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Murkoff Corporation, or M Corp., found in District --.
Known for its lack of homeless and neglected people wandering its nonexistent Backstreets. For its Nest nearly spanning across the whole District. For its many picturesque suburban neighborhoods, for its social safety net in the form of several asylums, for its ideal standards of living.
Today our homeless and forgotten Citizens consist of three Limbus Company Employees: a certain Heathcliff, Don Quixote, and Meursault, all sneaking out of the Limbus Company bus parked at the border of the District.
Who will now be taken off the streets and taken in by a Company to “improve humanity as we know it”.
“Heathcliff… mine jousting lance…” Don shakes the man awake. “Heathcliff! O, good sir Heathcliff, awaken…!”
”Don Quixote,” Meursault hovers behind her. “It is advisable that you lower your voice in this current situation. We appear to be… kidnapped.”
”Wherefore! An act most unjust— once I re-awaken our comrade (oh how I shiver, knowing no Dante stands between us now!) we shall quell this evil instantly!”
”Gahhh…” Heathcliff stirs under Don’s grip. “H-Huh? Lass? Hey…”
He slaps her hands away. “What is it now—?”
Meursault raises a finger to his lips. “We have been kidnapped.”
”W—“ Heathcliff squeaks, only to have Don slam her hands over his mouth.
“Please keep both of your voices down before the probability of being interrupted increases—“ Meursault begins.
”Good evening. Welcome to the Sinyala Facility owned by Murkoff Corporation.”
The overhead speakers blast a smooth voice with an accent akin to Ishmael’s; despite the whimpers coming from both Don and Heathcliff, she continues:
”We at Murkoff want you to be free. And in order to be free…”
The doors around the room open.
”You must give a little aid to our corporation. Now, please choose a door. I suggest… sticking together.”
“O Good Heathcliff! Carry me upon thy back once more— you heard the woman: we must gallop on together!”
”Don, no—“ Heathcliff flabbergastedly begins, only to have Don spring up from behind him and climb his back.
Meursault, obviously, says nothing. Instead, he walks in front of the group and leads them all through the leftmost door, leaving the greyscale metallic holding room behind.
The voice on PA changes once the Sinners are outside.
It’s more masculine. Gruff. Musical, almost. As if Heathcliff was a former pop star. Or theatre boy.
”You are three rats in a trench coat traversing the dirty slums of Paris. Education and fate are intertwined in our mandates. You must follow the fresh scent of baguettes. Learn French, defeat the American patriot and… we will let you out.”
”Hoh! A challenge from a mysterious voice over yonder!” Don Quxote cries, raising her fist in place of her jousting lance. “Meursault, take thy place as the head of our rat formation and lead us forward towards the baguettes of great price!”
”Lass… you are way too excited about being kidnapped,” Heathcliff groans as he struggles to catch up to Meursault.
”The scent of baguettes leads us down this bloody path,” Meursault raises his arm to prevent the other Sinners from moving any forward. “Don. Do you recall my French lessons? Read the French.”
”Conjugate the verb ‘avoir’ and be free… but hark! Why must it be written in blood? Who has died to tell us French?!” Don flinches, causing Heathcliff to set her down on her feet and say:
”Hitch a ride on your new horse Meursault, lass. My back aches…”
Without another word, Don climbs Meursault’s back and the trio continue down the bloody hallway. Despite the rancid and prevalent stench of blood, the mystical baguettes waft through the air.
And so they continue.
Forward. Forward. To the left. Meursault hops over a corpse quite elegantly. Heathcliff recoils in disgust at the tacky French words on the walls: conjugaison, leçon, avoir.
”When will this bloody path ever end—“ Heathcliff starts, a few feet ahead of the other two, only to slip forward on some blood…
…And right into some guy?
”On the ground!” a fair bearded man dressed in a police’s uniform barks, immediately placing a gun to the fallen Heathcliff’s forehead. “Howdy, you little dip—“
”Salutations, good sir!“ Don exclaims, flinging herself off of Meursault and landing right behind Heathcliff. The shock from the scene allows Heathcliff to snatch the gun from the stranger’s hands.
