Work Text:
The girl groaned, shaking off what felt like years of accumulated fatigue with a shudder. Her eyes lazily opened, a morass of black and grey giving way to a faint window of white, a rectangular spotlight whose dull illumination still caused her eyes to water. She propped herself up by her elbows with a tired yawn, shuffling under the large comforter wrapped around her like a cocoon, and wormed her way to the light. Nestled against the headboard of her bed, the flickering screen of her smartphone greeted her a flashy outro scene, a list of credits flashing by that she’d seen several times before yet never once committed any real effort to reading. She fished her hand out of her beddings and reached toward the phone. One tap to bring up the UI, the innocuous title “RuneScape Gods Exposed – Episode 42” hovering at the top of the screen, and another to disable fullscreen, bringing up the grey UI of VTube’s streaming app. She glanced at the top right of the screen, the red battery flickering in annoyance with a bright 11% next to its near-depleted icon.
A wry chuckle wriggled through the girl’s lips, reaching naught but her ears alone in the empty studio apartment. Fell asleep watching videos again, it seemed? She’d shudder to think how many years of her life now she’d lost to V Corp’s online media.
With a yawn, she reached out and plucked the phone from its perch. A quick slide from her finger revealed a glut of notifications; gacha dailies, new video notifications, some work-related emails, and… she paused, her attention taken by M Corp’s logo right next to the messenger app. She blinked her eyes and stretched, shaking off the last vestiges of fatigue before sitting up, cross-legged, her frazzled hair splaying out over her ruffled clothes, and tapping the notification. The popup unfurled to a plain textbox, a single message hovering at the top.
“hey ish, we still on for today?”
Ishmael clicked her tongue and shook her head, stifling a giggle. Brushing away stray locks of red hair from her face, Ishmael quickly typed in reply, “Yeah, yeah, after work.”
With a faint whistle, the message was hurriedly sent on her way, leaving only the sleepy girl and her equally sleepy phone. She kicked her legs out and over the side of her bed, pulling herself free from her sheets before crouching down and fetching the small cord for her phone. Plugging it in and waiting for the faint chime from the relieved device, she set it down and stumbled across her room, flicking the light switch on with another weary yawn. The trio of fluorescent bulbs blared to life, blinding Ishmael with a flash of white and a flurry of blurry, colorful dots. She recoiled and instinctively covered her eyes with her palm, muttering a faint curse as she stumbled across her room like some newborn babe, her toes instinctively digging into the carpet as though they’d dealt with the girl’s half-awake antics before and had no real pleasure in once again sending her stumbling face first into the ground with a dull thump. Groaning, she trudged over to her bathroom and nearly kicked the door open, the hinges screaming as they once again suffered her abuse. A wide, elegant flourish stopped halfway with an irritated groan and huff as the collar of her t-shirt caught on her head, causing her to sway back and forth like a decapitated chicken before finally pulling it free with an embarrassed sigh. The puffy, black t-shirt, adorned with the goofy smile of the 8 o’Clock Circus, flew behind her with a backhanded toss, leaving her only in her bra and a pair of equally baggy pajama bottoms, streaks of black and red complementing her discarded shirt.
A flick of the handle and a cold splash of water pulled the girl out of her dreamy stupor. Raising the temperature, she knelt down and quickly ran the length of her red mane from scalp to tip under the sink’s faucet, carefully running her fingers through her hair until the unsightly knots were smoothed out. Another pass with her trusty brush left her red hair immaculate, a wavy waterfall of crimson that cascaded down her back and ended just below her waistline. Her toothbrush was next, the girl resting the side of her cheek on her palm while she quickly brushed her teeth, her green eyes staring back at her with an indescribably bored expression. Sure, the plans with Heathcliff were a highlight in an otherwise dull day, but that dull day was gonna be for a little over nine hours, and she was hardly enthused with whittling her hours away on either another uneventful patrol or some routine job.
Still, not many Fixers could say they had a cushy job in a Nest of all places. It wasn’t even one of those exhausting contract details with Oufi or Cane mindlessly pouring over oceans and oceans of documents written by people no doubt paid by the letter and given an additional bonus to be as needlessly annoying and obtuse as possible. No, Limbus Office pretty much handled whatever busywork you’d need done in the heart of E Corp. Escort missions, delivery, clearing out some thugs that had slipped in from the Backstreets and were causing trouble; it was pretty much somewhere between operating as an independent contractor and one of the Zwei’s overworked interns, although with more pay and better hours.
Didn’t quite do anything to ease the boredom, but you made do with what you got. Besides, off-hours meant that she and Heathcliff could reliably plan to see the new Turbulence Office movie.
A quick gargle and spit and another splash of water and the girl checked the mirror once again, turning her head to and fro as she carefully brushed her hair behind her. A Grade 5 Fixer already and she was barely into her twenties, with nary a scratch nor a scar to mark her passage, although she figured the freckles on her face and chest more than made up for it, at least if Heathcliff was supposed to be taken seriously. Patting herself dry, she strode back into her bedroom and toward the small nightstand next to her bed. Nestled just underneath her whalebone lamp, a nostalgic rope headband lay waiting for her. She picked it up without a second thought, the headband snugly fitting atop her head. She ran a finger from one end to the other, the twin, silken white ribbons fluttering elegantly underneath her fingertips as she brushed over them.
Her clothes were next, the girl shuffling through her wardrobe, pushing aside several stuffy suits and coats she’d been obliged to wear on formal meetings with Liu and Zwei for special contracts. After three annoyed kicks, she waved off the pajama bottoms clinging to her ankles, replacing them with a pair of denim shorts. Complementing it was an orange t-shirt, the visage of a stalwart Fixer galivanting across the horizon with his Bloodfiend squire in tow nestled under the arch of “La Manchaland” emblazoned above her breasts. Closing the wardrobe with the heel of her foot, she stole a few glances at herself in the mirror, clicking her tongue as she brushed away stray locks of hair that had stuck out already. As she slid a finger down her collar, her thoughts already flying to the tighter Liu tank top she’d gotten last summer, the downtempo chime of Children of the City filled the room, her phone beginning to vibrate. She swore and slid across the floor, nearly ripping the cord out of the wall as she pulled the phone up to her ear. “Ishmael here. Something up, Faust?”
“Faus-c’mon, Ish, the least you could do is look at your damn phone before picking up.”
Ishmael bit her lip, suppressing a giggle. If the one carrying that familiar, gruff, and all-too annoyed voice could see her right now, the veins that would almost assuredly be bulging from his head may just straight up burst. “Yeah, yeah, Heathcliff, I know about the plans for later today. What about today? We up for another round through the Backstreets? Or beating up another stray Distortion that’s popped up from who knows where? Oh, don’t tell me, the Flat Broke Gamblers think they can muscle in on Nest territory and we’re there to throw ‘em back to the dump.”
“Surprised you didn’t ask if we were wrestling a kraken while we were at it.” A derisive snort echoed from the phone’s speakers. “Nah, Faust’s actually cleared the schedule. Looks like she’s spending all day dealing with Boss Vergilius in meetings. We really might just have the day off this time.”
“A vacation, huh?.” Ishmael breathed a sigh of relief. Her fingers hooked under her collar, pulling her t-shirt back off as she returned back to her wardrobe. “So Plan B, huh? You hear from Rodya? Sancho? Gregor?”
“Messaged Rodya a while ago, but seems like she dragged Gregor off to one of those stuck up Arbiter-bait films,” Heathcliff replied with a pitiful laugh. Ishmael could practically see him roll his eyes. “Nine Angry Arbiters or something like that? Apparently it’s supposed to be some four hour yapper.”
