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Don Quixote, the Director of the South branch of the Shi Association’s Section 5, lays utterly breathless upon her desk, accompanied by stacks of paper scattered about. Her usual vest fit for combat was lost within the piles of work within the office; her body glistening with sweat revealed by the room’s dim light as the pale moon shown itself outside her window. Her breathing is uneven. Her mind, much like her body, scarred to hell and back with wounds that may not heal, yet she continues to bandage it with hollow thoughts and words.
Urban Plagues… Urban Plagues…! For Section 5, of all places!? Has the Shi gone south!? This was fitting for Section 2, yet they practically dissolved! The audacity of those who continue to instruct this woman to do the impossible… but isn’t that what she wished for?
Don couldn’t tell anymore. She’s too tired to deal with it now. The heat, both physically and metaphorically, was too much for her. She attempts to rise from her slouched over position to finally sort things out… set it straight, possibly. Still, her breathing is too ragged. Her body might as well snap shut from the pressure boiling within her joints, aching madly. Has everything she’s dreamt of gone to waste…?
Indeed it has.
Her light flickers more and more. Don’s attempts at assuming the mask once again fail her. Quick gasps, desperate for air, break out of her mouth as she tries once more… She needs to keep up… Steady herself…
It was too much for the dejected hero to bear. Don Quixote collapses yet again unto her desk, a heavy thud echoing out of the room.
“Director! Ah– Don! What the hell happened!?” Ishmael, not far off from her Director’s own state of being, still barges through the door with an intense concern. The glimmer of her crimson blade shines faintly as she unsheathes it ever so slightly, only to see that there wasn’t a physical threat in the room.
“... Hah, L-Lady Ishmael!” The other forced a response out of herself. “Fret not! I… I am managing quite well enough! ‘Twas the summer’s heat… But–”
“Hey. You don’t have to be so formal, and… you’re lying through your teeth.” Ishmael steps forward, hanging her head over the blonde’s. “C’mon, just say what’s on your mind. And take your time, okay? I know the air conditioning’s shoddy tonight, but I guess we should be glad it’s not some Office instead.”
Don Quixote paused for a good moment, her eyes wondering over Ishmael’s body. She, too, abandoned the vest and is in her usual tank and bottom wear. Of course, the most painful sight for her was the addition of yet another scar upon Ishmael: a gash staining her face, hastily treated with spare supplies.
“... L-Lady Ishmael, er– Ah… thy visage… Surely, thou must knoweth of what plagues thy pretty– Ah! E-Er… Hah…” Don frequently stumbles over her words in a panic, her thoughts scattered about and rattling her already confused brain.
Ishmael looks just a bit stunned, but not at all surprised by her Director’s sudden admission. She unconsciously grazed over the covered wound, before sighing heavily. “Hey… Director Don? Just– breathe, okay? Breathe. Worrying about all of… whatever this is,” Ishmael motions to the state of disarray the office was in, “doesn’t do us any good… Uh. Believe me, okay? You’re… not alone on those kinds of thoughts.” The ginger cups Don’s chin with her hand. Of course, it was… a little sweaty, but it wasn’t the main concern for Ishmael. Her other hand rests upon her own chest, motioning Don to keep looking at her and match whatever she’s doing.
“Now, with me: Breathe in through the nose. Out through the mouth. Oh, and back straight, too. Slumping over is no good. Got it?”
“... A-Aye? Ah… I suppose…”
In….
Out…
We’re in the present… just us…
“Just… us… Lady Ishmael…” Don Quixote feels her woes slipping away, passing through the air like her own breaths. Her eyes are glued upon Ishmael’s body intently, matching her every movement. Synchronizing every motion with hers. It felt… right. So, so right. Like their hearts are singing the same tune; her lungs, once a carousel whirring out of control, a chest deprived of clarity and air upon reaching unspeakable heights within a Ferris wheel, now calmly pulling in and out to match Ishmael’s tidal breath.
Ishmael’s hand soon removed itself from Don’s chin, but the other quickly protested against it.
“... Lady Ishmael. Er… N-Nay. Lady Ishmael! As thy current Director, I wish for you to remain close by mine side! Dost thou accept, lest face rightful reprimands?” She responds with snark, her energy booming like usual after it had been long since exhausted.
“... Mhm, I suppose I can do that. Not like I’d turn it down… even if you weren’t my boss.”
Don rises from her seat only to embrace Ishmael with warmth. It felt contradictory to do so, considering the state of their bodies and the sweltering summer’s heat, but just like before… It just felt so right. Truly, their heartbeats were beating in unison. Ishmael reciprocates the gesture, snugly embracing Don Quixote as well.
Ishmael was at ease, knowing there wasn’t any dangers to put down. That, and the fact that Don’s heartbeat was the steadiest it’s ever been for her.