The Valorous Epic of the Chivalrous and Saintly Don Quixote, Chevalier Extraordinaire of Limbus Company and the City: Volume XXVII, Amethyst Lightning, Shine Down on this Eternal Midnight - Chapter 1

Chapter Text

From the state of the building, she estimated that it might have been at least a month since anyone had called this place anything more than one huge dump. The walls groaned, the floors sagged, and every so often a drop of water would rain down from one of the many rusted pipes snaking across the ceiling, causing the blonde to shudder and ruffle her damp hair until it dried. The catacombs smelled like a wet dog, occasionally mixing up its rank odor with the foul stench of death. She’d long since stopped wrinkling her nose, tragically acclimatizing to what most people would have easily written off as some condemned tenement.

Of course, that is what it was. Those prohibitive rows of yellow tape strung out across each and every broken doorway, clearly demarcated with a bold “KEEP OUT” across its golden surface, probably weren’t there just for show, nor were those guards in the blue jackets, the oversized claymores hanging from each and every one of their shoulders exuding an aura best described as foreboding. From what she’d heard, their motto was “Your Shield.”

Such an innocuous term for a group she was only 90% certain would gut her on the spot.

The crumbling stone steps beneath her heels creaked even under her petite weight, no doubt a ringing endorsem*nt of the exemplary architectural quality put into this – being as polite as possible – pigsty. She huffed and went from a modest jog to a gingerly crawl, feeling her way further down the labyrinthian basem*nt by the cramped walls on either side. Dust flaked from her fingers and stained her ornate sleeves, while the growing humidity of the decrepit basem*nt caused her already muddy dress to cling to her body, the glossy, obsidian shade now a murky and joyless black, while even her leggings, a translucent shade of dark violet, were now beginning to look more like a gloomy black as they stuck to her legs. She desperately needed to have her outfit dry cleaned, laundered thoroughly and left in the spring breeze for a couple of hours, but given the circ*mstances her current options were to endure the filth she wallowed in or go naked for a couple of hours for her own convenience, and considering how uncomfortable it was to feel wet silk and cloth constantly grind against her skin, the latter was looking more enticing by the second. She’d considered procuring some clothes from one of the shops, but their bizarre use of some type of paper to barter for goods turned her off of experimentation. There was still some chance that the coin in her purse would fetch some value, but considering her already outlandish attire, casually dropping golden coins in shopkeepers’ laps would draw more attention than she would wish.

And like she noted already, she was still unsure whether half of these so-called Associations wouldn’t just deal with an outlander like herself in the most “quick” and “efficient” way possible.

The girl’s foot hit solid ground – or, at least, the wet stone underneath her boot was as close of solid ground as she could hope for in these byzantine hallways. She pulled her hand away and closed her eyes, the darkness of her own eyelids somehow more warm and comforting than the pitch black of the basem*nt awaiting her. She breathed in once, feeling energy pulse through her body and rush out along the decrepit corridors, coating the shadows in a colorless grey… save for a faint trace of blue, a trail winding deeper in. With tentative steps, she tiptoed her way along the winding catacombs, following the blue mists as well as she could manage. This ability was, after all, made purely for tracing elemental energy. She kept her hands stretched out in front of her, knowing full well that if she happened to run directly into a wall she would have no one to blame but herself. Occasionally an errant clatter or a nearby clang would cause her to freeze in her tracks, her eyes shooting open as if she’d suddenly come across some vicious, unnamed beast that dwelled in these hallowed halls. Then she would sigh and laugh nervously, coming across broken swords, shorn armor, a shattered vase, and the pale, white visage of a half-broken skeleton.

… Okay, she had to admit, for that last one, it was less of a laugh and more of a bloodcurdling shriek.

Her trek into this forbidden warehouse did, at last, bear some fruit, as the trail began to coalesce into a thick mist. Her eyes opened, met not with the inky darkness that made up the maze-like hallways behind her, but a thick, dark shade hanging over an expansive chamber. She snapped her fingers, a shard of violet lightning erupting in her outstretched palm and lighting the space ahead of her – albeit only at least arm’s length. She’d have preferred a torch or those lights that the guards were sporting, but the less attention she could bring to herself, the better.

Her eyes closed once more, and another pulse revealed not a trail, nor a mist, but rather a pool of that familiar blue. Her pace quickened to a light jog, her heart thumping anxiously in her chest as she neared the disturbance. Was she afraid that she’d come across nothing, that she’d simply come across another dead end, that she’d spend another wretched night crawled up in an alleyway or hanging from one of the catwalks of the buildings making up this slum, pining for her warm bed and the warm breezes of her homeland? Of course not. She’d made peace with the fact that her search would simply have to continue.

No, she was afraid of what would happen if she did find something. To know nothing is itself a type of solace – an opportunity to indulge in fantasy, to pin your hopes that the thing you wish for the most is still a possibility.

Perhaps it was because she wished so much for nothing that, for once, she did find something. Her legs trembled as she reached the pool of blue energies, opening her eyes once more and shining that violet lightning overhead. It wasn’t much, of course – the searing of cracked stones, a myriad of craters, the distinct signs of a raging and climatic battle that had barely hung on against the inescapable march of time. But what she could see, just barely sticking out from amidst the broken stone and the murky shadows, was the telltale sign of dried blood. No… Blood… and a shard of black armor. Her quivering hand pressed against the cold steel, its very touch sending a chill down her spine, and she closed her eyes one more time, the world around washing itself in grey once more as another pulse was sent out.

Blue. All of these signs were dyed in blue.

She pulled her hand back and pressed it against her chest, sinking to her knees. All at once, it was as though the burdens she had shouldered for so long had fell upon her like a heavy weight, trying to crush her body until it was nothing but dust. … She knew deep down that he was likely dead. She knew it was hopeless to believe that her search would one day procure that chuckling idiot, his disheveled red hair and his signature, grey blazer some sign of familiarity in this cruel and foreign world. But she could have hoped. She could have dreamed that one day, she would find the last friend she knew from those carefree days.

But maybe even that was too much to ask for.

She wanted to cry, to pull off her eyepatch so that her tears could flow freely, to curl up and sob and beg for the world she once loved to return to her. Yet, even as her sorrows dragged down her heart, her body jolted upright, the sheer, dogged persistence of a lone survivor overriding her pitiful desire to lie down and die. After all, those heavy footsteps behind her couldn’t have been missed by even the deafest adventurer in the land.

“Halt!” a voice barked behind her, its uncaring tone oblivious to her plight. “This building is off-limits while the Seven analyze its premises for any news on the Golden Horde. All unauthorized personnel found within are to be detained and questioned.” The flourish of a claymore rung out in the stagnant air as she heard one pair of footsteps separate into three, the guards slowly surrounding her. “Under the authority of both the Zwei and E Corp, we are placing you under arrest. Any attempt to resist will be considered an admission of your identity as an agent of the Golden Horde and will be met with summary execution.”

The girl sighed. Maybe it was for the best if she give up now. If she threw her arms up and let these men drag her off to a cell, she could simply waste away in this foreign land until, at long last, she too could finally die. Was there any reason, after all, to continue such a fruitless pursuit when she knew that everyone else she wished to find was well and truly gone? What purpose was left for her to continue on?

Well, she knew that, at least. Even if she loathed to admit it, even if she simply lied through her teeth and accepted it as penance so that she could begin her doomed journey, a small part of her felt indebted – no, compelled to carry out that task. She still recalled that enigmatic man’s co*cky face as he stared her down in the middle of a flaming field, holding out his hand even as the world she had known for all of her life became little more than another of her precious storybooks, incinerated by the relentless flames of conquest and consumed by the nihility of a pointless, aimless finality.

“I don’t promise you answers. I only offer a purpose.”

So she rose, gripped her hand tight, and threw it out in a wild flourish. A beautifully crafted bow materialized in her hand as if by magic, carved from wood of a lustrous black with violet highlights across its spiked frame. She turned and, with an exaggerated flourish, threw her free hand out, the room exploding in under a blinding ray of electrifying light.

“Oz, reveal thyself!” she cried.

And at the behest of her summons came a raven, a bird whose wingspan seemed derived from some distant fantasy realm. Half the size of the girl who had beseeched his aid, the illustrious raven, wreathed in lightning and sporting a small but nonetheless regal crown atop its head, spread its monstrous wings and cawed, its very presence illuminating the abandoned chamber in a dull, violet light.

“As you wish, Mein Fräulein.”

Lo, my ever-faithful public, let thine starry eyes widen in admiration and thine mouths gape in awe, for galloping onto the field once again is none other than the stalwart, the daring, the indomitable chevalier of Limbus Company, Don Quixote! For I, ever so dauntlessly pursuing the evils and horrors that dare desecrate the beauteous metropolis of the City, have summoned forth the courage and bravery of our gallant order to-

“No, Don.”

The blonde practically deflated like a pierced balloon, wheeling around to stare down the redhead with doey eyes and quivering lips. “But Ishmaaaael!”

The Sinner sighed and shook her head, deprived of the energy to even flick her delusional coworker on her exposed forehead, let alone face the rest of her near infinite enthusiasm. As she leaned over the ragged bus seat, she cast a lazy gaze over the rest of the bus, finding herself in mutually exhausted company. Outis and Meursault had tactfully retreated to the near back of the bus, pouring over a scribbled list of expenditures and resources for their motley group. Forward a couple of seats, Rodya lazily reclined her head between the back of her seat and the window, her tongue lolling from her mouth in a rather unconvincing attempt to look drunkenly asleep, while across from her, Sinclair and Heathcliff huddled in their chairs in a rare case of mutual understanding, both making sure their heads did not poke above the chairs and into Don’s field of view. Down another row, Gregor and Ryoshu shared the same lighter, each fumbling for their own pack of cigarettes even as a lit one hung from their lips, the box only occasionally slipping from their shaking palms and giving the two Sinners an excuse to sink further into their chairs. In front of them, Hong Lu appeared to draw inspiration from Rodya’s brilliant maneuver to avoid Don’s avid proclamations, though while the former could at least be confused for a snoozing drunk by an equally plastered Fixer, the shuddering, smiling Sinner with his hands thrust under his legs and his body slightly vibrating in his chair was either a child failing to convince his parents he was asleep past his bedtime or a poor man getting his soul ripped out by some invisible demon. Even Yi Sang and Faust, the Sinners that could have been most charitably described as… the most tolerant of Don’s exuberance, shied away from the beaming Sinner in the front of the bus. Yi Sang limply slumped in his chair, neither showing any interest in Don nor attempting to hide his desperate wish that the girl notice literally anyone else, while opposite him, Faust was engrossed in some beat up Limbus Company manual she had magically procured from who knows where, meticulously studying its text as though it was her first day on the job.

