Chapter Text
“-ss, lass! Shite, what do I-?”
Her vision is fuzzy, blurred. Pain spikes somewhere in her chest, and though she doesn’t cry out, she still sharply inhales. The voice - familiar, who…? - seems to have noticed, the desperate tinge dying down.
“How the fuck did you get this injured? Fuck, just- hang on.”
What? That’s… Heathcliff’s voice, and whilst he tends to be a little more concerned about Dante’s health than most other Sinners, that kindness certainly didn’t apply to stopping mid-fight just to check on her. She’ll be back later, anyways. He’s just endangering the rest of the Sinners like this…
Ah, whatever. Staying conscious is giving her nothing but pain, her healing as slowed as it is. So, she lets herself drift off, and waits to be revived later.
~
For the first time in weeks, Don Quixote snaps awake. The first thing she’s aware of is the pain, likely the cause of her sudden clarity - it’s concentrated around her stomach, with the occasional smattering of soreness around her arms and legs. She’s violently aware of her own blood loss, instinct quietly demanding she drinks, replenishes herself. As always, she ignores it, deciding to ask Dante to rewind her later.
The second thing she notices, blinking blearily a few times, is the space around her. The very few times she’s awoke on the battlefield, barely clinging onto life, she’s either seen the bright sky above or the concrete squished against her cheek below. This time, she’s staring at a bland ceiling, painted a faded white that she doesn’t recognise at all. Not any of the Sinner’s rooms - that she knows - and certainly not the decadent patterns of Daguanyuan. Otherwise, underneath her there’s something somewhat soft.
Has she been kidnapped? Slightly wiggling her body - ow - she notes a complete lack of restraints. So, maybe not kidnapped, then. Her thoughts are abruptly halted when she hears a sigh, followed by a few steps. Towards her. She purposely relaxes, attempting to raise herself on her elbows and get a glance of-
“You aren’t quiet,” a voice she distinctly recognises as Ishmael rings out, preceded by a familiarly exasperated sigh, “Go back to sleep, you’re on bed rest until Hong Lu says otherwise.”
She is subtle, thank you, but also what? Bed rest has quite literally never been an option she’s had to consider in any situation. Especially with the Sinners, considering Dante’s ability to rewind. And why would Hong Lu be involved, too? Dante manages the team, and if not them it tends to be Ishmael (successfully) or Outis (less so). Is she still in Daguanyuan? Hong Lu does hold authority there, but the room isn’t styled like the rest in Daguanyuan, or even - from the little she knew about it - Hongyuan in general.
Once again, she wonders where she is. And then Ishmael trudges into her view, and she suddenly has a much more pressing question, because she isn’t in her LCB uniform. Or - though she’d only seen it a few times - her sleepwear. An ID, then, even though Faust thoroughly warned them about overuse and the Sinners rarely wore IDs for more than an hour outside of battle. Fanghunt, if she recalls correctly, which.
Well.
It’s a little awkward, and she’s pretty certain Ishmael’s noticed her staring, because she’s starting to shift uncomfortably. Don Quixote clears her throat, beams at her, and innocently tilts her head. She’s starting to think something weird is happening, deciding to ask the rather generic-
“Wouldst thou explain mine situation?”
“You’re wounded again,” she answers, and then sighs to herself when Don Quixote’s expression doesn’t change, “Seriously, you forgot…? We were fighting that fourth Kindred and he impaled you, how did you forget that?”
Don Quixote blinks. Fourth Kindred? Nicolina and Curiambro’s kin are dead, as is the entire rest of her family, so clearly not them. And Hongyuan’s Bloodfiends have no reason to hunt the LCB, nor herself. Certainly they haven’t discovered her Bloodfiendish nature, since she’s been hiding it well. She thinks.
“Whyever didst that happen?” she probes, since there’s still something weird going on, and she’s never been one to play her whole hand. Well, she has and she does, every time Rodya plays a card game against her- that’s beside the point.
Ishmael looks genuinely exasperated, pointing to the logo on her coat, “Because… that’s our job? Are you okay?”
…Ishmael already looks like she wants to die, but Don Quixote still has questions. She mentally apologises and decides to compliment her later, taking another quick glance around the room. Definitely still not H-Corp. Unbidden, her mind snaps back to a previous conversation she vaguely remembers happening somewhere around Dante’s recruitment.
