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“Have you slept in a cabin before?” Dostoevsky asks as they take their boots off, placing them on the nearby rack. They hang their coat and hat as well, stepping off the genkan and turning to face Sigma.
Sigma shuts the door behind her, breathing out a sigh of relief at finally being away from the chill of Hokkaido’s winter air. It's definitely colder than anything she's used to. The snow is much worse than the coldest days inside a dark cell in the desert.
Dostoevsky, of course, was unbothered, and it irritated her just a little, because maybe she did want to see them shiver and be a little miserable. Because maybe there are some sort of ugly feelings directed towards them that should eventually be unpacked.
“No, never.” Sigma decides to answer politely, squashing down her feelings, because niceties feel required when she’s about to be living in a cabin with a terrorist for several days.
She takes off her own shoes and puts them on the rack as far away from Dostoevsky’s boots, shedding her coat, her scarf, hat, and gloves as well.
Dostoevsky has an indescribable look in their eyes. Just looking at them in general, but specifically into their eyes, sent a shiver up Sigma's spine—eyes are called the windows to the soul, after all.
But with Dostoevsky, there was nothing to be read.
She had become a master of looking into the eyes of her captors, able to tell if she was in immediate danger quite easily by the slightest shift in an expression.
There's nothing to use against them when there's nothing to be seen.
It’s just for five days. Just for a mission. Just talk to some affiliates of Dostoevsky’s, and then they both can go back ‘home’ to Yokohama.
What a nightmare.
That was five days ago.
Today was the last day of meetings, the two of them having just returned from the final one. All they need to do is take their bags from the cabin and leave, since they had already cleaned the place beforehand.
The mission wasn’t even that noteworthy—to her, at least.
It was all talk. Jargon she didn't know.
Dostoevsky was the one doing all the work, Sigma just standing around dumbly and keeping to herself, silently judging the attire of the affiliates. Dostoevsky clearly had no problem with her lack of contribution, since they hadn’t asked her to do much of anything, which just makes her wonder why she was there in the first place.
Much to Sigma’s horror, dismay, and many other unpleasant emotions, there are many more days of unwanted proximity with Dostoevsky to come. All because a sudden snowstorm was forecasted. Their flight back to Yokohama was promptly cancelled.
It could be worse. At least, that’s what she tries to tell herself after coming to the realization she always manages to get in some sort of mess.
She could've been stuck with Kamui. He’s clearly a miserable man—but a different type of miserable from her—and they didn’t even like the same types of alcohol, so they can’t even bond over that. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience to be stuck with him.
It could’ve been Bram. While she certainly liked him a bit more than the others, mostly because he was less overwhelming, he slept a lot. Which meant she would’ve been awfully bored, perhaps dying of boredom before frostbite. Staring at cracks in walls and ceilings stopped being entertaining after getting a taste of a normal life, so she’d need something more.
Gogol.
…
Yeah, it really could’ve been worse. At least Dostoevsky doesn’t cry about aging, or sleep for weeks at a time, or is Gogol. She has her own list of issues with Dostoevsky, that much is certain, but surely there were some upsides that made them more appealing than the others to be stuck with.
Dostoevsky is a literal terrorist, a manipulator, a murderer, a kidnapper, a cybercriminal, they probably kick puppies for fun, etcetera. Lots of bad things. But at least they…
…
…
…
Huh.
Well, at least she tried to think of something nice.
Sigma stares down at the bed that has been hers for the past few days and will be for many more. It was already freshly washed, neatly made, and prepared for the next group that would've slept here. All of that got thrown out the window, but at least she gets fresh sheets tonight.
Swiftly, she reaches into her backpack, putting the gun that the Decay of the Angel provided her with under the pillow. She’s surprised they trusted her with such a thing, especially considering she had some experience with shooting, but she won’t complain. It’s a bit of safety.
There’s a tap against the doorframe before Dostoevsky steps right into her room—they really liked to enter without permission—but it’s her fault for not closing and locking the door.
“The first snow is falling,” Dostoevsky says, gesturing to the small window above the desk nestled in the corner. “Would you like to watch it with me?”
Sigma blinks a few times, startled. All this time in the cabin, they’ve just brushed past each other, only speaking to each other the bare minimum. The most they’ve talked outside mission meeting rooms was to debate over who got to eat the last plum—she was willing to give it up, but they insisted she have it. Now all of a sudden they want to watch the snow with her?
“Why?” she decides to ask. Because why the hell were they wanting to hang out with her? Why was she even here in the first place? Gogol would’ve been a much better mission partner, but Dostoevsky insisted she come along instead. Were they seeing something in her that she couldn’t?
