Chapter Text
“Are you sure that I can stay with you?”
A gentle voice mutters from the receiver. It’s kind, affirmative, and far different from the boy the girl once knew.
“But of course, Young- Or should I say Dear Sinclair! Thou art welcomed by these arms of mine, both in mind, and body!” She responds, her tone brimming with pure excitement. He can’t be bothered to care about her theatrics, so he lets a weary laugh pass him, before he begins to speak once more.
“Right, thanks for your hospitality, Don, but I’m more than responsible enough to-“
He’s swiftly cut off by a series of “bups” from the girl, swinging her pointer finger back and forth, as if he were in person and she was really scolding him.
“SILENCE, O FOOLISH ONE!! If I must insist, thou art expected to spend 3 days and 3 nights within my humble abode!! No more, no less!!! Understood??” She cries with an enthusiasm that only professional LARPers could reach. A sigh, scratched from the quality of the boy’s microphone, is all she hears in response.
“Fine, fine…you’re not gonna drop it, so I guess I will…” he pauses, and the girl raises an eyebrow quizzically.
After a moment, he begins to speak again, this time, a newfound haste in his voice, completely contrasting his cool, collected tone from not a moment earlier.
“Hey, I’m really sorry, but something just came up, I’ll call you later, okay? Bye!”
Before the girl has a chance to respond, the man, Emil Sinclair, hangs up. It’s unusual how rushed he seemed. The child’s face sours briefly, but she favors a cheesy grin instead. Now’s not the time for pouting. She has a city to see, streets to walk! She’s already adorned in her typical outfit: An oversized, colorful shirt of the Red Mist, a variety of glow stick bracelets, baggy sweatpants, neon pink sneakers, and a weird, halo-adjacent object on her head. The only ‘normal’ thing she’s wearing is a pair of sunglasses, sitting haphazardly on her head.
She prances over to the window with giddy whimsy, swinging the curtain open and poking her head out.
“Ah, the scenery of this District never fails to amaze a traveller such as I! However, I, Don Quixote, would favor adventure much rather than sitting idly…” she mumbles, her voice tinged with scorn, almost as if she was targeting her speech. Nonetheless, her mood stays as brightful and cheery as ever, throwing in a quick twirl as she makes her way to the door.
The streets of the District are bustled, lively. A variety of food carts are parked on the curb, people are commuting to work, and there’s a never ending buzz of chatter. There may be a bit of litter, but that’s majorly overshadowed by the general cleanliness of the District. Besides all of that, there’s a broad selection of nerdy shops to choose from, as if they were tailored specifically for immortal girls with a hyperfixation on Fixers. And, if it wasn’t any more obvious, she loves it.
She browses the variety of stores, wallet in hand, searching for something worth spending her never ending money on. Of course, she’s seen these stores more than 1000 times, but if they entertain her, she’ll keep coming back. She always leaves with at least one item, either clothing, or a mass of figurines. Some of her shirts are duplicates, but they add to her never ending collection.
The girl waves to the occasional person; not because she knows them, but because she feels the need to announce her presence to every passerby in a sickeningly annoying manner. Some of the time, they wave back. Those times are what encourages her to do it more. When there’s a shred of humanity, she’ll hang onto it.
Ceasing her ditzy thoughts, the girl halts, right in front of a display window. There’s a mannequin, and it’s showing off a shirt of Vespa, the Color Fixer she had desperately tried to impress all of those years ago. She presses her face into the glass with baffling eagerness, her nose smushed up and causing the air to condense around it.
“F-F-FAIR SANCHO!!! BEHOLD, A SHIRT WITH THE-“
I quickly shut her up. I can’t have her pulling shit this early in the morning. I flick on the sunglasses, wiping my face of any snot, and continue walking, like nothing had happened.
I tell her that I’ll buy it for her later. It’s the only way she’ll stop pestering me. A dejected whine ‘escapes’ her, or should I say, she thought of whining to specifically piss me off. I’m not letting her get a reaction out of me, so I roll my eyes and squint, enough for her to completely cease ‘speaking’.
The way of our communication may be confusing to some, but it’s the equivalent of having a back and forth conversation, except it’s all mental. However, ever since this new way for both of us to get fair, safe time in this body was developed, she’s decided to start voicing her responses aloud. When I’m in control, I would never think of such idiocy, but I guess she’s just one to make a fool of herself. I don’t blame her, she’s named after one.
I’m the one hosting, for the most part. I let her control, but there’s just some moments where I have to step in. I can’t sit there idly as she humiliates the both of us, especially considering her reputation earned as a ‘former’ Fixer. See, the girl excelled in her job during the short time she was an active Fixer, however, she had to quit. The risk of her lashing out at the sight of any blood was enough of a deterrent from the job. It was her dream, but it was simply trampled on by our inability to control ourselves. Maybe one day, after mine, and everyone else in my Family’s hunger is satiated, then she can pursue her dream once more. But, that’s highly unlikely. With the amount of blood we’ve collectively consumed through the past decade, that only equals a fraction of a fraction of the ever building desire.