“I thought that’d be Outis’s thing,” Ishmael mused, flashing her nails for a quick look. The auburn nail polish she’d ordered from F Corp still radiated with an almost otherworldly gleam. She smiled before returning to her wardrobe, pushing aside the suits and unhooking a frilly, two piece bathing suit from its hanger. “Thought Rodya would be more into that new comedy coming out.”
“Nah, apparently she’s gonna sneak some booze in and take the piss outta the film the whole time.”
“Well, her funeral if Faust hears we got blacklisted from another cinema.” She reached back and unclipped her bra, replacing it with the top half. Her eyes darted between the bright orange swimsuit and her La Manchaland t-shirt hanging from the wardrobe door, idle thoughts of blandly focusing too much on orange flipping through her head. “What about Sancho? You hear from her?”
“I mean, yeah, of course she’s up for it. Lass’s been doing nothing but chewing my ear off about the beach. Really wants to do more of that ‘beach vorreyball’ now that we don’t have to worry about some surprise job from U Corp eating our time.”
“She knows it’d be sorta lame with just the three of us, right?” She nimbly slid off her shorts, replacing her panties with the bottom half of her bathing suit. She paused momentarily, her eyes briefly hovering on the gaping maw that was her wardrobe and the multitude of options that beckoned her. Her hand absentmindedly inched toward the plethora of t-shirts shoved to the side, halted only by Heathcliff’s gruff cough as he replied.
“No prob, lass’s already gotten it covered.” The faint hum of a metro scanner in the background barely squeaked through the speaker. “Apparently she roped Sinclair in for some R&R.”
“Sinclair, huh?” Ishmael mused, a wry smirk spreading across her face. “I can’t imagine that took a lot of convincing.” She turned back around, throwing the t-shirt back on before yanking a bottom shelf of her wardrobe open. A turquoise U Corp duffel bag plopped to the ground, the wrinkled whale emblem moaning as a flurry of towels and sunscreen puffed it out from a meager curl to a bloated splash. Sliding her flip-flops back on, the girl hurriedly tossed her wallet in before vaulting across her apartment and toward the small door leading outside.
Ishmael slid through the door in one fluid motion, the door clicking shut behind her. Only a gaggle of Nest eggs and overworked Fixers could be seen meandering about the modest grounds of the small complex, some still lost in their dreams as they stumbled about like zombies while others were practically nose deep into their cups of coffee. Her brisk walk accelerated into a jog as the internal gardens and cramped hallways turned first to narrow alleyways, then to an expansive road, a small selection of cars no doubt worth five times the amount of Ishmael’s body drifting by every so often. Though rather quaint and modest, the rare spectacle that was an unblemished horizon where Ishmael could freely watch the auburn sun rise was one that was worth the rather exorbitant rent costs of this area.
“She’s got the charm of her old man when she’s not acting like some kinda chihuahua, that’s for sure,” Heathcliff joked, “anyway, W Corp train’s pulling into the station. See you in a bit, then?”
“Yeah, you know the station over here is just a few blocks down,” she snorted, coming to a halt just at the end of a busy intersection. The girl watched with a dour frown as a procession of cars shuffled across the crosswalk in both directions, the line of gaudy automobiles stretching out far into the labyrinthian depths of E Corp’s cityscape. Her hand still tightly gripping her phone, the redhead took a brief glance around her; nothing but the distracted Nest Egg still busying himself with some frantic email or some idle jogger restlessly watching the traffic light remain a static red surrounded her. Off just a stone’s throw away, the sidewalk on the other end was similarly abandoned, the faint silhouettes of oncoming bystanders still far enough that they were but specks in the distance. “Actually, one sec, Heathcliff.”
And, quickly pocketing her phone, she slipped the flip-flops off her feet and ran their straps between her fingers before slinging her bag across her shoulder. She took a breath, taking a step back before kicking herself up and off the ground, somersaulting across the street in a wide and graceful arc and terminating with a roll on the opposite sidewalk. Dropping her flip-flops back on the ground and sliding her feet back in, she pulled her phone out and whistled. “Sorry, traffic.”
“Show-off,” Heathcliff teased, “I’m already getting seated. Anything you want when we get there?”
Ishmael shrugged, already eyeing the metro’s entrance just a fair way’s away. “The usual. See-ya then.”
Though E Corp had a fair share’s worth of expansive parks sparing the girl a chance to watch the sun, Ishmael still yearned for the sea of U Corp. The familiar, salty scent of the Great Lake touched her nose as she climbed the final stair out of the W Corp station, met with a crystalline sea and a golden beach spread out before her. An assortment of rickety stairs and crowded ramps served to connect the suburban sprawl of U Corp’s beachfront properties to its scenic dunes, all of which she nimbly avoided with another quick leap. Unlike the sidewalk before her or the multitude of shattered debris, crumbling buildings, and cracked asphalt she was accustomed to at work, hitting the sand was more akin to landing on a soft pillow. The redhead breathed a sigh of relief, welcoming her home back with open arms; or, rather, with a relaxed yawn and a stretch before jumping back up to her feet. Maybe if Faust would be so magnanimously inclined, their next job would be to deal with the tyrannical Syndicate Palossand, the wretched Urban Legend group known to commandeering giant swathes of U Corp’s coastline in their makeshift sand castles and assail would-be besiegers with oversized oyster shells.
Carefree elation flowed through the girl’s veins as she maneuvered through the swathe of people occupying the crowded shoreline. From the briny aroma of the Great Lake to the warm crunchiness of sand between her toes, from the gentle ripple of the distant waves to the discordant conversations from native beachgoers and far-off City tourists alike, the beaches of U Corp were as carefree and as lively as ever. Her eyes skimmed the crowd, wondering if, in the decade since she’d moved away from U Corp, she still may find a friendly face among the morass of bodies shuffling along the sandy shores. She didn’t, of course, but she admittedly was never good with faces anyway.
Save, of course, for that ugly mug flashing a crooked grin once their eyes met.
“Oi, Ish!” Heathcliff called, waving her over. Two familiar popsicles were held in each hand, their slick, turquoise surface glistening in the midafternoon rays. It only took two bounds for her to clear the distance between them, the girl snagging the popsicle from his hand and popping into her mouth. She shivered and nearly moaned in ecstasy, catching herself only as her glassy eyes locked with those piercing, violet orbs, accompanied by a knowing, smug smile. Was she really going to debase herself just for one of U Corp’s world famous sea salt popsicles, a delicacy the other Wings could only hope of even coming within striking distance of replicating?
She rolled with the expansive smile jumping off her face, munching down on the icy surface and licking her lips. Fuck yeah of course she would.
“Mmmmmm, sea salt ice cream,” she purred. Spying one of four lounge chairs propped up, she plopped herself down on the nearest one, greedily devouring the rest of the popsicle with just one more bite as she dropped her duffel bag to the ground. “Tastes way better getting it fresh from U Corp rather than having to pick up a frozen box at E Corp.”
“Well, you’d chew my ear off if I didn’t get you these bloody things while we’re here,” Heathcliff said with a modest shrug, taking up the seat next to her and giving his own popsicle an idle lick. “Oi, you’re paying for drinks tonight then, yeah?”
“Yeah, fair’s fair,” the redhead replied, fully reclining into the lounge chair. She fished a pair of sunglasses out of her pocket and popped them on her face before kicking her flip-flops off, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “Where’s Sancho? From the way you talked about it, I’d figured she’d have made a whole beach hut for us to lounge in all day.”
“Haha!” Heathcliff cackled, the popsicle stick hanging out of the corner of his mouth like a makeshift cigarette. “So as it turns out, she didn’t have anything to wear to the beach.”
“Really?” Ishmael sat up, fishing out a bottle of sunscreen before squirting some into her hand and lathering it across her arm. “I mean, yeah, guess a Bloodfiend doesn’t really have any reason to go to the beach. Hey, you remember to bring some?”