“Don’t overthink it,” Dostoevsky answers, a knowing look in their eyes that she immediately decides she hates appearing. They move out of the doorway, already moving towards the living room as if they expected her to say yes. Then they peer over their shoulder. “Were you not going to just stare out your own window? Why not do it with some company?”
She was going to do that, actually. She had plans to shuffle out and make conversation with Dostoevsky eventually, but not this soon. She hasn’t even had the chance to script any conversations, but oh well.
Quietly exhaling, she decides she’s not in the mood to come up with excuses, stepping out of her room to join Dostoevsky.
Two velvet chairs sit angled towards the window, light snow falling and joining the already copious amounts of it layering the ground. It was up to her ankles when she stepped inside the cabin just half an hour ago. Dostoevsky sits on the right chair, and Sigma momentarily hesitates before taking the left one.
“The weather is quite nice,” Dostoevsky says, tilting their head towards the window.
Oh, they’re doing small talk.
Sigma is awful at small talk.
In these past five days of the mission, she’s seen Dostoevsky speak to all of their affiliates with such ease that she thought they could talk forever and not be boring. She almost envied it.
So what if she was holding onto every word they said, slightly in awe of how easily they were respected, so easily acknowledged and seen?
She’s silly for that envy and bitterness—Dostoevsky has an established role and reputation in this world, and the same can’t be said for herself.
She never expected someone so formal, such as Dostoevsky, to do small talk. About the weather, of all things.
“It is,” Sigma replies, folding her hands in her lap. “It's already so high. And it's supposed to get worse?”
Meanwhile, she's terrible at making conversation. But at least she has the excuse of never having proper opportunities to socialize until just a few months ago.
She’s never been properly socialized. She’s never been talked to in a way that didn’t make it feel like she was being looked down upon. Even now, away from that desert, it felt like there was never enough safety or time in the day to make small talk like this.
Dostoevsky doesn’t seem to care about this horribly awkward conversation, their lips twitching slightly into a smile with a nod. “Yes, it'll get worse. It's certainly not the worst I’ve seen. In my hometown, small children could easily be swallowed by the snow on the worst days.”
The mention of a hometown makes some ugly and bitter emotions stir up within Sigma. Again.
‘Home’.
(The man who had cracked her ribs with his steel-toed boots proceeded to cheerfully talk about how he couldn’t wait to see his kids back at home as she writhed beneath him. Would his kids still love him if they knew what he did to provide for them?
A fellow prisoner, someone on the older side, would always talk to her about how he missed home, fondly looking at a photo of his wife in a locket. Their captors proceeded to steal and destroy it. He died the following week. Would his wife see home as a home without her spouse, her whole heart?
She’d live vicariously through the stories of the other prisoners and their homes that they missed dearly, knowing that there was nothing for her to miss, nothing to do but be used again and again.
Then there was Dostoevsky. The person who offered her a home, but at a small price. She really had no other choice but to accept their offer, because it meant survival—her other options were dying alone in the desert or getting captured again.)
Now here she is, wrapped up in another horrid organization, her ability once again centering her usefulness with them, the cycle continuing. She's not sure what she was expecting. All that was needed was her ability to be used one time, then maybe this could all be over, once and for all.
Sigma snaps out of her bitter spiral of grim thoughts, finally speaking. “Saying that from experience?”
“Yes and no,” Dostoevsky replies. “I was sickly as a child, so I could never play with other children during the winter. But I’d enjoy watching them overestimate the snow’s depth from my window.”
“...Oh,” she utters quietly, looking down at her hands. “I’m sorry. For asking.”
“It’s alright. I do wish you’d stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault.”
“Sorry,” Sigma says again before she can stop herself. Apologies always spilled out so instinctively. Damn it.
She’s already embarrassed herself. Apologizing after literally being told not to. There are still many more days of forced proximity to go. She might as well just lock herself in her room forever. Or sleep outside and let the snow claim her.
Silence falls between them.
Sigma’s not sure what to do. She’s never really had a chance to relax ever. Not even now that she was out of the desert. Her lack of relaxation is partially her fault—since the day Dostoevsky recruited her, she’s been working tirelessly to make herself as useful as possible so she’s not disposed of. She really hasn’t had a normal conversation, and she’s made things awkward, so she has no idea how to salvage this.
“Dostoevsky, I have a question,” Sigma blurts out, clenching her fists. She side-eyes them, but looking at them makes her feel worse. “During all of those meetings, how were you just… able to talk? So easily?”
Dostoevsky looks away from the window but doesn't yet look at her. “I’ve had practice,” they answer. “You’ll get your chance, too. Once you fulfill your end of the deal, of course.”
Right. She’ll be getting her home out of this.
