Chapter Text
One night, Heathcliff has a strange dream.
He has been no British king --he cannot even claim to be royalty, no matter what Nelly tells him-- and yet, he imagines he is across the sea from a funny little country from America, that produces enemies such as the New Yorkian sailor Ishmael.
And Ishmael, per usual, is bullying him.
"The Enlightenment movement has prevailed against your wanker authority, ya bloody King," Ishmael declares, menacingly staggering towards him. Why is she British? She was never British...
But Heathcliff's colonies were. And Ishmael, in that fearful British accent, continues. "You have failed to keep the Social Contract. I have gathered all of America against you, Meancliff. In 1776, I will declare independence against you because you do not respect my God-given rights."
Meancliff? Social Contract? Rights?
"I-Ishmael, I'm sorry for stealing your burger..." Heathcliff inches away. He's trapped, crawling on the ground, surrounded by the other Sinners.
"This is not about the burger, Heathcliff. The burger symbolizes your oppression of all of us: your very own colonies. So now, I declare the American Revolution be upon you!"
She raises her black flanged mace.
"Say hello to [][][][][] for me," she smiles.
"[][][][][]! No! No! No!!!" Heathcliff screams, waking up in a cold sweat.
He is buried by his classic literature. He wakes up on the floor of the bus.
Alone.
Except, he is not alone, because Sinclair reading a book on the bus seat above him.
"The Haitian Revolution..." Sinclair reads. "...took advantage of France's weakness after the French Revolution and, led by Toussaint L'Ouverture, established the new country of Haiti."
"Ey, that's pretty great," Heathcliff, in a daze, stirs and tries to perch himself against the bottom of the seat.
Sinclair shrieks.
"Ah, get a hold of yourself, Sinclair," Heathcliff murmurs, his eyes unfocused. "'S just me..."
"I-I know, Heathcliff... b-but... did you have too many drinks last night or--?"
Swoon.
"Wuthering Heights did a number on that guy," Sinclair murmurs, before resuming his reading of one AP World History Textbook.
He flips through some pages before settling on a page titled "Latin American Revolutions" just as Don Quixote bursts through the door (and thankfully, not through the window like last time).
"Has the hero Heathcliff awakened from his beauteous slumber, dear Emilius Sinclair?!" she shouts, causing Heathcliff to groan and turn in his sleep.
"Um... he fainted a few moments ago," Sinclair sighs.
Don's eyes drift to his textbook.
"Literature?!" she scurries over to it. "I always knew Heathcliff was a man of intelligence... What, pray tell, dost thou read, Sinclair?"
"I was going to start reading about Latin American revolutions from 1750-1900..."
"Read! Explain! I know of this Latin America!" Don slides beside Sinclair and peers over the shorter man's shoulder.
"Revolutionary Bolívar broke from Spanish rule and established Venezuela with the support of llaneros and local populations in the area," Sinclair shifted the book towards her.
She flipped ahead a few pages. "Ah, me! This book is quite thick!"
"Don, keep your voice down... we don't need to excite Heathcliff over there."
Sinclair's eyes drifted down to Heathcliff, whose face was somehow covered with an open copy of The Metamorphosis. He appeared to be sound asleep, however.
"What is this Industrial Revolution? Ah, speak of the British-- these waterways seemed to allow for mighty transportation of natural resources!"
"Br...British?" Heathcliff murmurs, his voice muffled by the book.
"Donnnn," Sinclair groans.
"The waterways..." Heathcliff continues. "The coal, timber, and iron..."
"Wow! That is precisely what leads to a big city (AKA urbanization)!" Don snaps her fingers. "Heathcliff, o glorious British brute, rise and read thine textbook to us!"
Heathcliff goes limp.
"Well, for a successful city you also need lots of food... (AKA agricultural productivity... why am I whispering?)" Sinclair looks over to his fellow blonde.
"Truth be upon us, that does remind myself of The City. Perhaps mine stomach growls for Mersault's steak... but how thankful am I for steam-powered technology!"
"And also for manufactured goods," Sinclair mumbles. "You know, I think Hong Lu and Yi Sang were talking to me about that. Apparently Asia and the Middle East had quite the manufacturing economy during the time."
"Hm! What a jolly fact," Don nods. "I'm sure the dispersion of steam-power must have aided production overall, I take it? Ooh, and look at these internal combustion engines! I should like to feed one to the bus."
"Er... I don't think that's how it works, Don. And I think steam power only went to some places, at first..." Sinclair shrugs. And then he peers over Don's shoulder to skim through the page of the book. "Mainly Europe, America, Japan, and Russia, though."
"Huh," Don's brow furrows. "And what is this Meiji Restoration?"
"Wait, let me see," Sinclair scoots closer and places his finger on the page to follow the thick paragraph before them.
But as he begins, a rock hits the bus' window.
Sinclair flinches and immediately peers out the window, where Ryoshu and Rodion stand.
"He's still alive," Rodion brightens.
"Shockingly," Ryoshu does something akin to a smile. "Little Sinclair, what have you been reading?"
Don raises the textbook, exposing the page on the Meiji Restoration.
Ryoshu lowers her cigarette. "I.P.V.G.E.A."
Sinclair blinks.
"Industrialization Promoted Via Government = Advancement," Ryoshu explains. "I have summed up the words in the book about this 'Restoration'."
"Thank you, kindred spirit!" Don cheers.
SLAM!
Sinclair slowly turns to face the now broken bus door.