“Shit, knew I was forgetting something. Mind if-“ Heathcliff cut himself off, snagging the bottle sailing over his head. Coating his arm in sunscreen, he continued, “anyway, ol Sinclair’s shopping around for a bathing suit for the lass. Sancho said she’d take care of it herself but, man, you shoulda seen the look on her face.” Heathcliff smirked, leaning over the handrail of his chair. “She could suck the whole of U Corp dry and she wouldn’t be anywhere near as red as she was then.”
“Simultaneously the best and the worst charmer among us,” Ishmael laughed, absentmindedly fixing her headband. “That’s Sancho for you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Ish. Sancho’s got a way with words, but I wouldn’t go so far as saying the lass’s the best charmer in the Office.”
Ishmael scoffed and looked over at Heathcliff, propping her sunglasses up with the nail of her finger. “Really, now? So who would you say’s got the silver tongue, then? The Operator? Or maybe the stick-in-the-mud Outis? Or our scatterbrained Hong Lu pulling trade deals outta his ass every time we need to restock on supplies?”
Heathcliff smiled before leaning further in, planting a kiss on Ishmael’s lips. “I’m not sure, actually. Faust’s got quite the way with words if I had to think about it. But, you know, there’s this pretty cute Fixer from U Corp that I think’s got it locked down.”
The girl’s face scrunched up, a myriad of thoughts bubbling to the surface before her subconscious quickly yanked them back. As her mind scrambled to gather itself, the redhead’s body acted on instinct, leaning forward and catching Heathcliff’s lips with her own kiss as he pulled back. A rush of warmth swelled from her mouth and rushed through her body as her face turned more scarlet than her cascading hair. “Well, if you asked me, there’s this dumb ol’ bloke from T Corp that’s pretty hot.”
Heathcliff’s goofy grin practically devoured his face as he laughed, his boisterous charm infecting Ishmael and causing her to share in the revelry. The redhead doubled over in her chair, wiping the tears that slid from underneath her sunglasses. Truthfully, she’d forgotten how she and Heathcliff got together; her earliest memories were of the two of them practically at each other’s throat. Yet now whenever she and Heathcliff were simply within arm’s reach of one another, inevitably one of them would make one of their painfully awkward passes, their corny banter and romantic fumbling making even Yi Sang cringe in their presence. Of course, it’s not like Yi Sang could talk himself, his romantic notes slid to the Office Operator as subtle as a flaming bull in a K Corp intersection.
Besides, if they got their work done on time and beat up all the bad guys, then what was the matter if they gave each other a hug and a kiss every now and then. It’s not like they fucked in the middle of the road or something. … Well, Ishmael was pretty confident that a small sojourn to a cramped bathroom with Heathcliff didn’t count, and besides the W Corp train was running late or something. She definitely heard that, definitely.
“Ishmael! Heathcliff!”
A familiar, strident cry echoed across the golden dunes, as distinct as an average XX Inc.’s helper robot whirring up and every bit as ear-piercing. Ishmael’s idle musings settled into the back of her head as she poked up from her beach chair, waving over the duo sauntering over the beach. Though the shortest among them, as Heathcliff and Gregor would joke about to practically no end, Sancho probably had enough energy to match the rest of Limbus Office’s output tenfold. The perks of being a Bloodfiend, the girl figured, having long since accepted the La Manchaland heiress’s employment as one of those weird quirks that came with Limbus Office’s eccentricities. The Head could only know why the sole child and next in line of the City’s most profitable and celebrated media empire would dabble in Fixer work, but Faust was always mum on the details.
Of course, Sinclair was no less confusing, the eldest of Calw’s most prominent prosthetic town descending from lavish wealth and luxury to partake in a bunch of odd jobs throughout the Nests, and not even armed with some of those trimmed mecha arms that could annihilate a skyscraper’s walls with a single punch. Together, the mismatched duo born from opulence were little more than ordinary tourists, the latter clad in a loose, unbuttoned hawaiian shirt and some swimming trunks and the former clinging tightly to the other’s arm, the frilled, golden two piece almost a bit too ostentatious for the girl almost married to the Limbus Office suit. The redhead drank in the scene as Sancho’s flip-flop caught on a jutting seashell, sending her tumbling forward. Acting on instinct, Sinclair’s arm shot out and wrapped around the girl’s chest, keeping her from eating a facefull of sand. Though the beach was quite packed, an unnatural silence worthy of a Night in the Backstreets descended on the quartet. Ishmael adjusted her sunglasses and stifled a chuckle, Sancho’s face turning a rather bright red as Sinclair’s hasty entrance had caused his fingers to come to rest tightly against the side of the Bloodfiend’s breast.
Was Sinclair just that good or just that bad? Ishmael shrugged inwardly; least she and Heathcliff didn’t monopolize the dumb couple market. Deftly hiding her shit-eating grin with the back of the beach chair, the redhead waved the bumbling blonde couple over, a pale-faced Sinclair wracked with embarrassment still somehow dragging the entirely petrified Sancho, the girl having gone as rigid as a statue save for her vicegrip on Sinclair’s hand. It was practically a miracle Sancho hadn’t snapped the bone completely in two.
“You two look cute,” Heathcliff teased.
“T-Thanks…” Sinclair murmured, his voice as meek and pale as a fresh-faced Grade 9. In times where Heathcliff would tease Sinclair for being an admittedly easy target, he could always rely on Sancho to ride in as his dutiful white knight, a girl whose boundless energy could easily compensate for her unassuming boyfriend. Of course, the unmoving statue masquerading as Sancho that clung to Sinclair like a rusted anchor did little to assuage Heathcliff’s jabs. In fact, Sinclair was definitely sure that Sancho’s grip had somehow tightened even more in no small part due to Heathcliff’s jeering.
“Leave them alone, Heathcliff,” Ishmael sighed, leaning over the chair and snapping her fingers in front of the vacant Bloodfiend. “Hey, Sancho. Wake up. We gonna do some beach volleyball or something?”
“Beach… volleyball…” The blank, dead eyes of the blonde girl lit up, regaining their typical luster as the mere mention of the word “volleyball.” She shook off the lingering vestiges of her embarrassment – quite literally, kicking up a small plume of dust into her coughing boyfriend, and immediately ruffled through her bag. Sure enough, a singular, pristine, white volleyball was held up before the four, a wondrous gem of firm leather sourced only from the most statuesque cows of K Corp. “Y-Yes! Verily, this time I shall spare no quarter in demonstrating my unparalleled beach volleyball skills!”
“I take it you remembered a few spares this time?” Ishmael asked, crossing her arms over the backrest of the beach chair. Her gaze dug into Sancho, holding her starry eyes still. “Don’t think I remember the state of the last volleyball we had when we played. Or the other six.”
Sancho furrowed her brow, an uncharacteristic flash of annoyance staining her ordinarily vibrant complexion. Her mouth hung half-open, the words on the tip of her tongue before she finally stuck it out, the suffocating aura of the La Manchaland heir dissipating until naught but the Limbus Office Fixer remained. “Hmph, you wound me, Ishmael. Dost thou have no faith in mine ability to control my strength?”
“Nope.”
“Nuh-huh.”
The girl flinched, a metaphorical stake driven straight through her heart. With a nervous chuckle and a pat on the back, Sinclair relieved Sancho of the treasured volleyball, gesturing the three of them to an unoccupied volleyball net. The four moved quickly to secure it, a solemn Sinclair and a pensive Sancho still trying to pat away the redness coloring her otherwise pale face taking up one end of the court while a cackling Heathcliff and a smirking Ishmael took up the other. The redhead cracked the knuckles on each of her hands, impatiently posturing back and forth as the timid Sinclair patted the blushing Sancho’s head, his whispers lost amongst the bustle of the beachfront. To the side, Heathcliff yawned and stretched his arms above his head, lazily kicking the sand in front of him. “Oi, c’mon. If you guys spend all day flirting with each other, it’ll be evening before we get some games in.”