It's a simple deal, really. When the time comes, she’ll head to Yokohama, politely ask the bald man that she forgot the name of for the location of the page of the Book, retrieve it, lend it to Kamui, and then write her ideal home into the page.
Before, when her life was just sleeping in cold, dark cells, she imagined the bare minimum. A studio with a warm bed. Warm food. A place that had literally any other way of cleaning herself aside from a bucket of freezing water.
She had once told Gogol about her ideal home when she first joined the Decay of the Angel, foolishly thinking he’d answer in a kind, friendly, and sane way. Instead, he cackled at her and told her to get better standards. So she did.
She can see it now. A two-story home with yellow walls and a red roof, surrounded by trees and flowers. Far away from the rest of the world, so that nobody could find her and hurt her ever again. It’s a bit silly for an ideal home when most would wish for luxury, but it’s better than her previous vision of the absolute minimum.
Ah, zoning out again.
Sigma blinks back into reality, finding that Dostoevsky is looking at her with a subtle hint of amusement. “I won’t be getting any chances to socialize,” she finally says. “I want my home to be somewhere I can be alone.”
Huh, it gets easy to talk when it’s about home. It’s always home, home, home with her. She wonders if the other members of the Decay are sick of hearing about it.
“The boss didn’t tell you?” Dostoevsky then asks, tilting their head.
Sigma’s heart sinks to her stomach at the innocent question. Well, as innocent as anything spilling from Dostoevsky’s lips can possibly get. She croaks out a simple, “Tell me what?”
“There has been a change of plans. We plan to stage another attack to spread distrust around not only Yokohama, but the entire world,” Dostoevsky begins, propping their chin on their palm. The snow has gotten heavier in the few minutes they’ve been talking. “The boss would like to use your reward as the base of our next attack, for the sake of efficiency. Which, unfortunately for you, means that you won’t have much of a choice when it comes to how it looks.”
There’s many mixed feelings that bubble to the surface. She wants to bury her face in her hands. She wants to wordlessly get up and leave—maybe sit outside and let the snow claim her for real this time because this time she's not being dramatic.
Maybe she could get the gun under the pillow. She could shoot Dostoevsky! Or maybe she could shoot herself and change the trajectory of their life by making the organization lose a valuable asset, or something like that!
Anything but this.
She should've known better.
But reacting visibly is bad.
Sigma takes a deep breath. Clenches her fists hard enough that her knuckles turn white. She really does want to yell at them. How the hell did she get left in the dark over something so important, again?
“It’ll be a casino in the sky,” Dostoevsky continues, ignoring her inner—and outer, despite her efforts—turmoil. “You’ll handle the patrons. That’s your social interaction practice. Your home. Would you like to know why it's a casino?”
Sigma doesn’t want to be here anymore. She abruptly stands up, the legs of the chair grating harshly against the wooden floorboards. “No. I’m going to go,” she announces, her voice a bit too sharp, missing that placating tone that she usually coats her words with for her own safety. “I’m tired from earlier.”
Dostoevsky silently nods, looking back towards the window. “Alright,” they’re quiet for a moment, the only sound being the creaking of the floorboard as Sigma walks away. “Same time tomorrow, we should meet here and talk some more. Properly, this time. Having a schedule might keep you from boredom.”
Sigma stops at the doorway to her bedroom. Despite her resentment building up towards the other, she finds herself nodding as well. “Same time tomorrow.”
Sigma’s not sure why she agreed to talk to Dostoevsky again.
Maybe she’s lost it, and all the years of loneliness make her willing to talk to anyone, even if they hurt her. Except for Gogol, who she tries avoiding…
She’s obviously angry. So angry, she just stared at the ceiling and didn’t sleep until Dostoevsky was already waking up for the day, and only then did she shut her eyes, then waking up well past noon.
She won’t be getting that two-story home in the middle of the woods. She’s getting a damn casino where she’s responsible for everything and everyone—the literal opposite of what she wanted. And nobody ever told her what the plans were.
Probably for a good reason. If she knew the truth sooner, before she got too involved in the Decay of the Angel, she would've run away. Or at least tried to.
At the same time as yesterday, she finds herself slipping out of her bedroom, aching with hunger after sleeping the day away. The sensation makes her skin crawl, because this is the first time she's felt hungry in a long while.
Dostoevsky is already waiting for her, sitting on the chair on the right side. An end table that was once near the couch has been moved between the two chairs, a set of teacups sitting on it. There’s also a jar of raspberry jam and a metal teaspoon measurer.
“I was beginning to think you’d never come,” Dostoevsky says, gesturing to the empty chair. “While I was waiting, I thought of conversation topics that you wouldn’t overthink. I think you should quiet your brain every once in a while.”