Naturally, and much to Ishmael’s groaning displeasure, Don’s attention was squarely focused on the one Sinner stupid enough to directly address her.

“I. Said. No.” Ishmael said flatly, her gloomy, green gaze standing in stark contrast to the glowing hazel eyes of the hopeful Don Quixote. “We’ve already been overworked for this month between the Railway, the increase in Luxcavations, and the uptick of commissions that we’ve taken to make up for the increased maintenance costs because someone decided to brazenly fling their f*cking bat around like they were in some rave and smash my shield to sh*t.”

An awkward cough echoed from the back of the bus.

“We’re not going to chase some glorified Urban Legend rumor just because you heard it from a friend of a friend of a friend of another friend who happens to be in Zwei Section 6,” Ishmael continued, blowing an errant strand of hair out from the front of her face.

“… But what other time will we get a chance to investigate some mysterious interloper that appeared in the hallowed streets of our City?” she continued, clasping her hands together like a begging child. “Truly, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, a fleeting moment that any knight must seize now or forever find out of their grasp!”

“Don, a f*cking rose exploded from my face,” Ishmael said bluntly. “You’d have my attention more if you told me that you wanted to go watch some innocuous, non-flesh eating pigeons.” The redhead turned her gaze to Faust, the white-haired girl skimming the same line over for what must have been the seventh time now. “Faust, you tell her.”

The Sinner bolted upright and hastily clawed at her ears, finally procuring a small, wireless earbud and rolling it around in her fingers. “… F-Faust was busy refreshing herself on the proper managerial protocols for our next excursion into the Railway,” she said quickly, holding out the two earbuds like some warding talisman. “Faust admits she did not catch the last few words spoken.”

Ishmael’s eyes narrowed. Faust had made an off-handed remark only a week ago that her earbuds had blown out after a shriek from the Alleyway Watchdog had gone unanswered. Faust also knew that exactly only one Sinner would have forgotten that detail already.

“Whatever, then,” Ishmael huffed, leaping up from her chair and making her way to the back of the bus. “I need to freshen up anyway. My answer is still no, Don.”

“But Ishmaaaaaaael-“

“I said no, Don!”

The slam of the steel door silenced the whimpering Sinner’s final protests. Her dour mood threatened to dampen her spirits but, in an act truly befitting such a stalwart and unshakable paladin like herself, she swiftly recovered, directing her attention back toward the only other Sinner stupid enough to have said something out loud. Faust’s already pale face seemed to grow even whiter as the blonde girl loomed over her, her smile threatening to exceed the corners of her face. Her fingers dug into the manual in her hands, causing the pages to crease as she rose it over her face in a pathetic and futile attempt to ward off the looming horror excitedly preparing her plans to break the girl’s sanity.

Then, mercifully, the sigh of pistons drew away Don’s attention – much to Faust’s relief. Three pairs of footsteps echoed from the front of the bus, their familiar driver daintily skipping up the steps of Mephistopheles with a churro hanging from her mouth.

“Vroom vroom. Back from groceries,” Charon chimed, giving a quick wave to the twelve Sinners before returning to her seat at the front. Behind her, Vergilius and Dante leisurely ascended, the latter tilting their mechanical head in wonder at the deathly scene laid out before them. They raised their hand to their clockface in their attempt to clear their nonexistent throat, likely mustering their unparalleled charisma and exemplary managerial powers to dispel the gloomy pall lingering over the Sinners.

“[Something wrong? You all look like someone died.]”

No one laughed.

Like an errant container of gasoline on an already blazing inferno, the third’s presence only served to contribute to the jaunty atmosphere of the metaphorical moratorium the eleven Sinners found themselves trapped in. Even Don, whose indomitable spirit was seemingly powered by some perpetual motion generator, shriveled up in Vergilius presence. As she fell prostrate on the ground – her forehead nearly grazing his scuffed shoes – she seemed lesser than a knight, lesser even than a squire. At that moment, she was but a page before her regal benefactor begging not to have her insignificant life put to the sword.

Which of course was an understatement of what the LCB Guide was truly capable of.

Vergilius spared a cursory glance at the other ten Sinners scattered throughout the bus, each one tactfully receding into their chairs so as to dodge his piercing red gaze. He remained silent even as his head tilted downward, observing the cowering blonde groveling at his feet like a beaten dog. With uneasy trepidation, Don’s head rose to meet Vergilius’s. Her eyes nearly popped out of her skull as an uncharacteristically genuine smile was plastered over his face, the otherworldly visage paired with his trademark, deathly stare wrenched straight out of some Aleph-tier nightmare from Lobotomy Corporation. Each hair on the quivering girl’s body stood up on end as each nerve in her body screamed at her to flee even as the fear permeating her practically left her bolted to Mephistopheles’s floor.

“Don Quixote…” he said in his signature, low drawl.

Don grew so pale she may as well have already been a ghost. “Y-Y-Yes, sir Vergilius. I apologize, please don’t-“

“You mentioned your interest in pursuing some… illusive Urban Legend in the district we’re currently in right now.”

If one didn’t know any better, they’d have sworn that Mephistopheles was some idling spacecraft whose airlock had abruptly ruptured, the resulting vacuum devouring all sound and leaving nothing but the ticking of an oblivious Dante. One by one, the ten Sinners popped their heads above the backs of their chairs, the discomfort and fear that came with Vergilius’s presence replaced with an even more disconcerting… confusion.

“Y-Yes, sir Vergilius,” Don stammered, gulping down what must have been several mouthfuls of saliva as she tried not to hyperventilate under his paralyzing stare. “R-R-Recently, the valiant realms of Districts 5, 11, and 12 have spoken in hushed whispers of a-an e-enigma, some c-caped crusader descending on wings of t-twilight and h-harnessing otherworldly powers to accost both noble Fixers and vile Syndicates alike.”

An expression crossed the face of the normally stoic and unmoving Vergilius. As the blank Clockface tilted to parse the reaction, Dante suddenly became aware of a profound and suffocating atmosphere suddenly filling the bus like a poisonous gas, as though a miasma had seeped in from some unregulated Nest laboratory and was strangling the life out of the unfortunate City dwellers it happened upon. Dante’s gaze swept over each side of the bus, acutely aware of their deathly silence, their eyes frozen in an unparalleled and unbridled trepidation. From the irate Heathcliff to the oblivious Hong Lu, from the confident Rodya to even the seemingly omniscient Faust, all eleven Sinners had sunk deep into their chairs, as through exposing even a single part of their bodies may vaporize them far past the point at which the clock could wind them back. Lowly, meek Don Quixote, sinking back to her knees, was left helpless before the full brunt of this intensity, her eyes cast skyward, struck with fear as though looking upon a very demon loosed from whatever hell awaited below the decrepit streets of the City. One could hardly have guessed that she was once the boisterous wannabe Fixer the rest of the group groaned about. Finally, Dante’s eyes swept over Vergilus, and they, too, fell quiet, their entire body tensing up as though a malevolent predator had clutched a knife to their throat.

Vergilius was smiling.

No, worse. Vergilius was… laughing.

The sound that uttered from Vergilius’s guttural maw could have been described in any number of ways. To Gregor, it was like the grinding of several Yuris crunched into pulp, slowly assimilating into some malignant, rotted horror towering over him with its grotesque, multi-faced grin. To Sinclair, it was the shrieking of several bloodied nails upon stone, the crackle of broken electronics and twisted metal punctuated occasionally by the zealous cries of the plated inquisitors, all following in harmony with that high-pitched, paralyzing whistle. To the quivering Don Quixote, it very well was the growling of a monster from beyond the Outskirts, a multi-eyed behemoth sporting an uncountable plethora of tentacles, closing in on the girl who had long since locked herself away in her dreams. Faced with the reality of her situation, a red-eyed devil with his gaze piercing into her very soul, it seemed like she was ready to die of fright right on the spot. Her eyes followed Vergilius’s hand as it slipped behind his back and they shut tight, the girl rolling into a ball as though the combined mass of her arms and legs might leave some type of torso for her fellow Sinners to bury. She bit her lip, burying her face in her thighs, and for the briefest moment, a tear rolled down her cheek.

A curt, sharp rapping was the first sound to break the suffocating monotony. Ten pairs of eyes slowly rose up from the leather seats, all fixed on their ghoulish guide as he held, in his scarred hands… a small flier. He cleared his throat and, with a raised eyebrow, slid the toe of his shoe under Don’s ankles and toppled her onto her back like some oversized ball.

“As it so happens, it appears that this Nest we’re currently in is dealing with a small incident. Reports of a newly christened Urban Legend, a so-called black crusader striking Associations and Syndicates alike. They’ve recently put out a bounty to have this issue dealt with.”

Silence. A cough or two from an increasingly bewildered Outis. The Sinners, one by one, straightened up in their seats, the fear that once gripped their hearts replaced with an even more inexplicable confusion. Don Quixote appeared to shake… no, Dante shook their head. Shake was the wrong term for the mass at Vergilius’s feet. A more apt term would be… vibrating.

“So, uh, Vergilius,” Gregor finally said, quietly clearing his throat. “You, uh, want us to go out and do that job then?”

