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"Prithee, hasten on! Every moment we delay is another moment stolen from our pic-nic!" Don Quixote walked with such abundant cheer that she was nearly skipping.
There were three Zwei-branded lunchboxes in her arms. Normally they were exclusively reserved for overnight stake-out missions, but the Captain didn't object to lending them out for the afternoon. The bulky blue and gold plastic squares were piled up so high in her arms that she had to rest her chin on the top one to keep the stack steady.
"It's just a couplea' sandwiches, nothing worth gettin' all worked up about," Heathcliff sighed.
It really was nothing special — it was the same old stuff they would be eating if they ate at the branch office mess hall like they did any other day.
But today was Thursday.
"To thine well-traveled experience, perhaps so. As for this knight, I have never experienced a boxed lunch all of one's own! Hence, I suspect the same will be true of my patron!!"
That was the heart of it. Her patron. She had been talking nonstop about the guy for the past few weeks to anyone who would listen. The mysterious, kind, noble stranger she had met by chance — and spent her Thursday lunch breaks with ever since.
Heathcliff prided himself on an intuition that, for all her Fixer knowledge, Don Quixote seemed to inherently lack. This whole setup stank.
"Even if this guy is as nice as you say, you can't be handing out charity to feed every down-on-their-luck fella that you-"
"Quiet now, for we have nearly arrived!"
Her outstretched hand pointed not at a park, nor a cafe, or even an Office — but a little gap between two commercial buildings. His eyes might have passed right over it if he wasn't looking for it. It was more a negative space than a side street.
"Wait. You were serious about meeting in an actual dark alley? Lass..."
She shot him a withered look. "Kindly recall that you were the one who proposed accompanying me."
He shrugged. She had him there.
Pleased by this, her levity returned at once. "Allow me!"
She smoothly slipped into the alley and completely out of view of the main street.
The mysterious patron must have been on time for their appointment, because he could hear her energetic greeting: "SALUTATIONS!! I have returned once again — as agreed upon — with our midday repast!"
Heathcliff couldn't hear any response.
"I also, ah, heh-hmm, have brought along one of my compatriots!" she continued with dramatic gusto. "I hope that someone of thine generous countenance shall not mind terribly, for he was... quite insistent!"
He figured that this was his introduction, so he steadied his nerves and stepped into the shade of the alleyway.
He had a catalog of grim expectations of what he might see. A smooth-talking huckster recruiting for a cult, maybe. A Syndicate goon in a trenchcoat waiting to kidnap them for ransom money, perhaps.
The truth that awaited him was so much more... mundane.
A little living room was set up in this abandoned corner of the Backstreets. Two folding chairs were placed in front of a small wooden table, which was covered by a white handkerchief masquerading as a proper tablecloth.
Sitting in one of the chairs was Don Quixote's enigmatic client. He was not a thug or an Index recruiter, but just an old man who looked more frail than anything. He was tall and slender, with a gaunt face and exhausted, sunken red eyes. For a moment, Heathcliff entertained the thought that this could genuinely be someone counting on the charity of others to get by.
The red eyes gave him pause, of course. Only two types of folks had red eyes in the City: Fixers with cutting-edge battle augmentations, or rich freaks who favored a certain aesthetic.
But this old man didn't have the presence of a fighter, to say the least. And if he was rich... Well, that must have been in the distant past. His fine clothes could have been fancy if they weren't so anachronistic in taste.
The old man's weathered hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly. He looked up at Heathcliff with startled, wide eyes.
Heathcliff smirked. He was used to having that effect on people.
"You recall my tales of Young Heathcliff?" Don Quixote asked, completely failing to register the tense atmosphere.
She got to work unpacking the lunchboxes. She spread napkins out on the table, and then unwrapped the three ham and cheese sandwiches from their cling film.
The old man blinked hard, seeming to settle himself. He put on a thin smile, then stood up and gestured to his vacated chair with a flourish. His voice was surprisingly smooth: "Please, do have a seat good Sir Heathcliff. I have indeed heard much about you."
Heathcliff frowned. "I'm fine here. There's only two chairs, yeah? Though I guess I appreciate the offer, Mister..."