Sigma blinks, already feeling defensiveness creep in.
‘Quiet my brain? Dostoevsky wants me to let my guard down!’ she thinks to herself, frantic. ‘Now that I know about the plans with the casino, they expect me to run away! They’re planning on killing me if I get comfortable!’
…She doesn’t overthink! It’s just a reasonable thought process to have right now—every little group she’s been in executed traitors, so this one would be no different.
Caution is normal.
Sure, she scripts conversations, hangs on to every word for hidden meaning, and anticipates betrayal at any moment, but that’s normal! Totally normal and human things that a totally normal and human person does.
“Did you have any luck?” Sigma asks, sliding into the chair. The curtains at the window are drawn, revealing that it’s still snowing—she heard it pelting down all night, so it’s been almost a full day straight at this point.
“No,” Dostoevsky answers, leaning over to stir their spoon into their tea. “So I’ve decided I’ll bore you instead. Are you familiar with the rules of chess?”
Sigma had become very familiar with the sound of angry mumbling and the sound of chess pieces being thrown to the ground while staying with her third, or maybe it was her fourth, group she had 'worked' with. Regardless of what group it was, it was all fuzzy memories now, aside from those sounds.
“I’d need a reminder,” she says, eyeing her own cup of tea—at least, the cup she assumes is hers—warily. It’s probably poisoned. “I’m sure it won’t be boring.”
Dostoevsky nods, leaning down to pick up a suitcase that was on the floor near the leg of their chair. They move the cups of tea and jar of jam aside, opening the suitcase to reveal a chessboard. They unfold it and begin placing pieces in some unspoken order, with a row of short pieces on each side. The half of the board with black pieces is facing them.
“That’s what’s in there? You carry that around all the time?” Sigma questions, raising a brow. She’s seen them holding onto it this entire trip and just assumed it held documents or… something more practical.
“I normally imagine games of chess without the physical set,” Dostoevsky says, placing the tip of their finger on top of a piece that looks like a horse. “When I have someone accompanying me, I’ll carry it around. It makes it easier for the less imaginative individuals.”
Sigma holds back a scoff at what feels like a subtle jab towards her. “Once I learn, I won’t need the board,” she decides to say, faking all the confidence she can.
Dostoevsky smiles as if that’s exactly what they wanted to hear.
“Good,” they say, then moving their finger to the row of identical short pieces. “This is the pawn. The most disposable. It can only ever move forward one square at a time,” Dostoevsky takes one of the pawns, moving it forward two squares, immediately contradicting what they just said. Sigma’s about to call it out, but they continue. “Except for each pawn’s first move, where it can advance two squares.”
Sigma shuts her mouth. “Oh.”
“The pawn can only capture another piece by moving diagonally one square. If a pawn makes it to the other side of the board, it can be promoted into any other piece except for another pawn or a king.”
Even the disposable can move up in the world. How funny that is.
Their fingers return to the horse-shaped piece from earlier. “The knight. It has the most unique movement of all the pieces,” Dostoevsky moves the piece two squares forward, then one square to the right. “It can move in the shape of the letter ‘L’. It is also the only piece that can move over other pieces.”
Sigma points towards one of the taller pieces that has a groove in it. “What’s this one? Why does it look like that?”
“Eager to learn, aren’t we?”
Sigma moves her hand away from the piece. “Is that a problem?”
Dostoevsky tilts their head. “No,” they say, continuing. “You’re looking at the bishop. The groove in it symbolizes a bishop’s mitre. A ceremonial headdress. This piece can move diagonally in any direction. Some say it is more valuable than a knight despite them having equal point values.”
Now there’s ‘point values’? Some more complexity on top of everything else going on. Sigma keeps quiet, finding herself oddly captivated by their explanations.
Dostoevsky’s hands move to hover over the two tallest pieces on the board, the ones between the two bishops. They pick up the shorter of the two, holding it between their forefinger and thumb. “And this is the queen. She is the most powerful piece on the board, able to move forward, backward, sideways, or diagonally as far as possible, but unable to move over other pieces.”
Then, Sigma speaks, picking up the tallest piece. “And this is the king?”
“That would be correct. He can move in all the same directions as the queen, but only one square at a time. The king may never be moved into check, as that’s an illegal move. In that scenario, the move is taken back, and something else must be done. If the king is in check and cannot find a way to defend himself or be defended, the game is over.”
Sigma nods, eyes drifting over to the one piece that hasn’t been discussed. It’s the one in the corner of the board, shaped like a castle. Why was such an important piece, the king, not talked about last? Why second to last? “What is—”
“—that is the rook. I saved it for last because it’s my favorite. It can move as far as it wants, but only forward, backward, or sideways. This piece has a special interaction with the king,” Dostoevsky takes the king from Sigma’s hand, placing it and the queen they were holding back onto their respective squares.
