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<I hereby confirm today’s close of the business for the Sinners.>
“Thank you kindly. Starting now, you will all be given a maximum of 12 hours to partake in sleep and rest; the duration is subject to change. Have a good night.”
They sat at their seat as the sinners grumbled to the Backdoor, another uneventful day of Mirror Dungeons finally ending.
Dante gazed out the window, sepia-toned buildings flashing by in a blur of shapes. Their clock, resting somewhat comfortably in their hand, felt heavier than usual. They leaned against the side of the bus. The hall was empty and silent, aside from the noises from Mephistopheles and their own ticking head that began to blur into the background as the sun set.
It had already been a while (at least it seemed to be, as being in T. Corp made the passing of time much more complicated to process) since their retrieval of the Monolith. Although the mission was successful, Dante couldn’t help but feel empty. Not in an emotional sense, more so that… something was missing.
It was just like how they felt on the unforgettable night in the forest. They reached and searched deep into their mind, their attempts to latch onto any sort of memory or familiar idea ending in vain. Dante got used to being an amnesiac and accepted that there are many things, common knowledge or not, that they do not know. Yet, this lingering emptiness felt different.
During their mission, they had gone unconscious. At least, that’s what they were told.
Dante opened their “eyes” to find the Sinners gathering around the staircase, their faces displaying emotions ranging from worry, fear, and intrigue. They could tell that something happened, but the group had more pressing matters to focus on, so they pushed aside their thoughts and dropped the topic. But the memory (or lack thereof) drifted back to them as they pondered thoughtlessly during their night watch. What happened? Why could they not remember what happened after fighting those Peccatula? How did they pass out? Questions flooded their mind, their ticks gaining speed.
Your journey will inevitably lead to the answers to all of your questions, Dante.
Dante turned to look at Vergilius, his low sigh reminding them of what he said right before their departure for Wuthering Heights. As much as they wanted to know the answers to their questions, they knew that both Faust and Vergilius wouldn’t answer any of them. They quickly shifted their gaze back outside the window, noticing they had been staring at him for a while now.
Answers. Who they were before their memory loss. Identity. Things that were always out of reach for Dante.
In a way, they weren’t very important. Unimportant for the LCB’s goals. All Dante needed to do was rewind the clock, to bear agonizing and overwhelming pains that felt like their body was being twisted and stretched asunder.
They felt themselves gripping their arms, pressure tightening around their blood-tinted sleeves. Pain was unbearable, yet somehow so comforting among all of their own confusion. It was so familiar, so warm. Just like…
The words slipped from their mind in an instant.
Just like what?
“Dante.”
They whipped their head around on instinct, his piercing voice startling them from their thoughts.
“Haah… Whatever you’re doing is none of my business. Though, do try to not tick so loudly.”
Vergilius looked at Dante, his half-lidded eyes sharp as always. But underneath his cold mask, Dante noticed his slight frown. Was he worried about them?
<I.. oh.. yeah. You can’t hear me. Like always.>
Dante ticks trailed off. They instead nodded their clock head softly.
Vergilius blinked once. He turned his head back at the window silently towards the dim scenery outside the window.
After being brought back from their constant stream of questions and thoughts in their mind, Dante let go of their harsh grip.
They didn’t realize that their ticking had gotten louder, nor did they realize that their arms were starting to throb. Faint indents in their ebony black skin hid under their sleeve. Dante knew they were there, but they were too afraid to see for themselves, too afraid to unsheathe their gloves and coat. They knew that the sight wouldn’t be pretty.
Scars from all of the Sinners deaths and injuries covered their skin akin to how the stars littered the dark. Well, if the stars smothered the murky abyss of the night sky instead of just being small little freckles.
Dante wanted to ask Vergilius about their pain, about how much they’ve been suffering and their anxiety towards their own body and scars.
Despite their want for explanations of why they feel the way they feel, Dante convinced themselves that it wouldn’t matter. Because it never did. Because he had never answered their questions before. Even in the slim chances that he would, it wouldn’t change anything.
So Dante did nothing.
They glanced back at Vergilius before burying their clock into their hands.