He realized that he never learned this mystery man's name. He turned to Don Quixote. "Err, fill me in on this guy's name again?"
"Oh ho?! Did I not yet tell you the most miraculous part of our chance acquaintance?!" Her smile broadened. "...For this fellow is also known as Don Quixote!"
Heathcliff furrowed his brow. The tips of his fingers felt hot. He flexed his fist.
"You don't say," he deadpanned.
Now the old man looked truly miserable. His face was a mix of panic and regret.
Got caught in the middle of your little game, didn't you? Heathcliff thought darkly. He still didn't know exactly what the scheme was, but the pieces were starting to come together.
The old man's small smile became much more forced. "A strange occurrence, would you not agree? Yet what a pleasant surprise to get to meet-"
"Let's straighten out one thing right away old man," Heathcliff interrupted him. "A lot of creeps might think they can take advantage of Don Quixote here, because she's more trusting than most-"
"Is she?" 'Don Quixote' marveled.
"I think you know damn well she is!" Heathcliff bit back.
He squared his shoulders, clenched his jaw, and pulled back his sleeves. "So if you think you can scam her, or whatever the hell all this has been: I will knock your head off, yeah?"
Their confrontation then played out in the blink of an eye.
Heathcliff walked up to the table to give a small demonstration of what someone of his seasoned background was capable of.
The old man locked eyes with him. His brow tightened. He curled his lips back ever-so-slightly.
Heathcliff got a glimpse of teeth. Sharp teeth. The man's red eyes flashed with death.
He jumped back before he could even consciously register what he had seen. He intuitively knew that there was no space far enough away from this 'Don Quixote' that could ever be safe.
Adrenaline hit like a truck. Fight or flight. He took his own Don Quixote by the shoulder and yanked her away from the table.
"T-this guy...! C'mon!"
But she refused to budge. She could be shockingly strong for her size when she applied herself.
"Cease these discourteous words! This fellow is my loyal client!"
Heathcliff looked at her in astonishment. Didn't she feel that shift? The bloodlust pouring from her so-called patron?
He made up his mind to pick her up and carry her away if it had to come to that.
"Don't be daft, you don't even know who this is! We'll talk later, c'mon you!"
"Fie on thee!" she huffed. She flung her arms wide in an attempt to throw him off. "Verily, I know well who this is! This is my ▒▒▒▒▒▒-!"
Her voice cut off abruptly. Her mouth hung open, as though the end of her sentence could still arrive.
Heathcliff immediately released his grip on her shoulder, but she didn't react. Her pupils trembled even though the rest of her was eerily still.
The scene brought Heathcliff back to his past life. It wasn't that unusual to find poor sods in a state just like this — stuck in time and left to fend for themselves after the Collectors finally caught up with them.
Wordlessly, the other Don Quixote drew near. He moved gently to her side, as though afraid to disturb even the air around her.
He leaned down until his face was level with hers. He whispered a word that Heathcliff couldn't understand, urgent but soft. It seemed like a question. His eyes were desperately searching for... something.
He delicately raised his hand and brought it to rest on her arm.
At the touch, the spell on the moment was broken. Don Quixote jerked back to life. She gasped for breath as she twisted away from her patron and staggered out of the alley.
Heathcliff then heard her lose the contents of her stomach all over the street. He winced. The old man looked completely stunned.
"It would seem that I have fallen... ill, momentarily." She turned around to speak to them, but her eyes were looking someplace far away. "I should go... clean up."
"Go on and get a fresh shirt and tie, lass. Then you'll be all right." At least, Heathcliff could only hope so.
She nodded in dazed recognition. "Wait here for my return, won't you? I shan't be but a few minutes... Be good."
And with those mumbled parting words, she shuffled out of sight.
--
"Do you think she'll be gone for much longer?" Don Quixote asked.
He invited Heathcliff to sit at the table with him to wait.
They were being good, as instructed.
"It's a 15 minute walk to branch headquarters from here, and that's one way. Still, she can run pretty fast. Just be patient."