Dostoevsky moves the pawn that’s in front of the king forward, then slides the bishop so that it's to the right of the pawn. Then, they move the knight so that it’s to the left of the pawn.
“This interaction requires that neither the king nor the rook have been moved and that there are no pieces between the both of them,” they then slide the king and rook so that they’re right next to each other, leaving blank squares where the initial positions of the rook and king were. Then, they swap squares.
“This is called castling. In the scenario I showed you specifically, it’s called kingside castling, since it occurred on the side of the board of the king. You can also do this on the queen’s side of the board, but that requires moving the queen.”
“You really like chess,” Sigma says dumbly, staring down at the board. She gets all the rules, but it’s just a lot to absorb in a short period of time. “You recited all of that like you were reading from a book.”
“Not from a book,” Dostoevsky corrects, leaning back in their seat. “I could’ve been more technical. Perhaps that is for another time. I want you to learn the rules easily.”
Snow beats against the window, as if to remind them of the storm—or maybe it just reminds Sigma, since she forgot all about it during Dostoevsky’s recital of the rules of chess. “I appreciate it,” she says, almost dryly, mirroring their gesture. “Is that it?”
Dostoevsky begins to reassemble the pieces to their proper places, bangs falling over their eyes. “Allow me to quiz you.”
Sigma sighs. “Go ahead.”
“In a game of chess, why do you think someone would castle kingside?”
Sigma bites her lip. Stares at the ceiling. Now isn't that a question?
“To move the king to safety,” she settles with saying. She side-eyes Dostoevsky, hoping to see something like approval on their face. “And to get the rook to the offense.”
Dostoevsky smiles. “Very good,” they say, gesturing to the board. “Would you like to play a round?”
It’s day three of the snowstorm.
Actually, it’s only two minutes into the third day of the snowstorm, since Sigma has been counting down the minutes until midnight.
Sigma’s been thinking.
There’s most definitely a hidden meaning behind the whole ‘rules of chess’ thing from earlier. It’s Fyodor Dostoevsky, after all. They’re called a ‘demon’ by those who oppose them. They wouldn’t just kindly explain the rules of chess without it having a double meaning.
She lost every single round against Dostoevsky, of course, yet she kept trying. She really isn’t that annoyed at her repeated losses—she’s no prodigy after all. She’s just an ordinary person at the end of the day.
(“Check,” Dostoevsky says, castling kingside. They had been taking turns on who plays black and who plays white—this round, Sigma’s on black.
She stares down at the board. Indeed, nothing can be done to protect her king. “I lost. But the round just barely started.”
“Rather quickly, might I add,” they say, beginning to move the pieces back to their original positions. “You perform better when you’re playing white. Very interesting.”)
She’s sure that the chess pieces represent people. And she has an idea of who is what.
Goncharov, whom she has only encountered once, is surely a knight. With the way Goncharov acts, so unpredictable and devoted, it’s a fitting piece for her.
Bram is a bishop. Slightly restricted in movement, considering he has nothing from the collar down and has a sword impaled in him, confining him to a coffin.
Gogol is no doubt the queen. With the freedom to move around wherever, it fits that man perfectly.
The king is hard to decide. The obvious choice would be Kamui, since he’s the leader of the organization, but Dostoevsky is the one that seems really in charge. So Dostoevsky is the king. Maybe Kamui is a bishop like Bram.
Then there’s Sigma herself.
It’s obvious—she’s just a pawn. Disposable, doomed to never make it across the board and become something else. And pretty much everyone else involved in the Decay of the Angel is a pawn too, when she thinks about it.
God, what is she doing, just sitting here uselessly, as if she’s accepting her fate? It’s just the two of them in this cabin—none of those other members are breathing down her neck.
No witnesses.
And she has a gun under her pillow.
By the time someone would come looking for Dostoevsky, and her as well, she’d be far away from here. She could hitch a ride on a boat and go overseas, hopefully off of the radar of the rest of the Decay of the Angel.
It’s really simple. Even if it’s a sloppy kill, nobody is going to be there to stop her.
All she’d need to do is kill Dostoevsky, then wait a few days until the storm cleared. It wouldn’t be the first time she sat with a dead body—she could handle the smell and all the disgusting changes that come with decay.
It’s not her first time pulling a trigger on someone, either. Not all of her escapes from organizations in the desert were made by waiting for peaceful opportunities.
She rolls out of bed, retrieving the gun from under the pillow. She loads it and switches off the safety.