The amused smile left the guide’s face, replaced with the typical, tired frown the Sinners were accustomed to. “Yes, Gregor. As Mephistopheles is currently incapacitated for the time being, I think it would be prudent if you would provide some supplementary income so that the higher-ups don’t ask too many questions as to our unexpected halt.”

The silence flooded in again, albeit the palpable tension was less one of terror and more of… awkward embarrassment. Three Sinners sunk in their chairs, accompanied by an equally meek manager behind them. The ticking of their clockface accelerated all too slightly and, were its metallic face capable of expressing emotion, doubtlessly it would be as red as its coat. A brief memory flickered in the back of everyone’s heads, a gaggle of four grouped around the opened hood of Mephistopheles on a lazy midsummer afternoon, their red coats shimmering despite the cloudy sky above.

“[Yes, there, right there.]” Dante whirred excitedly, pointing at the mess of chains grouped into a small ball. It pulsated with a dull, red light, a shade that brought nothing but pain and anguish to the trembling manager. They anxiously pulled at Meursault’s sleeve, the Rosespanner Fixer following behind obediently despite the rather paltry strength of the one trying to move him. “[Okay, what I need you all to do is slam your wrenches in there.]”

“Is this course of action wise?” Meursault questioned, the overworked Fixer looking down at the intricate and byzantine workings of the bus that had plucked his consciousness from another universe. Though he, much like the Meursault he was imprinted upon, exuded an unbreakable loyalty to their clockfaced manager, one could catch the wariness in his eyes.

“Yeah, manager bud, like I’ve worked with a buncha different machines across the City before, but this here contraption here made by that girl there’s a bit above my pay grade,” Gregor said, lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the bus. He scratched his fuzzy beard before his hands trailed downward, petting an ever-diligent roach perched on his shoulder. “You think it’s smart to go around banging things we’ve never seen?”

“Oh, come off it, Greg,” Rodya chided, spinning her oversized staff above her head with a confident – almost brazen carelessnesss. The twin chainsaws adorning its end were millimeters away from the windshield, the vacant stare of Charon behind the glass almost judging the excitable manager as they leaned over into Mephistopheles’s engine. “When’re we ever gonna get a chance to work on something as big as this? Imagine when we get back to the Office and talk about this. We could even market the experience as working on a Singularity!”

“Miss Rodya, I must caution you that the employee handbook requests all Fixers not advertise the accomplishments of Rosespanner Workshop falsely,” Meursault cut in. “Furthermore, the handbook suggests that any and all maintenance work conducted on technologies that we are not familiar with – or may belong to Wings or other affluent companies – first be passed through both Human Resources as well as-“

“Pfff, stop being such a stickler,” Rodya huffed, playfully shoving Meursault. “What’s the worst that can happen? Besides, the client – and our manager, I remind you – told us that it’s fine. We’re just gonna do bit of percussive maintenance or whatever.”

Dante nodded excitedly, appearing less like some dignified superior and more like a giddy child eyeing some mysterious present. “[Faust said that Mephistopheles knows how to give away Identities that best advance our work but… well we’ve been getting the same eight or nine and none of them are on the tier as, say, you, Rodya.]”

“Naturally,” the Fixer beamed, running a hand through her hair.

“[But you guys are supposed to be tech whizzes or something along those lines,]” Dante continued, their face continually focused on the ball of chains hanging in Mephistopheles. “[Just, like, do your thing. Maybe you’ll fix this and we can get a glimpse into, say, Outis’s other worlds or something. Maybe one where she has Dongrang’s EGO.]”

“I feel that you are misconstruing our collective talents, manager,” Meursault answered, reaching for Dante’s shoulder. “Rosespanner Workshop is-“

“Just learn to take a compliment when you get one, Meury!” Rodya sighed, pulling Meursault back and thrusting his hammer into his chest. “We’ll give it a nice ol’ whack and see what happens!”

“Well, it is the manager’s idea,” Gregor sighed, a whirring wrench where his right arm should have been. “Guess we might as well get it over with.”

Meursault paused, the worry evident across his fatigued face. Still, he said nothing as he rose his hammer in unison with Rodya and Gregor, the three of them aiming for the enigmatic machinery of Mephistopheles. Dante was practically jumping up and down, watching as the ball feverishly sparked red and gold, as if begging the manager to show mercy.

“[Go!]”

And, at his fervent tick, the three thrust down into Mephistopheles, the resounding wail still sending chills down each Sinner that had been in the vicinity. A flustered Rodya turned away, as if the others would attribute her actions to the bravado of her all-too eager doppelganger, while Gregor lit up another cigarette in silence. Meursault simply stared forward, appearing as though the collective memory had simply bounced off of his immovable visage.

From the front of the bus, Faust looked back and clicked her tongue, a very familiar – and aggravatingly fair – smirk plastered across her face.

Something short of a resolute bang echoed in the narrow bus. Left to her own devices for far too long, at long last the vibrating ball of welling energy had exploded in a expressive, shrill cheer, the blonde Sinner leaping up with such force it was a miracle she didn’t splatter her skull against the roof of the bus (much to the chagrin of three particular Sinners). As though the once overwhelming presence of the bus’s guide had never existed, she leapt forward and embraced Vergilius as though he was a long lost lover, causing even this indomitable Fixer to stumble back in surprise. The bus went silent once again, each Sinner watching the blasphemous heresy play out in front of them. Faust and Yi Sang cringed and lowered themselves beneath their chairs once again, hoping that the slab of leather in front of them might prevent the gore from their once-intact coworker from splattering all over them, while further back, an excitable Ryoshu barely stopped herself short from cheering Vergilius on.

For several awkward minutes they stared at the two, Vergilius’s unflinching gaze patiently waiting for the excitable Sinner to finally awaken from her dream. As though a switch had finally be flipped in her head and the rusted gears making up that shriveled organ that masqueraded as her brain spun, Don immediately jumped back as though she’d just come into contact with a volatile beehive, bowing her head and clasping her hands apologetically. To some, it was surprising that she didn’t simply prostrate herself and beg for mercy - although half of those who mulled over that thought admitted Don probably didn’t even know what “prostrating” was.

“You don’t have to say anything more,” Ishmael said, clasping her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “The three of us alone should be able to make our way up without provoking some violent response from the bastards.”

“Just me and you two?” the girl said, a tinge of indecision in her voice.

“If you have a better idea, I’m waiting.”

She bit her lip. She clearly trusted the two bizarre vagabonds that had randomly waltzed into a hostage situation with an offer of assistance as much as any sensible person would. Her eyes flew to the mismash of Zwei Fixers assembled behind her, some still nursing fresh wounds while others could barely hold their blades still as the light in the third floor ominously flickered. She closed her eyes, gave a long and protracted sigh, and turned back to Ishmael. “Isadora.”

The Zwei Fixer shoved her hand out. “It’s common courtesy to greet your coworkers before moving out for a job.”

The redhead smirked and grabbed it with her own, finalizing their impromptu alliance with a firm handshake. “Ishmael. I’m sure you don’t need Don to introduce herself,” Ishmael loosened her vicegrip on Don’s face, the girl vigorously nodding the second she was free of the Sinner’s iron grip. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“... Likewise.”

“Geh!”

The Kurokumo cutthroat’s katana reeled back violently, its velvet steel the only defense between his tattooed skin and the giant mass of sharpened metal gripped in the Zwei Fixer’s hands. Isadora pressed her weight against the thug, her eyes cold as they bore into his increasingly frantic psyche.

“H-How the hell did three random girls tear through the boys downstairs?!” he snarled, pressing his hand against the flat of the blade in a desperate attempt to ward off the Fixer’s relentless assault. “Just a bunch of Nest lapdogs…!”

“Forgive me if I’m skipping a couple steps in the handbook,” Isadora said flatly, leaning in as both her weight and her suffocating aura threatened to fully smother the Syndicate thug. “You are accused of threatening the safety of a civilian and harming an Association Fixer. Due to the exigent circ*mstances of our operation, I am skipping your arrest and moving directly to your death sentence.”

“B-Bold words from such a haughty little lass,” he snarled, flashing his serrated teeth. The man, too, leaned forward, as if readying to take a bite out of the Zwei Fixer. “Let’s see how you act after we take your pretty little eyes out. Jai, now!”

The shadows behind the Zwei Fixer coalesced and sprung forward, a silent wakushu’s katana leveled at Isadora’s widening eyes. “Your end approac-”

And, in that same momentary lapse in Isadora’s judgment, a rush of wind threatened to push the two aside. The sharp and distinctive ring of unsheathing steel was overwhelmed by the onrushing crunch of bone and metal, the confidence of the second Kurokumo thug reduced to a strangled, mangled cry as his head lolled, staring down at the giant lance skewering through his right arm and chest. Don continued, completely unmoved by the ragged body now hanging from her beloved lance, before rearing up and thrusting the weapon skyward, swiftly impaling what was left of the Kurokumo wakushu along the length of the glistening iron. The girl cheered with vibrant joy, her beaming smile painted with blood.

“Fear not, Lady Isadora!” Don cried, sweeping her lance overhead and rending the body firmly into two, mangled chunks. “Such heinous villainy will never succeed while I, Don Quixote, valiantly stand in defense of-”

A bloody thud in front of the Zwei Fixer tore her attention away from Don’s monologue - the fourth she’d had since entering the tenement. Feeling the pressure weighing against her zweihander lessen, she looked back to the Kurokumo cutthroat, met only with a flattened, splattered collection of gore and bone that once constituted a head cushioning a crimson stained mace. As the lifeless body sunk to the ground, Ishmael flicked her weapon, hoping to free it from some of the excess blood that now coated its blackened steel, and turned back to Isadora. “She means to say we got your back,” Ishmael said with a weary nod. “That’s two floors, right? That means that the hostages should be on the third.”

“That should be about right,” Isadora said, pursing her lips in consternation. “But surely they should have noticed that we’ve been tearing through their ranks. They’ll probably be ready for us when we get there.”