“O-Oh…” Sinclair nodded and gently ruffled Sancho’s hair. Her eyes twinkled and she leaned in, gently nuzzling against his neck before pulling away, flashing him a thumbs-up as Sinclair moved toward the back of the court, volleyball still tightly gripped in his hand. He spun around, giving a final nod to Sancho before turning his gaze to the court beyond where an eager Ishmael and a bored Heathcliff stood side by side. Ishmael mirrored Sancho’s gesture while, in true Heathcliff fashion, the brusque Fixer threw out his hands in an exasperated gesture.
“Yeah, yeah, Sinclair,” he groaned, waving his hands toward him. “We’re ready, so go off and-“
And, acceding to Heathcliff’s request, Sinclair leapt and slammed his palm into the volleyball. The resulting sonic boom caused the net to lurch forward and sag, the dunes surrounding the quartet tossed up into fleeting dust clouds. Both Ishmael and Heathcliff stood in stunned silence, the volleyball snugly behind them in a miniature crater.
“Wooooooaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Sancho cheered, running up and giving Sinclair a hug. “That was so cool, Sinclair! Verily, mine eyes shant deceive me, no? Have you been practicing since our last game?”
“H-Haha…” Sinclair chuckled and broke from Sancho’s gaze, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. “I mean… you were really into the game last year and I felt bad that I couldn’t really help out, so I might’ve been…”
On the other side of the court, Ishmael adjusted her headband before turning to Heathcliff, throwing her arm out toward the ball in frustration. “The hell was that?”
“What the fuck did you want me to do about it? Block it with my face?” Heathcliff shook his head, exasperated. “That shit’ll take my head off!”
“Then don’t fucking act like such a showoff then, dumbass!” Ishmael shot back, leaning in and flicking Heathcliff’s forehead. “You’re making me look bad here!”
With a huff, the redhead marched over to the far end of the court, swiping the ball from its cratered cradle and firmly pressing it between her fingers. She was but a single step from the boundary of the court before she leapt up, her body arching back in a graceful backflip with the volleyball still firmly in her palm. While not packing nearly the kinetic energy of Sinclair’s cannon-esque serve, the artful retaliation from the U Corp native sent the volleyball screeching across the court and over the net, its dizzying trajectory sending it in a crescent descent. Sancho was wrenched from her dreamy state as the ball aimed for a vacant spot of the court, the blonde immediately leaping forward and sending the ball up with a quick bop from her clasped hands. Clambering back up to her feet, she sent it spiraling backwards with a second bounce, the ball careening lazily in the air.
Only for Sinclair’s palm to send it shooting back like a ballistic missile.
“Oi, not this time!”
As if on cue, Heathcliff hurled himself into position, throwing his fist forward less like he was receiving a serve and more like he was trying to punch out a belligerent Middle brother. The beach shook and echoed as his fist met the spherical bullet of superheated leather, an impact that probably would have blown off his arm had he not gotten it reinforced a month ago.
“Got it!” he cried, the ball finally giving way as it limply returned to the air. “Ish!”
A hand clamped on Heathcliff’s shoulder, the arm pivoting out and up as Ishmael vaulted into the air. “I got it!” Shaking away locks of hair that clung to her lips, Ishmael quickly ascended up and past the volleyball, hammering it back toward Sancho and Sinclair. The Bloodfiend’s eyes flashed crimson as the metaphorical meteor hurtled down to meet her, a protective sheet of hardblood coating her palm before she swung up and at the ball.
… Cleaving it cleanly in two.
“… Ah.” Sancho froze mid-swing, her blushing face quickly covered by the severed half of the volleyball she had shorn in her excitement. Again.
There she stood, a frozen statue, caked in sweat, her racing heartbeat failing to mask the soft thump of Ishmael’s bare feet hitting the sand or the twin pairs of leering eyes glaring at her from across the net. A soft cough tried to clear the air as Sinclair tactfully moved between the three of them, brushing the remains of the volleyball off of Sancho’s face.
“Heh, uh… looks like U Corp’s sporting gear wasn’t really designed for Grade 5 Fixers,” he said, his sheepish grin trying to pry attention away from a shivering, mortified Sancho.
“Guess not,” Ishmael replied, cocking her head in mock bewilderment as sarcasm dripped from her lips. “I mean how could we have guessed that Sancho getting even the slightest bit serious would take the life of another innocent volleyball?”
Sancho sunk to her knees, her quivering face just about ready to burst into tears. “Prithee… am I still incapable of honing my own strength? Lo, this farcical display brings shame to Limbus Office alone, let alone the noble Quixote linea-“
“Yeah, yeah, Sancho, don’t get your panties twisted,” Heathcliff waved her off, trudging over to the side of the court and procuring yet another volleyball from the bags leaning against the pole. “We’ll just run it back again, lass. Just, like, try not to go through all of these damn balls? They’re eating my paycheck.”
“O-ooooooooooooooooooooooh!” Like flipping a switch, Sancho was already back on her feet, marveling over the newly revealed volleyball like another treasure procured from the depths of some enigmatic abyss. “Heathcliff, such percipience goes beyond what I could have even envisioned from you! How did you know that-“
“Because I don’t have the memory of a goldfish, lass,” he snorted, throwing it over to the girl in a futile effort to shut her up. The overeager girl snatched it with a single swipe of her arm, cradling it in her arms like a newborn babe.
“A-haha,” Sancho cheered, her eyes brilliant stars as she turned her attention to Ishmael and Heathcliff, parading the ball before them with a wide flourish. “Behold, for now I shall demonstrate the fruits of my many months of arduous training. Lo, have I waited for this moment to-“
“Just send it over already, Sancho!” Ishmael cut her off, tapping her foot impatiently.
“Nnngh,” the blonde girl pursed her lips, her toes digging deep into the sand as if they could burrow into the hard earth underneath. A confident swagger painted over her face as she shook off the chiding of her fun-loathing associate, pausing for what she most likely thought was a much beloved dramatic effect before leaping into the air, the volleyball tightly gripped in her hand. Her golden eyes flashed red, the tips of her pointed teeth poking out from her lips as she thrust her arm forward, carrying the momentum directly into the volleyball as, like the hammer to a loaded gun, it-
Exploded directly in Sancho’s face.
With a silent pop, the three watched as the girl spiraled toward the ground, hitting the beach in a plume of sand and dejected embarrassment. Though the U Corp tourists continued with naught a care in the world, the silence overtaking the volleyball court was deafening. Sinclair gulped and nervously scratched the back of his head, wondering if he should check on the twitching, crumpled body lying in a crater of sand. There was, of course, a very, very small chance that Sancho had broken her neck on the way down.
Of course, if she hadn’t died from the impact, looking up to the death stares from her two quite unamused friends may just give her a heart attack instead.
“Uhhhh…” Sinclair began, raising a quivering hand to grab the duo’s attention. “I’m, uh, pretty sure I brought a spare. Should I go-“
“Yes.”
“Sure.”
“… Verily, if you would.”
Two sets of eyes set back down upon their prey, twin pairs of lurking footsteps making no attempt to hide their bloodlust as their heavy crunch seemed to make the very beach quake in their wake. “Oh, Sancho, you’re awake?” Ishmael cooed, cracking her knuckles. “Now, see, I thought we agreed this stopped being funny after the eighth ball…”
On the opposite end of the court, Sinclair nervously gripped the ends of his swimming trunks, watching as Ishmael and Heathcliff began to encircle the limp body of his girlfriend like sharks. Though her nose was still quite buried in the sand, he could barely make out her eyes poking out from the sand, pupils quivering and tears streaking as she begged as best she could for him to carry her away from the villains she’d unwittingly placed herself deep within. He, of course, knew the best solution more than anyone else; this was, after all, the typical outcome of playing with Sancho, and she and the rest of Limbus Office were well-acquainted with her unnatural bursts of strength. After several similar incidents, he, too, knew exactly how to react when faced with the arduous task of prying Sancho out of the abyss created through her own consequences.