She experimentally steps on the floor, cringing as the floorboards creak. This little cabin is quite old, so old that every person’s footsteps and slightest movements can be heard. Except for Dostoevsky’s—they skulk around like some kind of ghost, never making a sound.
It makes running into them in the hallway rather terrifying.
Which she hopes doesn’t happen tonight, because she’s not bothering with concealing her gun.
She’s not even sure if Dostoevsky carries their gun around. Well, if they do, she won’t complain about getting shot by them in self-defense if she gets caught. She’d rather die than live to see the consequences of a murder attempt anyway.
She shifts to be propped up on the tips of her toes, then tries stepping again. The creaking is quieter than before, barely audible under the sounds of the storm that’s still going on outside. It’ll have to do.
This is the heaviest a gun has ever felt in her hand.
She quietly steps out of her room, down the hall, and to the left. Dostoevsky had insisted on taking the bedroom furthest from the front door, and it really doesn’t help soothe her climbing stress, the hallway seeming like it stretched on forever. She finally makes it to the door.
It’s slightly ajar.
Sigma lightly pushes the back of her hand against the door, holding her breath, silently praying that the door hinges don’t creak. She only lets herself breathe again when the door fully opens, luckily silent.
She takes a moment to observe the little space that Dostoevsky has been living in for the past several days.
The bed is tucked in the right corner of the room, a head of black hair popping out from beneath a muted orange-colored comforter. On the floor by the foot of the bed are clothes that they wore the previous few days, poking out of a reusable bag. Next to that is the suitcase that has the chess set.
There’s a desk beneath the window with… one, two, three, four… five laptops on it. Who the hell needs five laptops?
Draped on a chair in the opposite corner from the bed is what appears to be a planned outfit—it has much fewer layers than a winter outfit should, so it’s probably for the plane ride back to Yokohama. Whenever that is. The snow still shows no signs of letting up.
It’s so… ordinary. Minus the five laptops. It almost makes Dostoevsky look like a normal person.
Sigma tiptoes closer to the bed, observing the person sleeping in the bed before her. Dostoevsky lies facing the wall, like there’s no worry of a threat creeping up on them. So trusting, especially for such a closed-off individual.
Letting out a quiet breath, she aims the barrel of the gun towards the back of their head but maintains a few feet of distance.
She feels sick.
Not that it’s an unusual feeling—her anxiety that constantly plagues her always makes her feel nauseous. It’s like a burn in her throat that can never be swallowed and a never-ending pit in her stomach. But it’s so much worse.
Dostoevsky is still asleep. They wouldn’t feel a thing.
Her body doesn’t shake, but her mind certainly races. She’s so close. So close to a way out.
She won’t have to have the one place that she calls her own be the location of a terror attack. She won’t have to interact with customers all day—though deep down, maybe she does want people around her. Just not like this. She’s not sure what she wants.
…
Why are you hesitating?
You killed the other man for less.
She shakes her head, the thoughts on the back of her mind very much unwelcome right now.
Do it.
“Damn it,” Sigma curses under her breath, lowering the gun and hastily turning away.
She can’t afford to be so impulsive. It was foolish of her to even humor the idea of murder.
Maybe, just maybe, if she’s good, if she does everything the Decay of the Angel wants her to do… she can try to ask Kamui if he can use the Book to give her the home she really wants. After everything is said and done.
Killing Dostoevsky wouldn’t really fix things, as much as she wants to. She doesn’t need more blood on her hands than she already will in due time.
Toeing her way out of the room, she gently closes the door and makes her way back to her own room.
—
It’s a short walk from her room to the kitchen, a path that she could follow with her eyes closed from how many times she’s aimlessly paced around the entire cabin.
“You look unwell,” Dostoevsky comments from the sad-looking dining room table. It’s small enough to only really fit two people, with one leg shorter than the other, making it all wobbly. That suitcase is on the floor by their feet.
Sigma sighs and nods, not doubting them for a moment. She takes the seat across from them without much hesitation. “I had a bad dream.”
“Oh? Is it the same one you told me about last time?”
Telling Dostoevsky about what kept her up at night was her biggest mistake. And her biggest lie.
Truth be told, she didn’t dream in the usual sense. She does know she has them, because every night without fail, she wakes up with a racing heart and occasional phantom pains. Yet she has no memories of what actually happened to cause such sensations.
It’s the lingering terror that lets her know it was nothing good. Something that most people would call nightmares.
So whenever she’s asked about her ‘dreams’, she simply just recalls terrible memories of events that actually happened to her, passing them off as silly little brain-made events. It’s really a great excuse to get things off of her chest, but it never makes her feel better.