“Do you have a plan if they try to use one of the hostages against us?” the redhead asked, clipping the mace back to her belt and folding her arms. “These bottom feeders always resort to the lowest type of tactics when pushed to a corner.”

“... I’ve always been pretty good at handling my blade,” Isadora replied, wiping the sweat from her face. “It should be fine. We should hurry, before-”

She bit her lip, cutting off her trail of thought as though speaking it might suddenly conjure the horrifying thought into reality. Wordlessly, the girl took off up the stairs, leaving only the two Sinners and a shredded apartment behind her, a mountain of bodies piled atop tables and across couches while the gaudy carpet beneath their feet was saturated with blood. Never one to skip a beat, Don Quixote followed quickly after her, her noble, ragged steed Rocinante propelling her across the ruined remains of the Kurokumo Clan and up the staircase.

“Come, Lady Ishmael!” Don cried, her voice echoing down into the deathly quiet apartment below. “Victory awaits at the end of our noble conquest! Daresay, the accolades awaiting us at the end of our journey shall move even the heart of our immovable guide!”

Ishmael opened her mouth to reply, only to be met by the faint, diminishing echoes of Don’s footsteps. She sighed and, absentmindedly kicking the mangled, near-decapitated body out of her path, followed behind the two other girls at a brisk pace. The dim, buzzing lights above the ramshackle staircase would have served as a prime ambush point where any number of Kurokumo cutthroats could attempt to surround the Sinner but, in true minimalist fashion, the narrow, claustrophobic staircase with high walls nearly brushing up against her shoulders dispelled any worry of a potential ambush. I mean, unless a particularly dedicated grunt thought to get the drop on her from the ceiling above.

But, Ishmael figured, if someone was crazy enough to fling themselves an entire story down to their death just to potentially impale someone on the way out, then sometimes you just had to accept that unpredictability.

In a shocking development that the redhead could never have seen coming, her ascent up the staircase was met with little more than an irritated sigh as she felt the shoulders of her jacket ruffle and fray as they were pushed against the dirtied walls, the creak of the dilapidated wood beneath her occasionally broken up by the valiant, ear-piercing shriek of Don Quixote, followed by some quite literal shrieks from some very no doubt agonized Syndicate grunts hanging from her bloodied spear. By the time she had wound her way up the stairs, Ishmael was shuffling sideways up the wobbling steps and bracing herself up the sagging walls, wondering quietly to herself how Don had even gotten up these steps with her oversized lance in hand. She crossed the threshold into the final floor, greeted immediately by a corpse slumping over the adjoining door frame, a mangled hole where the trachea should be. Like the unbridled whirlwind that she usually was, the Sinner had left almost nothing intact in the wake of her dauntless pursuit, with a torn up carpet bathed in blood and several pieces of what may have once been modest and unassuming furniture smashed into various indistinguishable piles of splinters and foam, adorned with the ravaged, dismembered remains of several Kurokumo grunts. Ishmael smirked and crossed her arms as her eyes flew across the spectacle, headless corpses and mangled bodies all thrown haphazardly about as though the Tearful Bull itself had run ripshod through the apartment. It was almost rather pathetic how not a single one of the Syndicate thugs had apparently survived a single amateur Fixer with delusions of grand-

“Hold it right there, wench!”

The loud splintering of wood wrenched Ishmael’s thoughts away from her idle musings. Literally bursting out of a beaten cabinet, a burly Kurokumo grunt rushed down the redheaded Sinner nearly an entire head shorter than him. With bulging veins and bloodshot eyes, the edge of his stained katana flew directly at Ishmael’s shoulder, no doubt aiming to skewer the girl and pin her down as another hostage to leverage against the pesky Fixers that had thrown a wrench into their operations. A gleeful, maniacal screech slipped through his devilish grin, his eyes already fantasizing the pitiful howls and sobs for mercy as the redhead squirmed against the wall, her blood coating her ragged jacket a beauteous crimson.

The raucous, jarring clang of steel against steel tore the swordsman from his fantasies. Lazily drawing his attention back to reality as though roused from a deep dream, he stared slackjawed at his katana as it was neatly parried and thrown upward, cast aside by a swift swing from a polished mace. He felt his throat tighten, his dry mouth struggling to vocalize his utter dismay, his unbridled rage at the defiant girl who refused to comply with heralding his triumphant success.

And then Ishmael punched him in the face.

“I remember these guys putting up more of a fight,” Ishmael scoffed. Her eyes drifted from the dazed, groaning thug at her feet as a gaggle of hurried footsteps caught her attention. Almost as if on cue, a disorganized mob of Kurokumo cutthroats hastily scurried across the room, pausing as they caught sight of the redhead and the unconscious grunt sprawled at her feet. The sight of them, caked in sweat and stained with blood, some nursing the telltale scars of a lance scraping by their uncovered shoulders while others limping from the still bleeding gashes of a wayward zweihander, hardly inspired even the momentary pause of a babyfaced Nest egg taking a wrong turn and finding herself face to face with a desperate Rat, let alone a lonely Sinner against six enforcers of the infamous Kurokumo clan.

Still, battered and beaten as they were, they were a valued part of the Thumb and a notorious Syndicate, known for leaving several hotshot Offices aspiring to break down their protection schemes in several bloody pieces across the Backstreets. More pertinently, they were six irked swordsmen with bruised egos and she was but a single girl with a flimsy mace. Perhaps the two that made a beeline to Ishmael too thought a hostage would carve out some small advantage against the bloodthirsty blonde and the stoic Zwei murderer. Or perhaps they were so frantic to flee that they simply wished to cut down the body that stood between them and the doorway.

The blunt end of Ishmael’s mace certainly didn’t seem to care.

The first thwack elicited a cry much like a dying wolf, its deep and guttural roar shaking the small room as the burly grunt staggered back, his katana clattering to the ground as he clawed the ragged, gory mess that once was his sneering face. The second sent him down with an ignoble thud, to the awed silence of the grunts behind him. The redhead twisted her body and spun, almost mirroring the pirouette of a graceful Nest ballerina as she clobbered the second with the still crimson head of her mace, batting away both his obsidian blade as well as the lower half of his right arm with a single, underhand swing. Leaning forward from the weight of the now bone-crusted cudgel, Ishmael fell down on the cutthroat with an overhead smash, splattering her jacket with a viscous slurry of blood and brain matter. She winced and gagged, trying to wipe her lips with what she hoped was the clean part of her jacket.

f*ck. It got in her mouth.

sh*t, that’s nasty.

Her eyes flicked to the remaining three. They nervously shuffled in place, beads of sweat seeping into open wounds and no doubt causing their arms to seethe with blistering pain as they frantically weighed their odds between the two interlopers ripping through their lines behind them and the enigmatic redhead now barring their path. Each option was deathly unappealing, moreso as the latter felt the need to answer the dilemma for them, barreling toward them with her mace slung back for a wide arc. The first howled manically like a cornered mouse and thrust his bloodied katana forward, praying that the girl would impale herself against it like a hapless fish. With the momentum of her abrupt sprint still carrying her forward, even digging in her heels would not save the redhead from the sharpened end of that jagged blade piercing through her ribs.

She could only picture the fleeting hope rushing through his veins just draining away as she flung her body back and slid across the ground, gliding underneath the outstretched steel before crashing into his ankles with a bloody snap. The cutthroat howled in pain as the katana dropped from his trembling hands, hitting the ground with a thump as he instinctively clutched his shattered ankles. A string of expletives flew from his lips as he nursed the mangled collection of sinew and raw flesh, a irate “f*ck” cut short as Ishmael’s mace descended behind her, drowning out the words with a pulpy crack.

The Sinner smirked and, tightening her hold on the handle of her mace, rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the twin katanas that skewered the carpet formerly underneath her. A dilapidated bathroom stall's scribbled vocabulary haplessly bounced off the redhead’s smirking face as she swung her arm in a wide arc, catching the man’s shoulder with her mace and splattering it into a viscous concoction of gore and powdered bone. Deaf to the howls of the flailing Kurokumo grunt as he clawed at the remains of his left arm, she rode the momentum of her weapon up to her feet before nimbly lashing her leg out behind her, smashing her heel into the swordsmen lurking behind her. A pained snarl echoed in the narrow hallway as he clutched his heaving chest, his bloodshot eyes locking with Ishmael as she whipped her head back to address him with a cheeky smile. Flourishing the katana still tightly gripped in his shaking arm, he frantically threw his arm forward, the obsidian tip leveled at Ishmael’s forehead. The girl gave a wry chuckle, as if the jagged piece of metal poised to lobotomize her was little more than a minor inconvenience, one of many dangers that had tried to lay claim on her life. She jerked her head to the side as the polished steel was inches away from her face, wincing as she felt her cheek rip open.

And slammed her head directly into the Kurokumo cutthroat’s face.

“G-Guh…” A pained gargle painfully trawled out from his lips as he staggered back, his eyes a pair of puffy, black splotches and his nose gushing with blood. His katana wavered in his trembling hand as he tried to make out the fuming redhead ominously approaching him, nursing the gash along her cheek with her free hand.

A second punch sent him dazed and sprawled to the ground.

“f*ck, that stings…” she grumbled, her fingers tracing the reddened wound from the near to the far side of her face. “If Dante were here… ugh…”

She shook off her concerns, quickly licking her thumb and sliding it across the wound before darting further into the apartment. In some ways, it reminded her of her old home in the Nest, its cramped hallways nonetheless providing a sense of bygone homeliness, the dented walls still bearing the remains of several broken picture frames, a series of tattered and stained photographs clinging desperately to the splintering wood even as the sepia smiles tried to speak of better days. In other ways, the bloodied carpet shimmering a dull crimson, dotted by haphazard fragments of viscera and gore, reminded Ishmael of her current life. Much as her tenure in Limbus Company had fully acclimatized her to the nonsensical and bizarre horrors in the seedy underbelly of the City, the wanton violence of the Kurokumo Clan reminded her not even an innocent, unassuming apartment nestled in a quiet part of the Backstreets was safe from the City’s penchant for needless death. Maybe the naïve Nest egg or the stuttering, timid sailor would have flinched as she heard her shoes squish underfoot, the carpet clinging to the bottom of her heels as blood and bone alike adhered to her shoe and forced her to wade deeper into the apartment.