The stranger curses. He eyes the strange group up and down.
”You order these prostitutes or somethin’?” he blinks at Meursault. “I ain’t ever seen I man looking like you who swings both ways.”
Meursault is offended at this comment. His face does not change. He steps forward. “These are not my escorts.”
”Sure look like some. Is that dirty brown one British? Swear I heard a trace of English in his voice.”
”…That is not your concern. Please state your purpose here.”
”Naw, you go first. Don’t yall have any respect? I’m the officer here.”
”I am Meursault.”
”Mursal? That’s one funny lookin’ name if you ask me. That French or something?”
”Yes. Do you know French?”
The unknown man curses again. Heathcliff covers Don’s ears.
”Those … their … they sent me here to ‘learn French’ after that BOGO-molova lady and I had a fun night out together!” is all Don hears.
“We have been sent for the same purpose,” Meursault nods. “Judging from the walls, I assume M Corp. wants us to conjugate the verb ‘to have’.”
”Well, yer French, so do it and I can get outta here to go spread justice.”
“Justice, you say!” Don’s eyes glitter. She approaches the man and extends her hand. “Good sir, I, too, am a spreader of justice! I… am Don Quixote!”
The stranger blinks. And then he cusses. And then he begins cackling.
He doesn’t take Don’s hand. “And I’m Leland Coyle, pink scum.”
”Pink what?” Don slowly retracts her hand.
“Let us begin conjugating the verb ‘avoir’ or, to have,” Meursault steps in between them. “Does anyone else here know a semblance of French?”
”I… think I do?” Heathcliff rubs the back of his neck. “Back when they let me have a tutor at Wuthering Heights.”
”A… tutor?” Leland eyes Heathcliff up and down. “For you?”
”…Yeah,” Heathcliff stiffens. “Anyway… you say ‘I have’ like ‘j’ai’, right?”
”Oui,” Meursault nods.
A gentle ‘ding’ echoes throughout the corridor.
Don grins. “A valiant job, Sir Heathcliff!”
”Thanks, Don,” Heathcliff pats her shoulder. Then he eyes Meursault. “Okay, French lad. Go now. Tell us something.”
”To say ‘he/she/one has’, say ‘il/elle/on a’.”
”Huh?” Leland squints. “Illelleon a?”
”If the subject in question is a man, use il. If you’re saying a woman has something, use elle. Use ‘on’ to describe a general person, like ‘one has’.”
”Sooo… if I’m talkin’ about a lady, I can say… elle a… a fine ass?”
”If the woman has a fine donkey, then of course you can say that,” Meursault hums. “‘She has a fine donkey.’”
Another gentle ding resounds throughout the corridor.
“I, too, would love to own a donkey!” Don quips. “Meursault, teach me one now!”
“Very well then. Don: repeat this phrase after me vous avez.”
”Vous avez!”
”That is how you say ‘you have’. But this ‘you’ is special, Don. Unlike tu as, vous avez is used in formal contexts or when addressing several people at once. For example: vous avez de grands sourires. ‘You all have big smiles.’”
Two dings. Hope swells in the Sinners’ hearts. Leland is just annoyed.
”Wow…” Don nods. Leland scoffs at her enthusiasm.
”Can’t tell if she’s a blonde harlot or a foreign alien,” he whispers into Heathcliff’s ear. Don only catches some of what Heathcliff says next:
”Now why the … … would she be a harlot? She’s about as innocent as anyone can get from The City.”
“Now, Don, here is the plural version to say ‘they have’: please repeat after me. Ils/elles/ons ont.” Meursault assumes the role of Don’s French teacher once more.
She willingly obliges. Another ding occurs. As she does so, Leland scans her and whispers back to Heathcliff:
”Blondes are sexy, not innocent.”
”And finally, Don, say ‘nous avons’ to say ‘we have’.” Meursault concludes.