Finally, Sigma responds. “A different one,” she sighs, steepling her fingers as she rests her elbows on the table. Then she realizes she’s mimicking something that Dostoevsky does, and she hastily moves her hands to her lap.
“Care to tell?” Dostoevsky asks, leaning down to pick up the suitcase. They open it and begin to assemble the board.
“I…” Sigma trails off. Would it be too on the nose to talk about that one ‘dream’ where she killed someone, especially considering what happened last night? Why is she even considering telling them this in the first place? “Why are you setting up the board?”
“I thought you’d like to play some more,” they reply, setting down the last piece to have the board properly assembled. “Or will your lack of sleep be a detriment to your performance?”
“Well, you already have everything ready. I might as well.”
“If you said no, I would’ve just played against myself.”
Sigma ignores that. She grabs the board and rotates it so that the white pieces are on her side. Dostoevsky said she performed better on white, and she’ll take any advantages she can get. “That doesn’t sound fun.”
“You're right. I’m glad you’re playing,” Dostoevsky replies, gesturing to the board as a silent invitation for her to make the first move. “You have a spark in your eyes when you play. Do you want to win against me, perhaps?”
Biting the inside of her cheek, Sigma makes her first move. “I’ll try to.”
They huff out, a noise that almost sounds like a scoff. Then they move a piece. “I’ll ask again. Care to tell me about this dream of yours?”
Sigma moves a piece in response. “I don’t know why I’m still thinking about it. It means nothing,” she says, already weaving up the lie. “I dreamt that I killed someone that was sleeping.”
“Hmm,” is the only noise Dostoevsky makes at first. “That’s a very normal kind of dream to have.”
“I’m sure it’s normal for someone like you,” Sigma says without much thought. "I should've just waited and told Bram about this instead."
“You’ve gotten bold,” Dostoevsky finally moves their piece, resting their chin on their palm. “I guarantee you that he would be no better. Someone of his age would see dreams as omens of the future or a message from God.”
Right, because Bram is a vampire that's thousands of years old and hasn't learned anything about the modern world.
Sigma stares down at the board, already feeling cornered despite the match just barely beginning. She moves a piece. “...You’re right. How would you interpret a dream about murder, then?”
“And here I was, about to go on about the theories from the professionals,” they muse, barely glancing at the board before making another move. “But I suppose I can give you my own opinion.”
She makes her move. “Just tell me.”
“I believe that dreams are the product of subconscious desires,” they begin. “You dreamt about killing someone. People kill for many reasons. Power, control, mercy, revenge, safety. To achieve a goal. Freedom. We’d be here for quite a while if we named them all.”
Sigma holds her breath. She can already see where this conversation is going—she’s about to get pressured into stating why she’d kill someone. It’s not like she has anything to hide, since Dostoevsky knows way too much about her, not to mention they’ve killed far more people than her.
Then, they ask the question. “Given what I just told you, what do you think would be your motive to kill in a hypothetical scenario?” They move their piece.
Hah. A hypothetical scenario?
If she answers honestly, Dostoevsky might become even more suspicious that she wants to escape—not just this cabin, but the Decay of the Angel as a whole. But if she’s dishonest, she could just be incriminating herself further, because why would she lie to someone like them?
“Freedom, I think,” Sigma answers, swallowing a lump in her throat. There really was no ‘safe’ answer here.
“Just as I thought,” Dostoevsky murmurs. “Following the theory I mentioned… feeling trapped and yearning for freedom leads to dreams of eliminating the source of the problem. It makes sense for someone of your… past and current circumstances.”
Sigma hastily moves a piece, realizing she’s been frozen up, maybe even the slightest bit captivated by Dostoevsky’s words, despite the fact she was laying out her desires to them—making herself so painfully vulnerable.
Does Dostoevsky know what she tried to do last night? They’re definitely hinting that they know something.
If they do indeed know about her murder attempt, that means they chose to spare her—and she doesn’t know how to feel about that.
Maybe they…
…
Actually, who is she kidding? It means nothing. Dostoevsky just wants her alive because she’s useful.
“I wouldn’t say that it’s a current circumstance,” Sigma murmurs, feeling a chill run through her. The cabin was still cold as always, but especially so in the other’s presence.
“Let’s not lie,” Dostoevsky says coolly, steepling their fingers.
Sigma opens her mouth, instinctively wanting to apologize. Then she remembers what Dostoevsky said some days back.
‘I do wish you’d stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault.’
At the same time, it really is her fault for trying to kill someone. And it's her fault for choosing to lie about not feeling trapped when she should know better.
“I suppose I do feel trapped,” Sigma quietly admits.