So he decisively stepped forward, spun on his heel, and went to pick up the other volleyball.
Fortunately, Sancho’s pained yelps were muffled by the sand.
The once blue sky now adopted a more subdued shade of violet, the evening sun beginning to slink underneath the watery horizon of the calm lake. Ishmael reached up and pulled the sunglasses off her face, pocketing them before turning her uncovered eyes to the sunset, smiling as the coastal winds brushed against her face. Her legs dangled over the edge of the boardwalk, her toes curling over each other as she took another bite from her sea salt ice cream, shivering as the nostalgic sweetness ran down her throat.
“Yo, Ish,”
She nodded, beckoning Heathcliff over with a wave. “Yeah, over here.”
He joined her with a brusque thump as he swung his legs over the side of the boardwalk as well, offering a croissant. The redhead smiled and took up the offer, bending over and chomping down on her half. Heathcliff snorted and ruffled the girl’s hair, munching on the remainder. Ishmael turned back to the popsicle in her hand, wolfing down the last remnants of the periwinkle treat before placing the stick aside, resting her chin in her (slightly sticky) hands. “… The sunset’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure is,” he said with a whistle. “In T Corp day and night sorta blend together. You really can’t tell whether it’s sunrise or sunset unless you’re falling over from exhaustion.”
“Mhm.” Ishmael licked her lips, still trying to catch the remnants of whatever ice cream still lingered on her face. “Hey, Heathcliff, you remember that time we were off on a job to the Outskirts?”
“What, you mean the time we went spelunking in the ruins or the time we went hiking in the mountains?”
“The mountains, yeah.” She glanced over to Heathcliff, flashing a smirk. “When we were doing some lost and found stuff from those… gnomes? Are those what they’re called?”
“I dunno, Ish, Faust doesn’t pay me to remember the files of past jobs.” Heathcliff rolled his eyes before playfully jabbing Ishmael in the side. “The rat bastards with machetes or something, yeah?”
“Pfff, you’re only saying that because you got carted off by the lot of them after you thought it’d be funny to try and go at the manager with a bat without waiting for Yi Sang and the others to finish sweeping their side of the workshop,” Ishmael teased, stifling a laugh with her hand. “Thinking back, it was kinda hilarious hearing you cursing up a storm as they dragged you into one of the side closets.”
“You’re one to talk, Ish,” he shot back, playfully rustling the girl’s hair. “I remember Miss Confident over here thought she was hot shit going out of her way to drag ‘that stupid dolt’ back by herself only to seriously get trussed up by one of those snare traps of all things. Didn’t look so tough all stripped down and wrapped up in ribbons.”
“Hey, in case you suffered a concussion or something, they only wrapped up my mouth, not my eyes,” she huffed, leaning over and flicking him on the forehead. “Don’t think I didn’t see you leering at me while we were stuck in that packaging center.”
“Pretty sure you were the one checking me out.”
“Was… not…” Ishmael’s voice drifted off, the girl biting her lip as her simmering frustration was momentarily interrupted by the visage of a seething Heathcliff, his rage long burnt out by about a half hour of fruitlessly struggling against his binds. Her face lit up as she recalled his eyes drifting over to her, the girl haplessly writhing about on the creaking packaging table as the orange ribbons wrapped taut around her body seemed, perhaps by the design of some particularly sadistic comedian, to perfectly accentuate her otherwise modest breasts and hips. She remembered her muffled curse, her eyes flicking away to avoid Heathcliff’s leering gaze until it, too, began to creep up his body. The memory fizzled, Ishmael’s mortified subconsciousness dragging her back to reality. She shook her head, hiding her frazzled expression with her arm. “By the Wings, can you get your head out of the gutter for once?”
“Says the girl with a stick so far up her ass I could yoink out part of it and use the rest for puppetry.”
What both probably intended to be a climatic stare down where the two would try to intimidate the other into stepping down with what was almost assuredly intended to be some frightening glower quickly became little more than a fit of uncontrollable laughter, the two doubling over as the elation erased what little tension was beginning to fill the air. Heathcliff wiped a tear from his eye before swinging to the side, resting his legs atop the boardwalk and his head in Ishmael’s lap. “But you gotta admit, it was hilarious when the Operator and the guys came in.”
“Hilarious?” Ishmael shook her head, incredulous. “Mortifying, maybe. I couldn’t even try and cover myself because my arms were stuck behind me. I’m pretty sure Ryoshu and Gregor looked me over like twice over.”
“Definitely more than twice over, since you didn’t have anything holding your chest down,” Heathcliff laughed, “Doncha remember Faust’s reaction, though? Man, I thought she was always pale, but she lit up brighter than a Christmas tree when she saw you. I almost bust a gut dying from laughter.”
“You sure about that?” she retorted, cocking an eyebrow. “Because last I remember, you were also curling up when Rodya was looking you over. Pretty sure she said something about how you had a fine ass.”
“I’m sure you would know, wouldn’t you,” he said, grinning.
“I’m absolutely sure I know,” she said, leaning down and kissing him. Her ears perked up, her cheeks flushed, and her wandering hands sought Heathcliff’s and tightly locked around his. Their early memories still vividly ran through her head, Heathcliff’s rather clumsy attempts at flirting utterly trite and cliché, bordering on cringe, and yet the warmness that filled her heart and clouded her mind would always take hold, dispelling any thoughts save for pressing her lips against his. Sure, he was a hopeless romantic with all the tact of a piece of drywood, but she was the one falling head over heels for him every single time, so who was the one to talk?
Her blissful moans rose an octave as his hands rose past her wrists, slowly worming up her arms and aiming for her back. It was a common pattern between the two of them; why simply be content with the redhead’s delicious lips when he could pull her body entirely against his. Still, the last vestiges of Ishmael’s pride and dignity clawed their way past her lustful daze, forcing her to pull her lips free. A pained giggle came from her lips as her eyes refocused, first on Heathcliff’s flushed face, then on his vacant eyes, then on the thin strand of saliva connecting their lips.
“Come on, Heathcliff…” she groaned, her hands bending up and catching his own wrists. “Not in public. It’ll be embarrassing.”
“Like you’ve ever cared about what the others see in public,” he shot back, matching her disgruntled smile. Much as it pained her to admit, each nerve in her body was screaming at her to fall back down on him.
“Yeah,” she said, clicking her tongue in irritation. “… But that was with the others, Heathcliff. Not like they give a shit if we take some time away after we wrap up a job.”
“When’d you get all dignified?” he huffed, rising up to a sitting position. He pushed his body up against the redhead, a smile creeping over his face as her hand slid back down atop his. “Well, you wanna get going, then?”
“I mean, we got work tomorrow, right?” she grumbled, shaking her head. A faint shade of pink tinting her cheeks betrayed her feelings even as the girl fished out her phone, absentmindedly tapping away at the calendar. A string of notifications whizzed past her eye like a blur, their drab and dreary titles as indescribable as some ancient script as she felt Heathcliff’s breath against her neck.
“Not like Faust’ll fire us if we show up an hour or two late,” he said, wrapping his arm around Ishmael’s shoulders. “I’ll walk you back to my place. Come on, we need to get a move on.”
“Nnngh…” Ishmael bit her lip, her eyes drifting from her app to the sunset. The auburn sun sunk beneath the waves, rays of crimson shining down on her. “… What’s the rush, though? Let’s watch the sunset first, Heathcliff.”