“Shut up.” Heathcliff grits his teeth at Leland.
”Nous avons le bonheur!” Don beams. [Note to reader: ‘We have joy!’]
”You shut up, you damned gyspy.” Leland glares back at Heathcliff.
At that, Heathcliff pauses. The only sound is the gentle ding from before as Meursault and Don turn to see Heathcliff.
Who grabs Leland by the collar. And puts his own gun to his forehead.
”Say that again for me, you cobweb! A single pinch from me will annihilate you!” Heathcliff begins shaking the man back and forth.
Only to witness Leland whip out a baton. The gun is flung out of Heathcliff’s hands.
“On your knees, you British commie brownie!”
The baton crackles with electricity.
At the various slurs he begins to shout, Meursault stares down at Don.
Who is charging at Leland.
“You foul-mouthed fiend! I thought we would eat the bread of justice together in the land, and yet… you dare insult our fellow harbinger of hope!” Don hisses, tackling Leland to the floor.
She promptly gets electrocuted.
Right as the walls surrounding the group lift, revealing the grand outdoors.
Read: the desert?
Meursault helps Heathcliff get up right away.
“We need to get back to Dante as soon as possible,” Meursault announces, allowing Heathcliff to rest against him for a brief moment to catch his breath. “Our prospects of surviving alone are… dim.”
Heathcliff curses. And then he looks over to Don, who is trying to to kick Leland in sensitive areas of his body despite her obvious paralysis.
“Go help her!” Heathcliff hisses. “I’ll… that go cart over there! I’ll get it working!”
In the distance is a golf cart reading ‘Murkoff Corp’ on its side. It is bright pink. (And all but Limbus Company Sinners know its a well utilized trap tactic.)
Without another word, Meursault springs into action. In a few moments, him and Leland begin wrestling each other.
Leland is awfully chatty. And constantly in motion.
”Wow! You’re thick for a French guy,” Leland sputters, trying to land punches on Meursault’s face to no avail.
Don limps toward the far away golf cart as Meursault is lambasted by Leland’s strange comments:
”Hooh! How many women must have slept with you last night!”
“There communists right now in France, too? ‘Course there are. Little godless chickens running around everywhere…”
”Say, what’s your job? You look like you could be a mighty fine officer… don’t know what that lass is talking about, being a ‘bringer of justice’. She’d be better off bringing me some sandwiches, now how about that.”
”Don! Get on the golf cart! Now!” Heathcliff tries to bring the three-miles-an-hour cart over to her.
”I do try!” she shouts back, unaware that a bomb is attached to the underside of the cart. The bomb itself is accelerated by pressure— and one Don Quixote could cause it to detonate entirely.
”Hey, French guy,” Leland continues to try to provoke the man. “Tu as a big dih—?”
He gets clocked in the face.
”Hey now! Was just trying to get friendly with you!” Leland growls, hitting Meursault’s arm.
”Tu as une grande gueule,” Meursault flips the man over.
Leland’s eyes widen. “Did you just say j’ai a big—“
”Mouth. Tu aimes bavarder. Vexing.”
”I get that we were all supposed to learn French and all, kid, but this is America. You can speak English now,” Leland rolls his eyes.
(In the background, the growl of an engine pierces through the air.)
(And it’s not the golf-cart.)
”MEURSAULT!!” Don shouts. “WATCH OUT!! THE BUS IS COMING!”
“So that’s how I got run over by a bus…” Leland rubs the back of his neck. “It’s the commies, I tell ya. All the commies fault. Bet they were all Russian freaks.”
Liliya side-eyes him. “Good.”
”And you learned French from the Russian communists?” Franco wrinkles his nose.
“Shut up, Barbi.”
“Say something for us in French!” one of the Kress twins snorts.
“Well, I can’t, but the French guy said I was super hot,” Leland boasts, a bright smile flashing his teeth.
”I bet Barbi’s fingernail yer lying…” Phylis rolls her eyes.
”I am not! J’ai raison!!!” Leland grumbles.