“Few Mirror Worlds have access to the Mirror,” Faust drones, and Don Quixote’s only listening because the woman insisted on it, “Those that do could theoretically imprint the LCB Sinners onto themselves. However, Faust believes that is not a possibility we should be concerned about, as…”
Ah, well, that’s certainly a possibility. The room she doesn’t remember, the ID she doesn’t recognise, the fact she’s still injured - and that. The blood flowing through her body, that sits more comfortably than it had before. The blood of a Second Kindred, instead of a First. An odd expression must pass across her face, as Ishmael begins avoiding her eyes.
“Do I need to get- what-?”
Don Quixote, as Ishmael speaks, sets herself on her incredibly painful elbows and pushes off of the bed in a single motion. There’s a roar of blood in her ears, born both from panic and hurt, as she flings herself off of the - she quickly realises - shabby bed and sprints out of the room.
Either she’s been imposed onto someone else, or the Fanghunt World has been imposed onto Ishmael. She’s thinking the former - terrifyingly - but the easiest way to confirm that would be to find Dante. The only person aboard the LCB absent from all Mirror Worlds, the only person who can’t - to her knowledge, at least - be superimposed upon.
She ducks under Ishmael’s attempt to grab her, practically sliding out of the door in the same motion. Even out here, the area is entirely unfamiliar - white walls, a door that leads out into an office space, and eventually a front reception area.
Like an Office.
She stops, giving in to the pain and supporting herself against one of the walls and peering out a window. The buildings are vaguely familiar- P-Corp? Yes, the height, the slight bend she can see from some of them - they must be in P-Corp. In an Office. Or, from the insignia on the wall, more accurately-
“Damn it…”
-That of the Fanghunt Office’s.
…Which means, she’s in a Mirror World. Somehow. She only manages to not completely panic after reminding herself that, whilst this is still a terrible situation, at the very least there’s a chance she’ll return any moment now. If she’s here for longer than a week she’ll let herself panic. For now?
She’ll live.
Ishmael’s staring at her, eyebrow raised, and she needs to act like Don Quixote. So she beams.
“Don Quixote, I swear on the Lake-“ Ishmael sighs, “What. Are you doing?”
What is she doing?
“I! Hath nary an idea!” she concludes. It’s… not like she can return to wherever she lives. Mostly because she doesn’t know where it is, partially because in her current state there’s no way somebody wouldn’t pounce on the opportunity to kill her. Ishmael, for her part, is giving her an absolute death stare.
“Okay? Just-“ she gestures in the direction of the room Don Quixote had awoken in, “Go back in there. Faust’s orders.”
Don Quixote nods, taking a deep breath in. Out. This situation isn’t ideal - hah - but it’s not… too bad? Having Ishmael be back to regarding her as an idiot isn’t exactly fun, but, well.
It’s better than the gentle pressure of acting like Sancho the woman usually puts on her, even if it isn’t intentional. So she nods, pushing herself off of the wall, stumbling, and abruptly falling into Ishmael’s arms.
After that, she’s practically dragged back to the room she’d awoken in, which she now notes seems to be a sort of storage place, with a few medical supplies scattered about. A makeshift infirmary, maybe. She doesn’t get a proper look around the room, as Ishmael hauls her onto the bed with a grunt, and then wipes sweat off her own forehead.
“Why are you so heavy…?” she mutters, more to herself, “Anyway, I’m going home. Faust agreed to debrief you in the morning. Bye.”
And, as she said she would, Ishmael swiftly leaves the room, leaving Don Quixote alone. It’s odd, seeing Ishmael act so distant. Even on a bad day, in the Mephistopheles, she’ll at least act cordial towards almost every Sinner, the exception being Heathcliff. It’s unnerving, but not unexpected - the majority of IDs are never doing as well as the Sinners after their ‘turn’, her own arguably not included. They always tend to be more dour…
Don Quixote sighs, feeling her thoughts drift away. Somewhere, she can hear the gentle ticking of a clock - too rhythmic to be Dante’s, though of course they aren’t here either way - and it’s slowly making her more and more tired. If she falls asleep, there’s a chance she’ll wake up on her bed in the Mephistopheles, no?
…Her eyes slowly shutting, she sincerely hopes that happens.