Heathcliff’s reaction was surprisingly cold, wresting the girl up to her feet with his hand still wrapped around her. With a yelp, she squirmed and kicked, a sharp glare shot toward him. “H-Hey! Heathcliff, what the hell?!”
“Ish, come on, it’s time to wake up.”
She blinked, her vision beginning to blur. A numbness rose from her toes to her legs, slowly encompassing her body like she’d just dunked into the ice waters deep in the recesses of the Great Lake. Her tongue grew limp, her fingers sliding haplessly off of Heathcliff’s wrists, and she took in deep breaths, the air around her becoming as dense as water. Heathcliff’s impassive stare pinned her down like a harpoon, an expression devoid of malice nor concern.
Only regret.
“I… don’t…” she wheezed, feeling her chest tighten. The girl’s heartbeat slowed, as if a sudden onset of hypothermia had come to claim her like the indiscriminate, uncaring hand of Death.
“Come on, lass, don’t sleep on us now…”
Before she realized it, a murky blackness blinded her sight. Ishmael coughed and quickly gagged, the pungent taste of her own blood fresh on her tongue. Her breaths came in shallow, labored bursts, her chest screaming with each inhale, and she struggled to turn the silhouettes dancing in her blackened vision into something more distinct. A large, looming specter, its outline blacker than even the darkness that encompassed her, caught her attention, and even as the girl struggled to regain any feeling in her body, she focused on that one, indistinct shadow, as though some meaningless black in the blackness would make any real difference.
Yet, as her retching became a disgusted groan and her wheezing became belabored breaths, the murky haze watching over her slowly took shape. Broad shoulders, scruffy and disheveled hair, blood trickling down his chin from where he’d bit his lip in concern. His violet eyes were fixated on hers, an unusual softness permeating a typical furious and fiery gaze. As she coughed and drew in a deep breath, Heathcliff finally breathed a sigh of relief, gesturing to something off in the distance. “Oi, Ishmael’s awake.”
“<She is? Great, I was concerned we’d have to find someone to administer first aid for a second. … Do we have anyone that knows basic first aid?>”
“… Ishmael, I think,” Heathcliff said with a wry chuckle, turning back to the Sinner. The girl’s recognition and brief respite was short-lived, an agonizing pain suddenly shooting through her spine. She suddenly jolted upright, her fingers digging into her chest as though fishing for her heart in a vain and desperate attempt to tear the offending organ free from her body.
“O-O-OW! FUCK!” she cried, her eyes clamping shut and plunging her back into darkness. Once awash in an endless void, her mind sought to plunge itself back into that emptiness if it would spare it the torture that now wracked her body. She squirmed and screamed and whimpered, each nerve on her body on fire. “A-A-Aaaaaaaah, t-the hell… Dante, by the Wings what the fuck it-“
“Relax, lass!” Heathcliff barked. The redhead felt her body jostle up and down before coming to a standstill, a warm presence cradling her searing back. Yes, right she remembered. Her trembling eyes slowly opened again, meeting a worried Heathcliff looking back at her. His arms tenderly cradled the limp Sinner, his hands holding her twitching arms at bay. “Oi, Clockhead. I thought you turned the clock on her. Why’s she still so banged up like this?”
“<I-It’s probably some lingering effects from the fight,>” Dante said, scratching the back of their clock head in confusion. “<You guys still suffer from some exhaustion and pain even after I revive you, right? Maybe the hit she took was worse than we all realized.>”
“The… hit…?” Ishmael’s words came out with splutter and a bloody cough. “What… what happened?”
“Damn, really hit you that bad, huh?” Heathcliff chuckled, “We were dealing with that blasted electric centipede and the damn screaming wolf at the same time, remember?”
“Of course I remember how to deal with this damn thing,” she snarled, leaping back as a stray bolt of lightning lashed out in her direction. The stench of singed dirt and metal flooded Ishmael’s nose as she hastily backed away, her eyes fixed on the menacing Shock Centipede. It shrieked and uncurled, its multiple pins crackling with electricity as it cast its gaze over the six Sinners. A cacophony akin to nails on a chalkboard or needles against glass, its defiant cry was echoed by the Alleyway Watchdog, the overgrown mutt leaping beside the abnormality. Its teeth gnashed and grinned, its tongue licking in feverish anticipation as electricity leapt between the two abnos.
“Now!”
Heathcliff’s voice sent the girl flying forward, flanked by Don and Ryoshu. A cannon exploded behind them, a well-placed sniper bullet embedding itself in the Centipede’s eye with a bang and a rush of lightning and sparks. It shrieked and rose its body further, electricity arcing off of its body as a stream of neon projectiles, aimed directly at the aggressive trio. Ishmael slammed her body to the ground and skidded forward, a sudden but familiar migraine slamming into her as her familiar mace was traded out for a blackened staff. Kicking herself up to her feet, the newly christened Reindeer retaliated in kind, a golden stream of energy smashing between the Centipede’s eyes. It howled with pain as it recoiled back, the Watchdog bounding forward to protect its flank.
Its charge was short-lived, held in place by a stoic Ryoshu as the Edgar Family trunk was shoved in its jaws, the meticulously crafted metal refusing to buckle under the snarling aberration’s jaws. Even as the Butler swiped at the dog’s snout with her daggers, Don wasted no time in bounding forward, her black suit forgone for the teal and gold of the Cinq as her rapier, brandished proudly, struck true between the Centipede’s scales. Don smiled, eyes shimmering like golden nuggets, as she pulled her blade back with a wide flourish.
Or, rather, that’s probably what she was trying to do, though the blade held firm in the Centipede’s body. Her unflappable swagger evaporated almost immediately, the girl pressing her heel against the Centipede’s body and pulling in vain as the abnormality radiated with an eerie, sapphiric light.
“E-Eh…!” Don stuttered, trepidation flashing across her face. “Prithee, why-“
“Don, you fucking idiot!”
A hand grabbed her collar and yanked her back, the girl’s body rolling back a limp ragdoll. The familiar dull grey of Hearse flashed in Ishmael’s palm as she held it firmly against her body, her eyes whipping back to Don. “You’re supposed to go for the head you idi-“
She blinked, her eyes returning to her trembling left arm. Only now did she realize that aside from flashes of pain, it was completely numb, as though she’d lost all feeling in the limb. “Hearse…” Ishmael said in a low, strained voice. The fingers of her left hand curled and uncurled, a multitude of heated needles jabbing at her from wrist to shoulder. One of her eyes clamped shut from the pain as her other glossed over her arm, the sleeve of her jacket burnt away entirely and leaving only her unblemished skin. She tried to move it, gasping as it seemed to recoil and send a wave of pain through her body in protest. “Fuck! Fuck, that hurts…!”
“Relax, lass,” Heathcliff sighed, grabbing her twitching arm and holding it down. “We were lucky enough to even get that damn piece of sheet metal off of you once everything was said and done. Ryoshu offered to amputate a few fingers since you wouldn’t let go while you were out. You can thank lil’ Don Quixote that we were able to talk the crazy girl outta it.”
“Nnnngh…” Ishmael grimaced. It seemed like the very act of her heart sending blood into her arm was enough to send a shockwave of pain through her body in return. She grit her teeth, biting away the pain as she turned back to Dante. “Right… Manager, are the others-“
“<They’re securing the next floor of the Mirror Dungeon.>” Dante replied, shaking their head. “<I wanted to check and make sure you were alright before we moved on. You can return to Mephistopheles.>”
Return? Ishmael blinked, her blank, befuddled stare suppressing the pain that radiated from her arm. “Dante, you can’t be serious. If Vergilius sees me wandering around the bus without you, well, I’ll be lucky if all he does is confiscate the use of my legs for a week.”