Silence falls between them as the person across from her inspects the board—it’s their turn, after all. Dostoevsky has a little furrow in their brow, and they almost look disappointed. Either at her or the state of the match right now, it doesn’t matter—the expression makes her stomach twist with nerves.
Then, they speak. “Sigma?”
Sigma swallows. “Yes, Dostoevsky?”
“Check.”
—
Check.
Check.
Check.
Check.
Check.
Dostoevsky’s voice rings in her head on loop—today, she lost round after round after round, never getting closer to anything that could be considered a victory against them. Chess was the only thing they did the entire day, only stopping for their basic needs. Not even having a casual conversation between rounds after their first game ended.
Having just crawled into bed for the night, she finds herself staring at the ceiling once more. Her bags are already packed, and she’s lying on top of the bed instead of crawling under the covers. It’s just so she won’t have to waste any time making the bed in the morning, and so she can get out of this cabin as quickly as possible.
Dostoevsky already booked the flight back to Yokohama—it’s going to be first thing in the morning, so packing ahead of time ended up working out in her favor.
Sigma just wants to get out of here.
The snow had long stopped, and people would soon be coming to clear the road. Fortunately, Dostoevsky picked a cabin in a touristy part of Hokkaido, so their area was definitely being prioritized—it should all be cleared by the time they’re awake.
Despite the constant losses and the ugly emotions Sigma feels about Dostoevsky, there’s still an itch. A competitive one. She wants to—no, needs to—win a game of chess against them. Even if it means more of that horrible proximity.
Good grief. All it took was nine days with Dostoevsky—five days of meetings and what is now four days of being stuck together because of the snowstorm—for her to lose it. To want to be around them. Sure, it’s for the slightly petty reason of trying to win a game of chess against them, but still.
…
This was certainly worse than any time spent around Gogol.
Dostoevsky has their bag in their left hand, the suitcase containing the chessboard clasped in the other.
They’re dressed in that awful outfit that doesn’t suit the temperature outside—all they’ve got is that thin-looking coat with fur around the collar and some boots. They aren’t even wearing the ushanka that usually seems glued to their head when outdoors. Even the clothes they wear beneath it look thin and lacking protection against the cold air.
But they look unbothered, of course, like always.
Meanwhile, Sigma is bundled in layer after layer and still shivering. Regulating her body temperature has always been an issue, and she’s sure she’s a pathetic sight.
Dostoevsky drops the keys in a ceramic bowl situated atop the console table, opening the front door. They step aside, gesturing for Sigma to exit first.
As expected, the ground is layered with snow, except for the streets and the little pathway that leads to the cabin. A handful of children are playing together, throwing snowballs, while their likely exhausted parents supervise from the sidewalk.
Sigma glances over her shoulder, having yet to hear the sound of the door shutting.
Dostoevsky is lingering in the doorway, watching the blissful scene before them.
One child tries to make a snowball the size of their head, but it crumbles apart when they attempt to lift it. The others around giggle and start working together to make an even bigger one.
“Dostoevsky?” Sigma says, almost tentatively. There’s an odd look in their eyes, and it makes her nervous.
Then, they blink. “Ah. I was just observing. Seeing the children simply reminded me of when I’d watch my peers play outside when I was young.”
Sigma can recall that conversation easily. It was only four days ago, after all. Yet it feels like it could’ve been years ago by now with how slow time crawled while stuck with them. “I see.”
She watches as Dostoevsky finally steps out of the doorway, closing the door behind them with a gentle ‘click’. They step forward and push past her, experimentally kicking at the icy pathway to check for slipperiness before turning back. “Is there something on your mind, Sigma?”
Sigma’s fingers twitch, gaze flitting to the suitcase in Dostoevsky’s hand. It contains the thing that she's ashamed to admit has been the source of her mental torment over these past few days. Just a damn chessboard, causing all of this mess.
Sighing, she finally speaks. “I still haven’t won a game against you,” she says quietly, gesturing to the case. Even at the thought of saying it out loud, she feels silly. “And I want to. I want to… keep doing this.”
Dostoevsky chuckles. Smiles. Almost as if they're in disbelief. “Ah, you do?”
“I just said I did.”
“That won’t be happening.”
Sigma feels momentarily stunned, blinking owlishly at the blunt response. “Huh?”
“I’ll be awfully busy in the coming months,” Dostoevsky replies, tilting their head slightly. “This will be the last time we see each other properly for quite a while.”
Ah.
Right.
There’s someone—a person that Dostoevsky has yet to tell Sigma about—who has just recently arrived in Yokohama.
It’s starting. It’ll all be over soon.
All she needs to do is be good for a little while longer.
There’s still that urge to win against Dostoevsky, even as she feels the weight of her future duties weighing upon her.
Maybe one day.