But she’d had her ribs crushed even as a thin, electrified needle plunged itself straight through her skull, filling her ears with the her agonized, bloodcurdling screams even as Rodya and Meursault frantically clambered over the metallic carapace to free what remained of her body. This may as well have been a cute little picture book in comparison.

Finally, the hallway opened into a large, spacious living room, the foggy windows overlooking the dismal Backstreets below. Ishmael whistled in awe, mountains of corpses strewn about the desecrated furniture and ravaged carpet like some scene straight out of the Smoke War. Her shoes were met with a wet, sticky plop as she waded through the bloodsoaked floor, images of the bleached Lobotomy Corporation outpost coming to mind. She wasn’t sure whether to shudder at the sheer, overwhelming devastation left in the wake of the cheerful Don Quixote and their unexpected Zwei companion or to be impressed. The deluge of conflicting emotions mellowed as she approached the raucous crowd gathered near the windows. The ring of encircling Kurokumo swordsmen flung their gaze at the newest arrival, yet dared not utter a single word nor even budge a single step from their makeshift, defensive perimeter. Maybe a few of them caught sight of her vicious mauling of their former companions and decided that the redheaded Sinner was best left unprovoked.

Or maybe, Ishmael mused quietly as she drew up next to her two companions, the visage of the perpetually smiling Don Quixote, her pale complexion dyed a deep crimson and the matted remains of entrails and bone still dripping from her lance, dissuaded any from moving a single inch, lest the blonde psychopath in their midst skewer them like a Rat gutting a defenseless child.

“Salutations, noble Ishmael” Don cried heartily, wrapping her free arm around Ishmael and nearly snapping her neck as she dragged the Sinner close in a tight hug. “Lo, these nefarious scoundrels dared imprison the innocent citizenry of our golden metropolis! Yet now watch, verily, as they stand against the precipice, the chivalrous Limbus Company readied to met justice to the evildoers of the world!”

Don’s boisterous laughter echoed through the death-laden apartment. Ishmael poked her head past the girl, catching the eye of the battered Zwei Fixer next to her. Isadora nursed a bruise across her cheek as she acknowledged the redhead with a nod before quietly gesturing to the blissfully joyful girl parading about with a gore-tipped spear in hand. Ishmael sighed and nodded bleakly.

Yes, yes this was normal for Don.

A sharp cough mercifully saved Ishmael from having to explain the eccentricities of her only slightly unhinged companion, the two’s attention drawn to the center of the wavering gaggle of Kurokumo swordsmen that may have once been the terror of this lowly block of the Backstreets. Brushing aside two cowering thugs with a flick of her wrist, an unimpressed Wakashu presented herself with a smile and a curtsy, the ends of her polished, bloodstained fingernails resting on the hilt of her katana. Though decidedly on the younger side, maybe even half the age of some of the wrinkled cutthroats shying away from the boisterous Don Quixote, there was an unnerving calmness in her grey eyes, an emotion that seemed to pierce right through the redhead’s jacket and burrow directly into her heart.

Ishmael had seen that gaze before. The impassionate, soulless eyes of the Pequod’s First Mate, draped in white threads, as he impaled the hapless Yi Sang under his harpoon.

The gaze of a killer.

“Ay, ay, what’s the matter with you louts?” the Wakashu sighed, flicking her dark hair behind her. Her eyes glazed over the trio with disinterest, as though she was called out to deal with a small rodent infestation. Neither the blank-faced stare of the blonde nor the redhead’s glare seemed to register to her as she adjusted her loose-fitting jacket and clicked her tongue. “A child. A child. And what I think is an actual child. And you bloody morons all tripped over yourselves over this? Do the Hosa just recruit any urchin that can hold a needle these days?”

“Lady Mabel,” a long-faced grunt hastily interjected, breaking formation and clasping his hands in a solemn prayer, as if asking for the heavens themselves for protection. “You don’t understand, these girls, they-“

Splat.

Ishmael recoiled back, the sudden and abrupt swing like a Claw flicking some bothersome impurity out of existence. Biting her lip, she struggled not to let an iota of the shock running through her body betray her true feelings as she watched the hapless Kurokumo grunt collapse to the ground in two pieces, bits of his spine sticking out from the remains of his upper torso. The Wakashu spun her blade once and slowly leveled the edge of its bloody tip, making sure each and every one of her cowering subordinates beheld the shimmering, obsidian steel still painted a vibrant crimson.

“I don’t remember asking for an opinion from you idiots,” Mabel snorted, adjusting her attention to the three. The edges of her mouth curled upwards, forming just the faintest outlines of a devilish smile as her eyes focused not on the oblivious Don, nor the consummate professional Ishmael.

No, she found the rattled girl with the black twintails the most amusing.

“Well now, what’s a cute little lass like you doing in this backwater?” the Wakashu cooed, casually strolling forward with her left arm outstretched toward the Zwei Fixer, her doting eyes and pursed lips akin to an innocent, fairweather maiden stumbling upon an acquaintance from such old, bygone years. Each muffled thump of the swordswoman’s sandals shook Isadora like a withered leaf, the Fixer matching every step with a hasty backpedal of her own. The redhead bit her lip, the metal handle of her mace beginning to cave under her vicegrip. Yet her feet remained rooted in place, as though that damnable Golden Apple had sunken its roots directly into her legs. Even the once exuberant Don Quixote seemed to shy away, her face drained of color as Mabel’s eyes passed over the two of them. The corners of her mouth turned upward, a devilish smirk adorning her face as she almost danced outside of the striking range of Don’s bloodied lance.

Even Don was cognizant to know that if she rushed in like some brazen idiot, Ishmael would be carrying the remains of her body back to Dante in a wheelbarrow.

“I-I’m here under the authority of Zwei South Section Six,” Isadora stammered. The flat of her greatsword was projected across her chest in a defensive posture, its crimson metal reflecting the murderous grin of the Wakashu. “By t-the order of the Zwei, I am placing you and your co-cohorts under arres-“

“Come off it, my dear,” Mabel chided with a click of her tongue, cooly running her fingers through the strands of her luscious black hair. “You’re here for that blonde, aren’t you?”

Isadora stiffened, the fear once so prominent washed away with a sudden, unmistakable rage. The zweihander sharply pivoted and lowered, its bloodied tip poised directly at the Wakashu’s throat. “Y-You! Where’s Julia! I’ll…”

“Careful, now, little girl,” Mabel said with a wink, raising her own katana in response. “Don’t want to do anything we’ll regret now, will we? Your little wench is fine; the residents of this little ramshackle tenement didn’t have much to offer us. Was a bit of a shame, their corpses didn’t even have much to pay off the loan they’d been racking up.”

“… Such a vile, ignoble cur,” Don muttered under her breath.

“But I hear that things have been a little… hectic since that whole affair with the Library concluded,” the Wakashu continued, seemingly unaware of the Sinner’s tactless remark. “Bunch of offices need to be reorganized. Entire Associations reconciling after so many of their Sections just up and poofed out of existence and then came back like it was some bloody fine vacation over at U Corp. It’d be quite the opportunity to negotiate a bit with some of the guard dogs, maybe smooth things over for our small little band here.”

“You… slaughtered an entire block of the Backstreets… just to talk with us…?” The Zwei Fixer practically shivered with rage.

Mabel rolled her eyes, her bored response to the fuming Isadora not unlike the CEO of a well-to-do Nest business looking down at some illiterate Backstreets junkie. She sighed and cleared her throat, tiptoeing just at the edge of where the young Zwei Fixer could run her through. “No, you daft girl. I wish to force a concession from your layabout mutt of a boss. I just needed to acquire some leverage.”

Ishamel’s blood chilled. Her eyes frantically skimmed over the Kurokumo grunts. What used to be such a small and quivering band of cutthroats fanned out one after the other, a protective semicircle soon morphing into an enveloping snare, closing out the three’s only avenue of escape. A flurry of thoughts ran through the Sinner’s head, each messier than the last. The two of them could blitz through the back of the encircling Syndicate, maybe only lose a finger or an eye or two in their retreat. Or Don could make some suicidal assault on the Wakashu and Ishmael could maybe clear out some grunts in their shock. Even if she was carrying Don’s body, she could maybe get down the stairs before the Kurokumo Clan caught back up to them. Or, like hell maybe she could throw her mace at Mabel and she and Don could try and just tackle some of the grunts behind them and make a break for it while the swordswoman deflected the attack. It’d be so stupid that no reasonable Fixer duo would consider it… but maybe because it was so stupid none of them would even notice. Hell, maybe she’d even bash her skull in and they’d escape while the grunts all ran around like headless chickens. Or maybe-

A sharp whistle cut off the deluge of increasingly desperate ploys flashing in the redhead’s eyes. The three’s gazes were brought back to Mabel, the Kurokumo Wakashu beaming as she gestured to the grunts behind her. The solemn, unnerving silence from the gathered Syndicate members slowly dissipated, replaced by the faint, pathetic mewings of a writhing shadow, two pairs of arms thrusting it into the flickering lights. The bulky Zwei coat was splattered red with dried blood, its thick fabric fraying and adorned with a litany of distinctive, thin cuts. What surely must have been a pair of widened, terrified eyes were imprisoned behind a leather blindfold, the strands of her unkempt, blonde locks draped over her face and down the sides of her head and adhering to her skin with a mixture of gore and dirt. Her teeth bit down on the small, crimson ball gag sticking out from her mouth, her fearful whimpers squeaking past her lips while a thin strand of drool dripped ignobly from her chin. Her hands and feet securely fastened behind her in a hogtie, what little dignity or grace the Zwei Fixer may have once had was lost amidst Mabel’s slender fingers as she took a handful of the girl’s hair and wrenched her up to her knees, bringing her head level with the whimpering captive.