“<Faust already called in advance,”> Dante replied, waving off the redhead’s concerns. “<We’re pretty much killing time until the next assignment, so Vergilius is letting me be more flexible with how I handle our daily routine as long as our quota for resources are met. I want you to go back to the bus and rest.>”
A pensive Ishmael pursed her lips. While of course it would be complete insanity for anyone to turn down a free day off, and she had no reservations whatsoever about kicking her feet up and lounging for a day, she was admittedly still apprehensive of simply walking out on an ongoing Mirror Dungeon spelunking. Although, she quietly confessed to herself, she was less worried about leaving Dante and the other Sinners alone and more of sharing the bus with Charon and Vergilius all by her lonesome. It probably wouldn’t be nearly as suffocating nor as traumatic as Vergilius’s personal counseling sessions… but she’d struggle to tell herself that, being left in the bus all by herself.
I mean, worst comes to worst, she could just lie in bed all day. Although the prospect of staying up in her cramped cell, the restless thrashing of the waves assaulting her already aching head, almost made her pine for the visages of the past trying to skewer her with every weekly delving into the dungeons.
“Hey, Dante,” Heathcliff said suddenly. “Do you mind if I take the day off too?”
Ishmael’s face scrunched up in confusion, her eyes meticulously scanning every inch of Heathcliff’s blank frown as though it would betray some ulterior motive. Dante’s head tilted, their fingers rubbing the bottom rim of the clock. “<You look fine though, Heathcliff. Something the matter?>”
“Well, for starters, ol’ Ishmael here can barely walk,” he said, jostling the girl up and down (much to her chagrin) like a life-sized doll. “What’s your plan, exactly? Gonna have her crawl back crying and screaming back to the bus?”
“<Right…>” Dante’s voice trailed off, their eyes lingering on Ishmael’s still twitching arm.
“And like you said, these whole dungeon things are pretty routine for the others, yeah?” Heathcliff continued, “you don’t really think that you guys’ll be any less off with me and Ishmael absent, right?”
“<Vergilius only gave explicit permission for Ishmael to head back early,>” Dante said, a hint of concern in their faint ticks. “<I won’t be going back with you, so I can’t help you get out of whatever happens up there.>”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be on my best behavior, mom,” Heathcliff snorted, rising up to her feet with an indignant Ishmael still cradled in his arms. “Don’t hurry up just for us, alright? Don’t wanna have to come and bail you guys outta trouble because you pissed off some freak memory of Dongrang, yeah?”
Without waiting for Dante to wave them off – or paying any attention to a squirming Ishmael in his arms – Heathcliff hastily made for the dimly lit staircase, a kaleidoscope of nonsensical colors and abstract lines encircling and enveloping the two as he ascended the stairs two at a time. The Mirror Dungeon, ever so enigmatic and perversely hostile to the banal trappings of reality, reacted with disdain to any attempt to backtrack through its corridors, as a curious Heathcliff and Gregor learned much to their fraying sanity. Although the Sinners had since gotten to the point where they could reasonably endure the cavalcade of ethereal unreality that lashed out at them if they attempted to backtrack, it was often not done without good reason. It was truthfully a small miracle that Heathcliff seemed unphased by the inverted rainbow that flashed in and out of his vision like some haunting specter.
Although if you asked him, the source of the tingling sensation chilling his spine dwarfed the feeble attempts of the Mirror Dungeon to reject his passage, the imposing, intimidating presence caused by an increasingly annoyed Ishmael suffocating him far more than the blind eternities surrounding him.
Whether it was a minute or an hour, eventually the two stumbled out of the doorway connecting Mephistopheles to the Mirror Dungeon, the drab, brown walls a welcome respite from the assailing colors that swirled behind them as the door slid shut with an offended huff. Ishmael, too, shared the sentiment, her irritation only mildly increased as Heathcliff collapsed to his knees, unrolling the dizzied redhead onto the ground with an ignoble thump and a yelp. She sat up, rubbing her aching head, and immediately slammed her foot into Heathcliff’s stomach. “Hey, what the fuck! Why carry me if you’re gonna drop me, you ass?”
Heathcliff recoiled as he clutched his chest, shooting daggers at the girl as he struggled to catch his breath. “You bloody-you’d rather I let you crawl up those damn stairs by yourself instead?”
“I don’t remember asking to be carted back to the bus like some kinda duffel bag,” she shot back, slowly easing herself up to her feet. She winced as minute pangs of pain shot through her legs, her body instinctively pressing itself against the back wall for support. “Nnngh… fuck, that stings…”
“Yeah, you look like such the picture of health there,” he replied with a hacking cough, clambering up to his feet as well. “You know, Ish, if you’d rather we’d continue with the rest of the gang, maybe you can dress yourself up in that sloppy armor and throw yourself in front of everyone so I can get a good shot in.”
“A good shot, huh?” she sneered, forcing a smirk even as she massaged her still tingling arm. “Oh yeah, like that time you unloaded all those rounds of that sniper rifle on some half-dead abomination and had to bail out and shove Sinclair in to sub for you.”
The two’s glares clashed against each other, a metaphorical trading of blows in lieu of the ones their bodies so loudly protested against. Were either to have their own way, they’d already be rolling around on the ground, hands grasped against the other’s throat to wipe that cheeky, aggravating grin off their stupid face. Despite how much Ishmael yearned to punch Heathcliff in his face or how much Heathcliff wanted to yank Ishmael around by her hair, the two could barely muster the strength to stand, let alone move to kill one another yet again.
Finally, with a sigh, Ishmael rolled her eyes and turned to leave. “Fine, whatever. I’m gonna head to my room and-“
Then she collapsed.
“Oh…”
It was less that the pain in her legs overwhelmed her and more that she simply could no longer feel them, as though she’d been bisected from her waist down. Try as she could, the only thing left in her body that could even move were her eyes, frantically darting around as her vision flipped down from the looming corridor overhead to the carpet underneath. Not even her arms seemed to react, content to leave her to smash her face directly into the floor.
Yet even as she grit her teeth and braced herself, the impact never came, a rush of air swooping underneath her as an arm latched around her stomach and pulled her up. She’d have yelped in astonishment had her throat not seemingly closed up, her mouth suddenly dry and her tongue paralyzed. Her body drooping with shockwaves of pain pulsing from her bad arm, her eyes darted to the side, meeting a relieved Heathcliff’s as he picked the both of them off the ground.
“You alright, Ish?” His voice was unusually solemn, as though the argument that had occurred only a few seconds ago was but a distant memory.
“Just… feel like ass…” she said with a low drawl, shaking her head. “Sorry.”
“No prob, lass,” he replied, pulling Ishmael’s arm up and over his shoulders. “Come on. I’ll get you to you room and-“
“No.”
He paused, flashing an inquisitive glance at the girl.
“… Get me out of this bus, Heathcliff,” she continued. Sweat caked her forehead and dripped into her eyes, causing her to blink and groan.
“… Alright, then. Hold on tight, alright?”
If she had it in her, she’d make some snide remark about how she “didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.” Hell, if she really wanted to, she’d at least snort and flick Heathcliff on the back of his head, but admittedly she struggled to keep hold of Heathcliff’s shoulder with her still good hand. Halfway between a bridal carry and being slung over the Sinner’s shoulder like a bag of rice, the occasional jostling as he trudged through Mephistopheles’s winding backrooms caused Ishmael’s teeth to rattle in her skull and a faint sensation of nausea to build in her stomach. Maybe, she thought wryly, it was that bitch, Carmen, worming her way into her head through her EGO now that she was exhausted and vulnerable.
Couldn’t have been the afternoon of sheer monotony and repetition she and the other Sinners endured when entertaining Dante’s morbid curiosity as they ventured into the Superposition of the Mirror Dungeon.