The easy solution would be to step up to my role as the new Don Quixote, polluting the population with my blood and converting the Nest to bloodfiends, but that’s simply selfish and a risk to both me and others involved. My father’s own Family tortured him in cold blood. Who’s to say mine wouldn’t do the same? So, I simply get by on the artificial blood packets sent to me every month.
That’s what I would say if I was a liar, though. Well…to be technical, it’s a half truth. I do take the supplements, but I still consume human blood, just not as regularly. I don’t hurt anyone, not directly, at least. Usually, if my bloodlust is extraordinarily intense, I’ll find my way into the blood clinic right before closing, and take any packets that weren’t packed up. I also show up somewhat often, but that’s just because I enjoy the smell. I sit in the waiting room, reading the latest magazine and overhearing any conversation between the attendant and passing doctors, and sometimes people stop to greet me. I’m not the most social, so it comes as a pleasant surprise every time a wave or brief smile is thrown in my direction.
However, I still can’t believe the girl chose to make herself blatantly loud when seeing that dumb shirt. If she were anyone else, they would’ve snapped a picture, went inside and bought it, easy as that. But, because of her recklessness, I’ll have to scold her. She hasn’t been learning to be careful, and it’s beginning to become detrimental to my safety.
My thoughts are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder. I whip my head around, and quickly realize that I was inconsiderately standing in front of a wheelchair accessibility ramp.
“R-right, sorry, sir!” I stammer, waving my hands desperately in an attempt of apology. That was horribly embarrassing. I tucked some hair behind my ear, huffing under my breath and averting the gaze of any pedestrians. I just have to make it home, then I’m in the clear.I’ve noticed that I’ve grown more complacent over the years. If it were any other circumstance, I wouldn’t stand for such low lives speaking to me, but I guess confinement brings humility. It’s humility unbefitting of me, but it builds character, if I had to be positive. I’ll be honest, it’s been hard for me to get used to integrating into human society, especially considering how I hear some people speak about bloodfiends. I guess it’s fair, because I view humanity much worse. If anything, their words are lightwork, I just happen to get easily offended. Besides that though, my life is something that I’ve grown accustomed to. It’s not ideal, but it works.
Unlocking the door to my home has always been something both the girl and I find difficult, for whatever reason. The key always finds a way to get itself stuck, and it takes just the right level of caution and strength to get it unjammed without damaging it. We could always get another key, but if it’s functioning, I’m not gonna change anything.
As soon as the door is shut, I immediately discard the bunches of bracelets and idiotic headband from my body, tossing them onto the sofa and rolling my eyes. The house is a mess, and it’s not because of her. Yeah, there’s dozens upon dozens of Fixer posters on the walls, and a variety of merch she doesn’t bother to sort, but most of the clutter is my doing. I used to be very punctual when it came to cleaning, but it’s been getting harder and harder to muster up the strength to do so.
“…you know why I’m so angry, aren’t you?”
I speak this aloud; I usually do when I’m making a point. I know she’s not going to respond, so I just continue. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before, but it never seems to get across. She doesn’t take scolding the best, especially when it comes from me, but if I hammer it in enough times, it’ll work.
“I really don’t like it when you make a scene like that, not to mention when it was so early,” I mumble, dragging a hand across my face. She briefly retorts, mumbling something along the lines of ‘2 is far from too early’, but I’ve had enough of the conversation. Chewing on my claw, I realize just how hungry I am. I swing open the fridge, pulling out a steak that I’d set there a few hours ago. It’s…thaw enough, I think, so I cut open the bag, throwing it onto a pan before drinking the watered down blood. Not satisfactory. It never is.
As I cook the steak, I unfortunately catch myself humming an all-too-familiar tune. I curse myself for the undeniable catchiness Dulcinea injected into that putrid song. Biting my tongue, I flip the steak. As I surveyed the fridge, I noticed we had a lack of…well, anything. I’ll have to ask the girl about going to the store for me. She usually says yes.
“Shit-” The exclamation is far from intentional, but warranted, because I just burned my fucking food. To say it had carcinogens would be an understatement. Now I have to eat it raw. I yank it out of the pan, slicing the charred bits off and tossing them, the rest of the raw meat sitting temptingly on the cutting board. I mean, who’s gonna stop me? The kid certainly can’t. I almost feel proud as I eat it whole, wiping my mouth and tossing the cutting board into the sink. I can’t handwash the dishes for long periods of time, and I almost never use the sink, so the dishes pile up fairly quickly. The dishwasher’s busted, too, but the new one we ordered isn’t coming for a month. That reminds me, our empty fridge.
“Hey, uhm…would you mind going out to the store tomorrow? We’re out of meat, milk, and other stuff,” I speak up, idly toying with one of my loose hairs. The child hums in contemplation, as if her answer wouldn’t be a resounding yes. Either way, I wait patiently. I’ve learned that pressing her only makes her take longer to decide. She takes a moment to exaggerate a humming noise, before she replies with a “Verily, Fair Sancho! I shall accompany thee on a great journey to the ‘Shopping Mart’!!!”
I guess I can’t be too angry at her. At least it gives me something to do tomorrow.