“So, little Zwei, I’ll only repeat this once,” Mabel said, her voice a low, taunting hiss. “You and your little tawdry band of idiots there can put your weapons down, nice and slow, and join this bitch here. Or I can make do with three hostages and bash all three of your faces’ into the carpet until you learn your places underneath my heel.”

“Y-You…!” Isadora snarled, her eyes flickering with a myriad of emotions. “I’ll…!”

“I’m not one to repeat myself, lass,” Mabel said, flourishing her katana once before gingerly placing its edge against the trembling Fixer’s throat. “Now. Nice and slowly. Or we can see how long it takes for your friend her to bleed out.”

Hostages. Such an underhanded and rather pathetic plan was right in line with the Kurokumo playbook. Ishmael grit her teeth as she eyed the distance between her and the Wakashu, her mace rising and falling in her hand as she mulled over the throw. At ten meters, she’d have to lead her throw upward in case the blunted, weighted metal fell short and smashed directly into the captive’s face. But if she overshot it, she’d be disarming herself and practically keelhauling herself for the Syndicate cutthroats encircling them. Of course, hearing that bitch’s skull explode with a good throw would put a nice smirk on the redhead’s face, but she knew from experience that even the most callous thugs would flinch a bit if the hostage they staked their plans on were to suddenly expire. If she lowered the arc just a bit, she’d cut out the minute, but critical flaw that would be completely whiffing her throw, and surely-

“… Fine, you win.”

The dull clutter of steel against carpet may as well have been an earsplitting explosion rippling across Ishmael’s body. Goosebumps coated her arms as her eyes shot toward Isadora, the pale-faced Fixer’s weapon lying uselessly at her feet. It took her entire resolve just to keep her jaw from unhinging from her face, and a little extra that the redhead didn’t even realize she still had after several months of their relentless pursuit of the Golden Boughs to keep her thoughts from spilling out.

”What the f*ck do you think you’re doing, you f*cking idiot?!”

Was it an act? A ruse? Some special technique known only by the upper echelons of the Associations that she, a lowly Sinner, could never have been privy to? Such asinine and outlandish theories were more in line with Don’s nonsensical ravings or within the purview of some mirror world glimpsed through Mephistopheles’s enigmatic engine. Yet still, Ishmael grit her teeth and hoped, begged that the 1% of the 1% was true and it was simply a feint she could not have devised under the pressure.

Yet even this complete delusion could not hold up as the Kurokumo swordsmen closed in on the girls and Isadora sank to her knees.

“Lady Isadora…” Don said, her eyes widened in fear.

“I’m sorry, Miss Don,” Isadora said, her voice a faint whisper as she raised her hands in defeat. “… But I can’t lose her again. I just… can’t.”

Ishmael bit her lip. The Zwei Fixer’s surrender caused their defensive front to disintegrate, the Syndicate grunts growing closer and closer like sharks attracted to blood. Her eyes darted wildly around, desperately searching for some amateurish gap in their ranks. A fumble here, a lapse in attention there, yet the wall of swords showed no catastrophic error. Even if Ishmael tackled the unnerved Kurokumo grunt third from the left, all she’d do is limp away with a katana straight through her abdomen.

And then Don fell to her knees.

“Don!” Ishmael said with a harsh whisper, nearly shattering the hilt of her mace in her vicegrip. “The f*ck are you doing?!”

“Lady Ishmael…” she looked back with solemn eyes. “… Dost thou think we can just ignore such mortal peril when its right before us?”

“Quite easily, actually!” the redhead blustered, almost ready to tear her hair out. “Fixers die, Don. It’s in the job description. Just because she f*cked up doesn’t mean she should drag her down with us! We…”

“My sincerest apologies, Lady Ishmael,” Don said with a whimper, the once eternally stalwart lance dropping to the ground with an ignoble clatter. “Verily, my heart and my soul… no. I just…”

Tears dripped from the blonde’s face as her hands rose in resignation, those golden pools reflecting the bloodied visage of an all-too familiar redhead, the remains of her mangled body still half-consumed by the maggots and gore that leaked from that grotesque aberration. “… Were I to let another innocent perish under my vigil… could I even consider myself a Fixer?”

“Don, you…!” Ishmael resisted the instinctual urge to slam her palm onto her face and drag her nails down until she’d scraped the very skin off of her skull. She resisted the urge, tempting as it was to gouge her eyes out so she wouldn’t have to look upon the utter stupidity before her, still acutely aware of the Kurokumo cutthroats now closing in around them. Maybe at this point, the plan really was to flail wildly like some Grade 9 kid who had fallen straight off the deep end. As she watched Don’s engraved Sueño Imposible roll haplessly across the floor as rough, tattooed hands fell on the girl’s shoulders, she figured that, at this point, acting on base instinct was as good a plan as any. Just like the Pequod, after all; when you’re adrift in stormy seas and the rest of your crew’s been swallowed by the seas, what else is left but to simply roll the dice and hope for the best.

“Hey, redhead,” Mabel spat, leveling the point of her katana at Ishmael’s throat. “You think you’re special? Drop that crude little stick of yours or I’m cutting this girl’s throat in two and throwing it at you.”

“… Do you think that’s going to stop me?” Ishmael growled, wrenching her mace back. “You think… that I give a sh*t about literally anyone else here? I am going to beat your goddamn skull in and-“

“I ain’t asking again, you bloody wanker,” the Wakashu said curtly, bringing the edge back to Julia’s throat. The bound Fixer squirmed and squealed through her gag, the polished steel painted a vibrant crimson as its edge dug into Julia’s neck. Ishmael snorted, her shoulders rolling forward in a practiced and familiar rhythm. Much like her beloved harpoon, the flick of her wrist came as naturally as breathing, the mace rocketing forward like a shooting star.

Directly into the carpet.

“… Fine,” Ishmael sighed, falling to her knees. She placed her hands behind her head, cursing the Head, the Corporations, the Wings, the Company, and above all else, that brainless lout of a Sinner that dragged them into this mess. Again. “You win then, whatever. Just-“

She gagged, feeling a weighty ball of plastic wrench itself through her teeth. Her hands reflexively scrambled to the leather straps sliding across the her cheeks only for the Kurokumo swordsmen to yank them down. Ishmael snarled and violently thrashed about even as she felt the bite of several loops of rope close around her wrists. She twisted herself abruptly to the left, feeling the grip around her wrist loosen. Her momentary grin soon degenerated into a pained gasp as her vision flashed with red and yellow, her head erupting in pain as a wooden sheath slammed squarely over her skull. She slumped over limply, blood pooling down her face.

“Mmmffaph!” Don cried, immediately jumping to her beloved compatriot’s aid. A similar sheath quelled the would-be heroics of the amateur Fixer who fell to the ground, a mixture of tears and blood caking her cheeks.

“Hmph. … Honestly, was expecting the louts to put up more of a fight than that, really,” Mabel said, genuine disappointment lacing her words. “And you lot lost to these three? Ay, ay, the Kurokumo really is in a state of decline. I bet the Patriarch’s trying to brownnose to that decrepit old bastard that crawled out of the grave too. Whatever, sh*t, how the hell am I gonna explain to the Hosa this trash…” The swordswoman bit the nail of her pinky, looking over the three newly restrained captives. Even through the blood stinging her eyes, Ishmael could make out a mixture of irritation and desperation squirming around her cool façade. The Wakashu sighed and gestured toward Isadora. “Her. Yes, the other Zwei brat. Bring her over.”

Tossing Julia aside with an ignoble thud, the confident swagger in Mabel’s step was quite apparent, the girl looking like she was just one good drink away from breaking out into some long-winded tirade about how she was clearly surrounded by inept morons from here until N Corp. She paused mid-stride, watching as the dark-haired Zwei Fixer stumbled and fell to her knees before her, head bowed. Isadora seethed, though the ropes secured around her wrists kept her as docile as a declawed house cat.

“Mmm, what was it that little chihuahua over there called you, again? Isadora, was it?” A sad*stic glimmer reflected in Mabel’s eyes as she nudged the toe of her boot under the Fixer’s chin. “Come, now. It’s common courtesy to look at other people when you speak to them.”

The Fixer’s eyes remained glued to the ground, exercising her last, indignant act of defiance left to her. The Wakashu huffed incredulously, gesturing to the surrounding Kurokumo grunts like a sentient trash can had just slighted her. To the jeers and hollers of an increasingly frenzied crowd, Mabel slammed her foot into Isadora’s neck. The Fixer hit the ground, blood squirting through the gag in her mouth as she heaved and coughed, eyes widened in pain and chest sagging in agony. An enraged Ishmael tried to pull herself up, only for hands to clasp her shoulders tightly and smash her face back into the carpet with a pained whimper. The scent of copper filled her nostrils as blood flowed from her broken nose, the girl barely able to pull her face out of the stained carpet to watch the humiliating spectacle play out before them. The Wakashu cooed a saccharine apology as the heel of her foot crashed into Isadora’s chest, eliciting a gaggle of scornful laughter as the popping of Isadora’s ribs came in place of her muffled screams.

“Oof, sorry there, lass. I forgot that low class Fixer trash like yourself didn’t pay for a basic bone strengthening augmentation.” Mabel smiled as she knelt down, hooking her fingers underneath Isadora’s collar and pulling the tortured Fixer off her feet. “Surely you at least remember something to help dull the pain. Ah, did I hit you too high? You know, one time, I heard about this one man who had some of his ribs pierce his lungs. Nasty way to go, I’ll have you know.” The Wakashu’s voice rose to a demented, singsong melody, dragging the thrashing Fixer beside her like some macabre marionette. “I do believe his lungs began filling with blood until he simply drowned in his own sick. Was quite disgusting; we never did get the blood stains out of the floorboards.”

