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The air aboard the immigration checkpoint was sterile. The walls and the floors had been painted in an uncomfortable white, and the only thing that didn't blend in were the sinners, which were accompanied by Vergilius.
Sure, the place seemed rather fascinating, but even though Don Quixote tried to see the positive in such a location, she couldn't help but feel off.
After all, it's not like she had grown in such an environment in the first place.
Sinclair, on the other side, was extremely nervous. Why? She was unaware. Perhaps the Nest was a part of his childhood. Both ways, determining the reason for Sinclair's fear wouldn't help the ways he gripped that halberd so tightly.
She shifted her weight from one foot to another, Rocinante squeaking faintly under her. There wasn't anything to do except wait for their turn, which was already boring enough. Maybe if she could save someone, it'd be more fun.
As if a Fixer heard her pleas, something reached her ears.
A cry.
A child was weakly reaching for his father, who was being taken away by guards.
The gears turned in her head for a moment as she processed the situation, then she made her choice clear.
Justice would be served!
Her grip tightened subconsciously on SUEÑO IMPOSIBLE, and a few seconds later, Rocinante was slowly dragging her towards the family that was currently being divided.
Sinclair, who was nearby, saw what was going to happen, and without thinking, he intervened, sliding forward to place himself between Don Quixote and the glass.
STAB!
Don Quixote didn't hear the glass shatter, but rather bones cracking, and her eyes widened as she realised her lance was tainted by a crimson red.
Sinclair laid weakly against the glass, bleeding profusely from the chest.
The stench of iron was almost instant, and she was nearly overwhelmed by the smell itself.
"Art thou wounded?," Don Quixote began, knowing damn well Sinclair was, that question was stupid just like her action. Her legs felt like jelly as she kneeled down, her wide eyes struggling to meet his, "Forgive me—Mine spear didn't mean to harm thee...", She mumbled weakly, the theatrical tone gone in her voice as she tried to stop the bleeding by placing her hands on the wound.
"We... can't... intervene... we'll get... into trouble."
The Manager, Dante, wasted no time and turned back the clock, healing Sinclair from the wound Don had inflicted.
Panting, Sinclair struggled to sit up "Thank you, Manager..."
Don Quixote bit her lip, feeling a pang of guilt. She glanced back to Sinclair, then to the blood-stained lance still clutched in her trembling hands.
She feels bad… not only that, her heart raced as she sensed Vergilius' disapproving gaze boring into her. She knew he disapproved of her impulsive actions. But seeing Sinclair wounded by her hand, even if Dante could heal him... it shook her to her core.
Her gaze fell to the blood-stained lance still gripped tightly, her knuckles white. "Forgive me, Sinclair," she whispered, "I... I did not mean for this to happen. I only wished to deliver justice, to reunite that child with his father as is right and just."
She looked to Dante, then back to Sinclair, biting her lip. "I am truly sorry. I am still learning, still growing into this role the Manager has given me. I did not intend to cause harm."
She had to be more careful, think before acting. Her knightly instincts were not wrong, but she must temper them with wisdom and discretion.
"N-No worries, it's partly my f-fault too, using myself to stop y-you from causing a scene... heh heh, but even so."
Well, she wouldn't have stopped anyway if he'd told her not to do what she was about to do, so getting hurt was a price to pay to avoid unnecessary trouble.
Don Quixote's brows furrowed as she shook her head. "Nay, do not say that, dear Sinclair. You acted out of concern for us and the mission. I am the one who erred, allowing my passion to overpower my reason."
She slowly stood, setting her lance aside and turning to face the group fully, her expression somber. She glanced at Dante, then Vergilius, seeing the disapproval etched on his face. "I am truly sorry, Sinclair, and to you as well, Manager. I will strive to be more cautious and thoughtful in my actions henceforth. We cannot afford to draw undue attention or cause unwanted chaos."
Turning back to Sinclair, she extended a hand to help him up, her gaze soft with remorse. "Come, let us leave this place and continue our journey. I am in your debt, and I shall endeavor not to let you down again."
Sinclair gripped Don Quixote's hand tightly, allowing her to help him to his feet. He met her gaze, his golden eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and a lingering hint of fear.
Don Quixote felt the tremor in Sinclair's hand as he gripped hers. It was a fragile thing, like a bird caught in a sudden storm, and the sensation sent a sharp pang of reproach through her chest. She squeezed his hand gently with the softest care a knight could muster for a fallen comrade.
She loomed over him slightly, her expression softening from the theatrical mask of a hero into something more genuine. The scent of iron still lingered on her gloves, the metallic tang of the blood she had spilled and she felt a sudden, clumsy urge to wipe the stains from his coat, as if she could erase the very memory of the pain she had caused.
Sinclair allowed himself to be pulled upward, though his legs still felt a bit unsteady, like he was walking on shifting sand. He let go of her hand slowly, his fingers lingering for a moment as if he were afraid the connection might break him again. He cast a quick, nervous glance toward Vergilius, his shoulders hunching instinctively under the weight of the Red Gaze, before turning his eyes back to Don Quixote.
"J-Just... let's move," he murmured, his voice still a little thin.