Tis par for the course with Quixote. She tried hard to pretend it was not so, but she is easily read when it comes to some things. Bitter things especially. She will take coffee, but with large amounts of cream and sugar like you said."
With his soft expression and softer smile, he sounds like the doting sort of father who actually paid attention to his kids.
Rodya smiles and knows better though.
They both do, really. He paid attention to some things but not what really mattered in the end.
She thinks about Dante fishing new IDs out the engine now that they've fought bloody tooth and nail through La Manchaland and got the Golden Bough and two Bloodfiends for their troubles. How Outis slipped into the role of the Barber and Gregor laid a claim to the Priest. There's been echoes of Rodya in there recently as well, snapshot images of her at the top as the Parade Princess herself.
It makes her feel special, to know there's a world where she's a Second Kindred, beloved and adored by those who see her. Then she remembers Dulcinea—the real one they learned about it bits and shattered pieces. For all the glitz and glamour and haughty veneer she had and carried well despite her circumstances, Rodya can give credit where it's due, underneath it all was a woman who spent two hundreds years starving for more than just blood. And that's not counting the years before La Manchaland first came to fruition.
Thinks about how, when it came down to it, Dulcinea plunged a stake into her Father because at that point what's left to do when the empty promises don't mean a damn thing. Rodya's lived it, so she can imagine clearly what it must have felt like for Dulcinea to watch herself and the others suffering because the person at the top was too ignorant to really see what was going on until his own blood was spilled as payment.
The Barber might have started it, but it was Dulcinea's actions that sealed the deal. A final nail in a proverbial coffin for everyone.
Isn't that familiar?
At least Alonso did care, even if it was just the wrong way. Maybe that made it better, maybe that made it worse. Not as if Rodya can ask outright.
She wonders if Alonso can actual see the echoes of his Family in them, but she doesn't want to ask him that either. There's no point when the mirror already reflects it plainly for them all. Truth of what could have been laid bare whether they want to acknowledge it or not.
In every Mirror World so far, Don Quixote has Rocinante strapped to her feet, a constant companion, and breathes not a word about Bloodfiends or has the heavy weight of living for centuries on her shoulders. Just has her Father's shoes and his name and his impossible dream.
The implication is damning no matter which way the tale is spun.
The Manchegans seems like the sort of tragedy fit for expensive operas the upper crust would pay thousands to see.
Now Rodya's connected to it whether she wants to be or not. And not for the first time, she thinks it's a good thing they don't remember much after the IDs have been tucked away when a fight's over.
She doesn't make a habit of feeling bad for their enemies because the City's always been a dog eat dog eat Rat sort of place where sympathy has little room to flourish, but Dulcinea strikes too close of a cord for even her to ignore.
They're practically parallel. It's hard not to feel something for her. To feel indignant on her behalf with anger a low simmer in her gut when Alonso says something that rubs her the wrong way.
Not that she's going to admit a damn thing to Alonso, or Don Quixote for that matter. Not really her place and too much hassle besides with everything else going on. She was able to run after putting an axe through someone's skull back home. She can't run here. Her ability to brush things off might not extend to potentially causing a strain in her relationship with any of the others. She likes them enough not want to want to mess that up, Don Quixote especially doesn't deserve it.
Maybe if the new Identity she's promised gets her painted claws in Alonso that'll be another story, easier to shift the blame then, but until it does happen, this Rodya can place nice.
It can never be said she doesn't actually think about others, no matter what some people might say.
She finishes off her granola bar, sweet enough it hurts her teeth a little. Aching teeth is better than hunger in her book, better than nothing.
Helps distract her not-so-nice feelings about Alonso making a slow crawl through her right now. She doesn't know anyone who has good emotional control at three in the morning, besides maybe Meursault.
Rodya stays despite her better judgement and what future her might have to say about it when the morning alarm goes off.
Alonso's needles click in that familiar rhythm.
"Tell me something else about our dearest Don Quixote." Gently she prods, not surprised by how he seems to perk up at the idea.
Easily, a story starts to form.
She wonders what he'd do if she asked about Dulcinea instead.
She doesn't.