They stopped at the windowsill, their eyes locking like two predatory rivals looking for some opening to rip out the other’s throat. Although, considering Isadora’s rather pathetic standing directly in the Wakashu’s talons, the hateful glare might as well have been a sternly worded letter for what little power it had to intimidate her captor. Below them, the small puddle of Zwei Fixers had risen to a modest pond, a small contingent of Fixers that would doubtlessly exterminate the pitiful gaggle of Kurokumo swordsmen left in the apartment, had there been a single one among them with a spine. Indeed, like a pool of stagnant water they listlessly mulled about the far end of the alleyway, occasionally spying a glance toward the dimly lit windows as though Isadora would gallantly declare their full and dominating victory over the Syndicate thugs that dared ravage the innocent citizenry of the Backstreets. One could only imagine the utter horror that would cascade through their ranks should one of their veteran Fixers be so ruthlessly executed before them.

No doubt that was the thought running through the Wakashu’s head as she lit a small, green flare, one of many she had taken from the Zwei Fixers that had unsuccessfully ventured before them. The violet dusk of the waxing twilight gave way to a dull, emerald glow as the Fixers stared up, mouths agape and eyes widened with fear, as the noble and valiant Isadora was bent over the windowsill, blood and drool dripping from her face. A bloodied katana rose above her, a herald and harbinger of the fate of any that would dare pursue the Kurokumo Clan further.

Don squealed in terror. Julia mewed haplessly, as though acutely aware of the grizzly spectacle taking place beyond her blindfold. Ishmael sprung forward, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her body, only for those same arms holding her back springing forth in response, slamming her body back into the carpet. A string of muffled curses tried to force their way through her gag to no success as she squirmed under the weight of the Kurokumo cutthroats, wildly kicking her legs as she felt rope beginning to encircle her ankles. Through her bloodied ginger locks she saw Mabel brush Isadora’s hair away, exposing her innocent, defenseless neck to her katana.

No.

Ishmael fervently pulled against the ropes and the Syndicate thugs holding her down to no avail, forcing herself even past the point where she swore her arms would dislocate from her shoulders.

Come on, damn it!

She knew what she said before. Fixers die. It’s the nature of the job. She’s died so many times she became intimately familiar with what it was like to have a broken neck or a shattered pelvis, but even then, but even then,

the sight of Yuri’s mangled body,
the visage of Effie impaled upon a nail
the pallid silhouette of Queequeg as it evaporated into the light.

Come on, Ishmael! It’s just one f*cking person!

Can we keep at least one f*cking person alive for once?!

A flash of silver. The sickening squish of metal chewing through flesh and muscle with ease. A bloodcurdling scream that would give goosebumps even to the stoic Claws of the Head. The bloodied katana fell to the ground, as did Isadora’s body.

The frozen Zwei Fixer stared up in wonder, tears and sweat and blood caking her face as she attempted to catch her breath. The Wakashu recoiled back in horror, her hands clutched around a lone arrow that solidly embedded itself in her eye.

“G-g-ggggggaaaaaah! Bloody… f*cking hell!” Mabel screamed, blood gushing from the splattered eye as she haphazardly pulled at the projectile lodged in her head. “The… the f*ck?! Is-is that an arrow?! How did-who the f*ck uses a bloody bow?!”

The air of solemn, callous wonder that enraptured and rallied the remaining Kurokumo grunts was shattered, the arrow crushing such fragile, gaudy resolve like a flimsy, gilded vase. As Ishmael felt the pressure on her back lessen, she yanked her leg back, pulling it free from the loose ropes nearly binding her ankles together, and threw it forward. Her blind strike was met with a distinctive, unfortunate cushion as the Kurokumo grunt attempting to hold her down howled in unimaginable agony, his attention now drawn to his crotch. The piercing scream gave the girl the slimmest window she needed as she kicked herself back up to her feet, swinging her leg around in a wide, roundhouse kick. The first crumpled to his knees as Ishmael’s heel smashed into his hip with a soft but distinctive crunch while the second, fumbling pathetically for his katana, was thrown back as Ishmael reeled back before slamming her foot directly into his chest.

“Mmmn!”

Ishmael whipped her head back, eyes searching for the blonde Fixer. The Sinner, too, had seized the initiative, sweeping the legs out from her captors before bouncing up to her feet. A sharp, upward kick crashed into a nearby Kurokumo cutthroat, blood gushing from his mouth as his body seized and crumpled to the ground with the audible cracking of his neck, before Don wheeled around and leapt toward another of the astonished thugs, her feet pressing themselves into his chest before she kicked up and off of him like an improvised springboard, a dexterous backflip that sent the Kurokumo swordsman crashing into the nearby wall. Naturally, Don stuck the landing, flashing a corny smile at Ishmael through the ball gag wrenched between her teeth.

“Mmff-fff,” Ishmael scoffed, shaking her head.

The levity was brief, the distinctive shing of metal clearing wood drawing the two Sinners’ attention back to the collection of Kurokumo grunts as the shock of their grievously wounded leader was replaced by the panic born from the escape of their defiant prisoners. Ishmael took a step back, her eyes skimming the swordsmen barreling toward her even as she picked up the two moaning grunts getting their bearings behind her. One, two, five in total? Her fingers clawed at the ropes lashed around her wrists, the redhead grunting in annoyance as they held fast. One could only imagine the thoughts rushing through the Syndicate grunts as they closed the distance with their targets, the paltry sight of two beaten girls with their arms fastened behind their backs barely keeping themselves upright as blood soaked their clothes and pooled around their feet.

Perhaps it was that self-assured hubris of a guaranteed kill that dulled the first’s senses as his blade passed harmlessly above Ishmael’s head, the Sinner matching his dash beat for beat before immediately falling into a slide, kicking the Kurokumo grunt up and over her in a short, squealing arc. She jumped back up in time to dart to the side, nimbly evading the downward slice centered on her skull before tackling the man to the ground, silencing his enraged tirade with a swift kick to the face. Her eyes flew from the unconscious grunt underneath her foot to her bloodied mace, following the trail of blood to the frenzied swordsman closing in on her. She tugged again at the ropes around her wrists, the hemp heavy and slick with blood as they refused to give her even a single inch.

“Mmf!” Ishmael snarled, her eyes tracing the Kurokumo grunt’s blade as it raised up and to the right, telegraphing a broad and wide diagonal slash that she had little chance of simply darting out of the way from. Without a second thought, she threw her leg out and swept it up, the momentum carrying her mace out of the carpet and into the air, a graceful lump of metal that found its mark directly in the chest of the grunt with a bonecrunching thud.

She sighed with relief, turning toward Don… and then turning once more as another hand spun the girl around on her shoulder before throwing her onto the ground. She hit the carpet with a hack and a wheeze, feeling her jaw uncomfortably shift as the gag dug into her teeth, and glowered at the Syndicate grunt that straddled the girl, brandishing a small dagger with its small, leather sheath still hanging from its hilt. Rage and exasperation alike were reflected in the swordswoman’s eyes as she pressed Ishmael into the floor with her arm, the dagger menacingly aimed for the Sinner’s throat.

“Damnable Fixers, the lot of you,” she hissed, lowering her face down to where she could practically bite the redhead’s nose off. “All you needed to do was be nice and quiet, and we coulda-“

Thwack.

Colors swirled in the dazed Sinner’s vision as she reeled back, now pining for the relaxing migraines Don had given her through her idiotic misadventures as her skull felt like splitting open from her forehead. The Kurokumo swordswoman clutched her nose, now bent and crinkled from where Ishmael’s head had crushed it. “Y-You bitch!” she snarled, arcing her dagger high, its shimmering point aimed at Ishmael’s face. “Did-did you just headbutt me, you idiot? I’m-“

Thwack!

Another loud howl, the dagger falling and embedding itself in the carpet with a muffled thud as the Kurokumo grunt clutched her face, blood now gushing from her ravaged nose and the corners of her mouth. Through her fingers, Ishmael locked eyes with the cutthroat, an unimaginable bloodlust and hatred reflected in her black irises as the Kurokumo grunt no doubt fantasized the harmonious sounds Ishmael would gurgle as she tore her throat open, sliding the dagger down her neck while drinking in the pathetic, mewing screams the helpless captive would articulate as she thrashed and writhed in her dying mome-

Thwack!

With an unceremonious thud, the thug collapsed onto the Sinner, her listless eyes now empty pools. Ishmael grunted as she shoved the unconscious body off of her, sitting up and reaching for the dagger now conveniently lying next to her. As her fingers blindly positioned its blade against the bloodsoaked ropes, she turned her attention to Don, the blonde bathing in her triumph as a mass of unconscious bodies lay at her feet as if tribute to her heroic deeds. Ishmael sawed through her bonds one by one, watching as Don turned her attention to one of the few remnants of the Kurokumo grunts that had once so confidently held them prisoner. The grunt was just a short hop from the beaming Sinner, face pale as he beheld the bloodied, moaning, unconscious, and dying remains of his comrades. The invincible aura exuded by their bloodthirsty Wakashu leader had been shattered, the primal, instinctual desire to flee from these two bizarre newcomers that had so easily throttled them now beginning to take hold.

But, naturally, the Sinner refused to give the grunt even that one chance to retreat. Dashing forward at a speed that should have been impossible for a girl so thoroughly beaten and wounded, Don closed the distance before he could elicit a single yelp of terror, leaping into the air with a chivalrous, if muffled, battle cry. She spun gracefully in the air, a ball of blood droplets and sheer, unbridled energy as she landed a spinning kick directly into the man’s head. A sickening crunch echoed from his neck in response as his head bent at an unnatural angle, his lifeless body collapsing to the ground. The girl spun on her heel, bouncing up and down as she gestured wildly at the bodies around her and then to herself. Ishmael sighed as she rose up to her feet, massaging the blood back into her hands with a newfound appreciation for her freedom.

“Mmmphffa, Mmmmphffa,” Don cooed, eyes sparkling like brilliant, golden gems. “Mmmu mmmmff? Mmmf!”