"She will come back today, yes? You're absolutely certain?" He picked at the brass buttons on his oversized coat and stared out at the main street.
"For Wing's sake old man, she never stops blabbing on and on about your little lunch! She'll come back! Get a grip!"
It irked Heathcliff to suddenly be reassuring someone who ten minutes ago had been so terrifying, but the elder Don Quixote seemed as though he might crumble away... If he didn't pass out from anxiety first.
At any rate, Heathcliff was now sure of one thing: This man's concern for Don Quixote was painfully genuine. It was clear that there was more to this arrangement than met the eye — as he had suspected — but perhaps not in a strictly sinister way.
"Who is she to you really, anyhow? Don't try to tell me that you really met her out of the blue."
Don Quixote looked at Heathcliff with wide eyes, as though the idea of engaging in conversation with the man sitting at his table had not occurred to him before that moment.
"She is..." he swallowed thickly, "....my relation."
"Your 'relation'?" Heathcliff raised an eyebrow. "A whole family tree of Don Quixotes you've got, then?"
"Of a sort," the man frowned.
"You didn't come here... to take her back, did you? To wherever she came from?"
"I swear to you this: that is the last thing that I would ever wish for."
"Glad to hear it, 'cause she'd be heartbroken." That, and Heathcliff wouldn't be able to stop him. "I'd swear she sprung up outta the ground knowing nothin' but how to be a Fixer!"
He picked up one of the neglected sandwiches and examined it before taking a bite. "She's strong as hell too, even though she hasn't had any work done. It's odd... Kind of like what's up with you."
"I think it would be for the best that you refrain from this line of inquiry. Just as I will refrain from asking you about those." Don Quixote pointed at where Heathcliff had rolled up his sleeves during their earlier confrontation.
Heathcliff scoffed at that idea. He wasn't ashamed of the scars that crisscrossed his arms. Even the Captain knew about his time with the Dead Rabbits. With the Zwei, it was useful. It was only thanks to those past brawls that his squad had anyone with experience in actual combat.
But Syndicate life also gave him the common sense not to pry any further. Some things in the past were much harder to leave behind.
"Fair enough," he shrugged. He pointed at the rest of the picnic on the table: "Want a sandwich?"
"...I fear I don't have any appetite."
"Now yer really pullin' my leg. After all this?!" Heathcliff leaned back in his chair and laughed. "One of these lunch boxes is packed with oranges. She smuggled them out of the mess hall just for you."
"...For me? Why?"
"Oh, you know. She likes them, so she thought you would like them. That kind of thing."
"Ah, she likes them?" Suddenly Don Quixote's eyes looked lively once again. "Tell me, what else does she like?"
...Heathcliff figured this had to be better than letting him mope.
--
"YOUNG HEATHCLIFF! SIR PATRON!!"
As foretold, Don Quixote returned with her smile. She had on a new, crisply pressed uniform.
"We awaited you patiently, O Fixer Don Quixote!" the other Don Quixote reported theatrically.
Heathcliff grimaced at that. He'd been talking to the man for a half hour straight just to keep him from jumping out of his skin.
"Sir Heathcliff was just explaining the results of your recent field examinations! You must share your side of the trial. Please, take my seat." Don Quixote stood up.
Heathcliff couldn't tolerate that. The old man would be the one to stand? He sprang to his feet. "No, take my seat. You've both had quite an afternoon, so you two probably want to catch up."
"Fearest thou not, for the afternoon has been nothing but splendid! To stand would be excellent exercise as I recount our perilous rope climb challenge!"
Heathcliff shot the older Don Quixote a bewildered look, but the old man paid him no mind.
They both went straight to yapping about the rope climb exercise.
...He wasn't going to ask if she was okay? Or what brought on that whole episode? What about the question he had whispered earlier?
And as for her — she was carrying on like nothing worth mentioning had happened at all. It was more like she had stepped out for a moment to answer the phone instead of... whatever that was. Wasn't she the least bit curious why everyone was getting along so well now?
All three of them stood there chatting awkwardly, the two chairs remaining unoccupied.
Bloody hell, Heathcliff thought, they really are related!