The door opened with a faint groan, emptying the two Sinners into the plainer front end of Mephistopheles, the normally busy seats emptied as its passengers were still in the thick of their expedition. Much to the duo’s relief, the paralyzing glare of their discerning guide was nowhere to be seen, the bus absent of Vergilius and Charon. Ishmael let out a long-held breath, wiping the sweat from her brow as their last few steps through the bus were quiet and uneventful, the doors sliding open to a mostly vacant parking lot. The cloudy skies above were painted with streaks of cerulean and grey, embellished with lines of scarlet from the sun.
“Alright, lass,” Heathcliff grumbled, setting Ishmael down on her feet. “So did you wanna do something? Because if you wanted to vomit, I’ll cave your head in if you do it on my shoes.”
“By the Wings, can you stop being so pigheaded for once in your damn life?” Ishmael retorted, unsteadily swaying from side to side before finally pressing her back against Mephistopheles and sliding down to the ground. “I just didn’t wanna stay cooped in the bus.”
Her good arm wrapped around her shins before pulling her knees up to her chest, letting her rest her weary head on top. Her body may as well have been little more than a leaden weight, the exhaustion enveloping every single muscle save for the ones in her neck, letting her gaze at the distant sun. The crooked horizon, marred with unevenly spaced skyscrapers and plumes of smoke, partially obscured the fleeting star as it began its descent, leaving only bare fragments of its rays to creep past the urban canopy.
The girl closed her eyes briefly, opening them again to the crystalline shores of the Great Lake, to the bustling boardwalk melding the idle chatter of tourists with the rumbling of the waves. Evanescent as the dream was, she could still taste the saltiness of the popsicle in her mouth, her sparkling eyes dazzled by the peerless sunset of her fantasies.
Every so often, the Sinners would try to recall specific memories of mirror worlds their Identities hailed from. While general concepts or broad settings like the W Corp Train, the Wuthering Heights manor, or even just the routine exterminations of R Corp stuck out even after they were lounging in the bus, most could barely recall snippets of their past lives. Faust off-handedly compared it to a dream, engrossing oneself in an entirely separate world with its own logic, its own timeline, its own memories, only for all of it to vanish like smoke once the Sinner reawoke to their life in Limbus Company. It didn’t bother her too much; scurrying around like hunted rats while plotting against K Corp or serving as Limbus Company’s disposable front line to clear a path for the Sinners hardly evoked the type of memories she’d want to commit to paper.
But she was quite sure there was no such Identity Dante had in their possession where Ishmael was just… completely content. A girl part of a well-to-do Office, a rising Fixer with her comrades-in-arms facing the mundanity of the City. No Ahab, no whales, no boughs, no death.
She grimaced as she chased fruitlessly after the remnants of her fleeting memory, the details of that golden beach already slowly melting into each other like ice cream left out in the sun. Was it just a dream? Did she stumble into a mirror world by mistake, like what had happened to Nelly all the way back in Wuthering Heights? Would she be able to see that carefree world again?
Was that Ishmael happy?
How come she got to be happy?
… Why her? Why that Ishmael? Why not… me?
Her fingers dug into the asphalt beneath her, her eyes clenched shut as her mind tried to gather the fragments of that fantastical world even as they slipped through her fingers like sand. She saw muddled images of smiling faces, a worklog of tasks whose text blurred together into an incoherent soup, warped photos of vacations in bygone times, the friends she’d wrapped her arms around somehow familiar, yet unrecognizable strangers as she tried to focus on their featureless faces. Each agonizing second stripped yet another miniscule detail of that far-off world from her memory, bit by bit, until she was sure that she’d even forget it was a dream.
“Ish?”
Her eyes flickered open, darting up to the familiar voice. The last, murky images of that distant dream faded from view, leaving only a concerned Heathcliff looming over her, accompanied by two pieces of an all too familiar turquoise treat.
“… Is that ice cream?” she asked, instinctively reaching out.
“Yeah, you like sea salt, right?” he replied, carefully dropping one into her trembling fingers. She snatched it like drowning man latching onto a life preserver, nearly snapping the stick in the popsicle in two as she munched down on it.
“Mmmm…” she moaned, settling back into her small perch against Mephistopheles.
“Woah, you alright there?” Heathcliff chuckled, leaning against the bus next to her. “Were you starving or something? Miss lunch or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” she replied, shaking her head. “Just… haven’t had this in a while. Thanks.”
“Not that big a deal.” Heathcliff shrugged, taking a small bite out of his own popsicle. “They carry these all the kind in the small convenience stores we pass by every so often. You should take a gander yourself, lass. Wasn’t hard for me to get this.”
She took another bite, averting her gaze from the smiling Heathcliff. Admittedly, frozen treats like popsicles were hardly some luxurious commodity found only in the byzantine recluses of A Corp. She could easily stumble onto a dime a dozen in any store, mass produced by several Wings from E Corp to K Corp. She loathed to shatter Heathcliff’s feigned modesty as she swallowed the rest of the frozen treat, the tangy taste of U Corp’s famous sea salt running down her throat. One of U Corp’s prized delicacies, only the most top end stores would seriously carry them, and even then only in individually wrapped products. The only way someone could possibly get a bulk order of them would be to personally order them from U Corp.
But of course, the best kindness she could share to reciprocate Heathcliff’s gesture would be simply not to wound his pride. With a content smile, she cast her gaze outward, to the final moments of the sun setting underneath the crooked horizon, faint shades of crimson giving the murky twilight a vibrant accent. She let out a long, longing sigh, not once breaking away from the sunset. “… Hey, Heathcliff, we’re due for some vacation time, yeah?”
“Vacation time?” Heathcliff tilted his head quizzically, inwardly rummaging through the numerous, droning lectures and updates Faust went through weekly that he’d often lounge through. “Uhhh… maybe? I think we get next Friday and the weekend off or something? What’s up?”
“U Corp has a much better view of the horizon than this,” she said, finally turning her eyes toward Heathcliff. A faint twinkle seemed to reflect in her iris, though whether it was from glee or from dried tears, she couldn’t say. “I was thinking of taking a small trip back home, grab a bite to eat, maybe relax at the beach. You wanna come with?”
“U Corp, huh?” Heathcliff cocked an eyebrow. “What, so we can spend all day getting ganked by trash crabs on a rundown beach?”
“No, you fucking idiot,” she snarled, summoning enough strength to kick at his leg with her own. “I… might’ve been saving up to get a tourist visa for U Corp. Just so happen to have enough for two for the weekend. And, you know, I got the ahn anyway, and you’re here, and-“
“Sure, Ish.”
The girl’s face lit up, her expression contorting into an inextricable mixture of rage and embarrassment. Heathcliff smirked, watching Ishmael’s hand ball into a fist before reluctantly relaxing, pursing her lips as she stared back at the sunset.
“I hear the sunset’s better on the Great Lake,” Heathcliff commented.
“… Yeah, it is.”
Ishmael’s body drooped, her head resting against Heathcliff’s knee. She could barely react as his hand reached down, cradling her gently before he joined her on the ground, letting her finally rest against his shoulder. The last memories of that bygone world, the fantastical dream of Limbus Office, seemed to fade entirely from her memory. She could barely recall her room, the jobs still lined up for her, the plethora of clothes hanging from her wardrobe, the laughter filling the room during every karaoke night. A fragmented mush of obscure, patchwork memories clung to the peripherals of her vision until even they, too, seemed to fade into dust. Still, she could still recall a faint sense of warmth, a genuine affection that cradled her weary soul even as the precious memories attached to it faded one after the other.
Her eyes flickered open as she yawned, fatigue threatening to plunge her into her dreams once again. As her hand fell into Heathcliff’s, her eyes returned to the sunset one final time, gazing at the auburn sun in the distance.