“Mmmph!” Ishmael shot her down, pressing a finger to her lips. The redhead flicked the dagger once across her face, tearing the strap asunder before spitting the gag out of her mouth. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, Don. You’re barely younger than I am.”

And, with a flick of her wrist, she undid the gag muzzling Don’s mouth, hoping to the Wings that the girl wouldn’t immediately go on about her-

“Ishmaaaael!” Don screeched, barely holding still as the Sinner tried to cut through the blonde’s bindings. “Did thou witness my heroic feats? Lo, though beset by so many tribulations and bound as low as a meager prisoner, it was by our grace and these vermin’s arrogant folly that we seized victory from the jaws of-“

“Don, please shut up for once,” Ishmael moaned, cutting the final loop loose and ripping the ropes free from the girl’s wrists. As Don stretched her newly freed arms above her head, Ishmael wandered across the room, fetching her mace from the limp carcass crumpled against a nearby bookshelf before kicking Don’s lance toward her. The two grew silent, the jovial mood turning somber as Ishmael saw the bleeding Wakashu struggling to stay alight. A squishy, sickening tearing echoed in the cramped apartment and Ishmael swallowed some bile as she witnessed Mabel rip the arrow clean from her skull, bits of her ruined eye hanging from its polished arrowhead. The Kurokumo leader gasped and spluttered, blood gushing from the ragged hole in her face, but still kept her hands clutched tightly around her prize.

The blindfolded Zwei girl, a dagger once again pressed to her neck.

“B-Bloody wankers, the ab… solute lot of you…” she choked out, clutching Julia against her like some type of protective talisman. “S-Stay back! I will gut this bitch like a pig, I swear by the Head, I will f*cking…”

Her words trailed off, be it from fatigue or sheer desperation, she could not tell. Behind her, a small gaggle of Kurokumo swordsmen melted out of the shadows, anxiously bunched around the Wakashu less like a protective phalanx and more like a collection of middling children terrified of the cold blooded killers in front of them. Ishmael massaged her wrist, feeling her pale fingertips wake up as blood returned to her extremities, while nearby Don rushed to Isadora’s aid, beginning to unravel the ropes binding her arms behind her.

Mabel was right, the redhead had to admit. If that one Zwei Fixer wasn’t in front of her, Ishmael really wouldn’t hesitate to splatter their brains against the wall like some esoteric art form. The panicked, widened eyes of the Wakashu mirrored her sentiments.

So as the Kurokumo grunts slowly wheeled around the trio, positioning themselves toward the only staircase at the far end of the apartment, Ishmael could do nothing but glower and grip the end of her mace, her eyes fixed on the blood running down the small cut in Julia’s neck. Though trepidation caused the Wakashu’s legs to quiver and shake uncontrollably, she could still manage a smug, if half-hearted, smirk as they began to back away.

“T-That’s right, you bloody…. pieces of sh*t, the lot of you…” she spat, constantly shoving the blade deeper into Julia’s neck to her anguished squeals. “Make… one wrong damn move… and I’ll-“

Her meek bluster was drowned out by the loud screech of breaking glass as a trio of arrows burst forth, skewering an unfortunate grunt flanking the cowering Wakashu. A muted curse flew from her lips as she parried the whistling projectile with a swing of her dagger, hurriedly backing away toward the door, the flailing Zwei Fixer still clutched to her chest. Mabel snarled and pressed the dagger back against Julia’s throat as though the sight would dissuade the two Sinners that rushed her position. The percussive bang of Ishmael’s mace preluded another hailstorm of those enigmatic projectiles, the suppressive onslaught flying alongside Don as the two tore away the few remnants of the Kurokumo grunts still clinging to life. Between the blonde with the same, frenzied fervor reflected in her gilded eyes and the redhead with a calculated, callous gleam in her own, she was far beyond the point where she could subdue the meddlesome Fixers that had disrupted their operations in this neck of the Backstreets.

But she still had the squirming bargaining chip in her grasp and enough bodies between her and the twin interlopers that she could still make a break for the exit. The loud and boisterous would-be Fixer, too, seemed to recognize this infuriating fact, her triumphant cries soon morphing into frustrated howls as she skewered, gutted, bisected, tore the remaining Kurokumo grunts apart with her hands and her bloodied lance, only for those precious few seconds to slip between her fingers. Like sand from a doomed hourglass flowing through her fingertips, Don could only scream and curse as the Kurokumo Wakashu and the Zwei Fixer neared the entryway.

They were so close. Ishmael winded her arm back, trying to divine one solid arc that wouldn’t put Julia’s face directly in the way of the bloodied head of her mace, yet the blindfolded captive’s erratic movements always put her just in front of Mabel’s head, just enough times that any type of intervention may as well have been denying the Wakashu her captive. She kicked herself internally, trying to spot one opening, just one split second that she could exploit to splatter the swordswoman’s head against a wall. If-

Bang.

The two girls stumbled forward, an earthquake shaking the rickety tenement in a shower of violet fire. The window roared and splintered, a cacophony heralding the dramatic entrance of some creature as it burst through the windowsill. As Ishmael’s eyes flew to the spectacle, the hairs on the back of her neck all raised in unison, a pang of dismal trauma shooting through her spine in one reminiscent burst of lightning. A creature of pure, obsidian black barreled forth, its violet highlights streaking with lightning as it soared along the howling winds. Memories of that frenzied wolf flashed in the Sinner’s vision as the aberration tore through the apartment, igniting the carpet with sparks of shimmering amethyst. It was a… bird? Some demonic avian that channeled the very aura of that rampaging abnormality with each flap of its wings, its violet eyes consumed with a predatory bloodlust. The redhead choked down the panic that rushed through her body as she brought her mace to bear. With luck, she’d leave a recognizable enough corpse that Dante could reconstitute whatever charred ashes remained into a future Ishmael.

She threw her arm back, ready to meet the creature as it streaked toward her… and watched blankly as it flew past her like she was yet another piece of overturned furniture. She staggered as the gale bursting from its windblasts threatened to knock her off her feet, clutching a nearby, shattered table for support as she saw its true mark, the wide-eyed Wakashu hastily backing through the entryway.

The bird cawed majestically as it was but a stone’s throw away from Mabel, released a thunderous display of lightning from its wings, and pivoted upward, exploding in a prismatic display of violet lights. The two girls watched, their mouths agape, as a figure sailed nimbly from the otherworldly display. Much like the enigmatic bird, it, too, was clothed in black, an elegant, if slightly ragged dress that practically radiated lightning and a pair of matching stockings underneath, terminating in a pair of dress boots that seemed more at home in some gaudy ball held for some Nest holiday. It was another girl, Ishmael could make out. A twirling marksmen with blonde hair that rolled down her back and across her shoulders, emerald eyes glimmering with a brilliance matched only by the heavenly stars in the skies above. In her hands, a similarly black bow, carved so intricately and trimmed with glimmering flourishes that it looked more like it should be some esoteric art piece, brandished itself, an arrow nocked in its bowstring and trained upon Mabel. The Wakashu barely recollected herself enough to make a break down the stairs before the arrow loosed itself from the maiden’s grip.

It was a thunderbolt. Ishmael shook her head in disbelief; there was no analogy, no exaggeration, no mere trick of the eyes from a girl who had already begun to feel woozy from her blood loss. The arrow roared like thunder as lightning enveloped it from arrowhead to shaft, bursting forth like the gods themselves had judged this spectacle unworthy of their audience. Whatever dying words Mabel conveyed in her screams were lost in the resounding sonic boom as her charred body was flung up and across the stairwell, disintegrating into dust as it cratered the opposite wall.

The figure stuck the landing as though it was but routine for her. Ishmael and Don traded glances as they witnessed the enigmatic girl approach the limp Zwei Fixer. A black crusader, riding the winds upon wings of twilight themselves. If her skin prickled any more with panic, she’d think the seeds of Rose Sign had taken root in her skin and were ready to turn her face into fertilizer again. Urban Legend?

What Urban Legend has her own personal f*cking Singularity?

So lost for words, so paralyzed with the realization that Don had walked them into yet another catastrophe, that the two only watched in muted horror as the girl kneeled down, pulling the blindfold up and off of the winded Zwei Fixer. Julia blinked, her pupils dilating as they struggled to adjust to the faint light that radiated from her mysterious savior. She held eye contact with the girl as her hands reached behind her neck, unhooking the clasp and pulling the gag out of her mouth.

“M-My thanks,” Julia stammered, worming her body upon to a sitting position. “I can’t begin to thank you enough, Miss…?

The figure stood up immediately, the otherworldly enigma adopting something more… regal? The corners of her mouth seemed to expand far beyond what her face should hold as she tilted her face back. Only now did Ishmael notice the eyepatch shrouding her left eye even as her right arm flew across her face in what appeared to be a…

… pose?

“Oh hohoho!” the mysterious maiden laughed, her voice dripping in some accent that Ishmael… could not place to a single Nest she’d ever been in contact with. “Hark, destiny has brought me hither! I, a Traveler from another world, descend upon this land by the call of fate, the siren call of these mysterious spires beckoning me forth to undo the evils that plague this land. For I, the beloved Sovereign of the Immernachtreich, have come to personally quell such vile villainy.”

She spun her bow in a wide, clearly practiced flourish, practically grinning from ear to ear as she threw it up and caught it with a swipe of her arm, a burst of lightning streaking from her arm down to her fingertips. “Rejoice, for I, Fischl von Luftschloss Narfidort, have answered your prayers!”

As if on cue, the singularity burst to life behind her. Ishmael could see it clearly now; a jet black raven, practically seething with lightning as it hovered above the girl, cawing majestically. It opened its mouth, a low and proud voice echoing from its throat.

“Behold, the Prinzessin der Verurteilung!”

The Valorous Epic of the Chivalrous and Saintly Don Quixote, Chevalier Extraordinaire of Limbus Company and the City: Volume XXVII, Amethyst Lightning, Shine Down on this Eternal Midnight - Chapter 1 - KosuzuMotoori (2024)

Chapter Text