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The enemies seemed endless as they rushed forward. It didn’t matter if Ishmael slammed one down with her shield if three more popped up in its place. Many of their team had already fallen, their weapons and corpses littered on the battlefield. She tried her best to avoid stepping on them, but in this tiny alleyway they’d made their battlefield, it was inevitable to eventually step on their fallen bodies.
Ishmael stood guard around Dante, as their number dwindled the manager was their top priority. Unfortunately, this meant that the other remaining teammates were on their own. Ishmael slammed the side of a goon with her shield before swinging her mace at their head.
“Bloody bastards!” Heathcliff cursed and Ishmael looked up just in time to see the man fall to his knees, his eyes rolling up into his head.
<I guess I better start preparing then…> Dante ticked behind her before commanding her towards the nearest goon.
Ishmael sighed. “This better be the last of them,” she muttered.
<It’s the last wave. You chances against that last one is pretty good.> Dante ticked, clock face turned forward.
Ishmael chanced a glance forward, finally finding a spot of familiar blonde hair though their clothes were bloodstained red.
High-pitched laughter echoed throughout the alleyway, the cry of jubilation out of place upon this desolate battlefield. With her lance held high, none other than Don Quixote charged towards the other goons in front, a shining spark in her eyes that made Ishmael on guard.
“Gallop on, Rocinante! Justice shall prevail!” Don Quixote roared, smile on her face as she charged forward with her usual speed and gusto, as if she hadn’t fought through wave after wave of enemies like Ishmael has. Her spear pierced through the enemy’s hide, her smile unwavering even as her face got splattered with its blood as she raised her spear high.
Not wanting to lose some sort of unsaid competition between the two, Ishmael surged at the nearest goon, sliding across the ground as she barreled into them with her shield before she struck at their head with her mace twice.
<Don Quixote! Hit the goon on your right!> Dante ticked, one hand raised to point at the goon.
Don Quixote spared their manager a glance before charging forward once more at the goon that still seemed pretty unbeaten.
Ishmael frowned, “What are her chances?”
There was ticking, but their manager did not say anything. <...>
Ishmael glared at them, instinctually bringing her mace up in time to smack the face of the previous goon that had somehow gotten back up. The solid hit to his nose soon returned him back to the ground, but her ire was not focused on the goon, but rather the clock faced manager.
To their credit, they looked as sad as a clock face could, which wasn’t all that sad. <It’s…Hopeless.>
Ishmael scoffed, gritting her teeth as she did nothing but stare forward. With Don Quixote charging forward already, there was no use rushing after her. Rushing after her wouldn’t even guarantee her safety. As much as Ishmael hated to admit it, but she was wobbly standing on Death’s doorstep already. She wouldn’t make it in time to help even the odds.
Still, a small part of her wanted to, despite this. Ishmael easily crushed that tiny part of her and tossed it into the dark depths of her mind, something to be examined at another time or never.
Despite it being a hopeless clash of blades, Don managed to come on top, either by extreme skill or extreme luck.
Ishmael watched in rapt attention as Don plunged her massive lance through the goon’s chest, crimson blood gushing from his wound. The red dribbled from Don’s lance and over onto her hands, adding another coat of color to the already bloodied knuckles. If Ishmael were closer, perhaps she’d be able to tell the difference from the newly spilled blood and the blood that had been spilled during the first rounds of battle. In the distance, it was all red.
The goon slid off of Don’s lance, dead.
Don turned on her heel, and Ishmael didn’t need to be nearer to know that she was beaming back at them. “Manager Esquire!” Don bounded back, and the sailor was almost envious of Don’s endless energy.
<Good job! I could tell you dealt a heavy blow!> Dante ticked out a reply, giving Don a small thumbs up as they started mentally preparing themself for bringing everyone back.
The blonde stopped right in front of Ishmael, close enough for Ishmael to see how the dried blood made the fringes of Don’s bangs stick to her face. “Hark! Ser Ishmael, here we stand, unfelled by evil’s advances!” The faux-knight grinned triumphantly, no doubt the adrenaline coursing through her veins granting her even more strength then usual. “Pray tell, art thou injured? Thy seem to be favoring thy left when thy art oft more balanced.” The hand not holding her lance aloft was pressed over her heart. “If thy may permit me, I might be of service.”
Ishmael blinked wearily, only now realizing that what she thought was a mere glancing blow from before was actually much worse than it seemed. “I’ll be fine,” Ishmael bit back, clutching to her side in an attempt to stop the bleeding and lessen the pain.
Don paused for a moment before her voice rang out once again, but several decibels lower. “Twas not my intention to call thy weak, dear Ishmael,” Don explained. “I merely suggest thou allow me to do what I can to make it easier. It would be against my creed to not offer mine hand when our jointly efforts could lessen the pain!”
Ishmael bit at the inside of her cheek as she ruminated whether or not she should take Don Quixote’s offer. Eventually, Ishmael relented with a slow nod, “Fine.”
Don blinked, a flash of what seemed to be surprise crossing her face before it was replaced with a happy grin. “I shan’t disappoint you!” With gentleness most befitting a fairy tale prince, Don offered her shoulder, curling an arm under Ishmael’s and hoisting her up with that one arm.
She knew Don was deceptively strong, able to lift up her weapon as if it were nary but a twig, but she never would’ve thought that Don could practically lift her with a mere arm.
“Is this to your liking and comfort, Ser Ishmael?” Don asked softly, which was good because Ishmael didn’t need loud and rambunctious screaming right beside her ear right now.
Ishmael took a step forward, Don mimicking her movement so that they both managed to move. “This is fine.” She leaned against Don more, testing the waters. The blonde didn’t so much as budge, as if the entirety of Ishmael’s weight meant nothing to her.
<I think I saw a store selling some bandages over there.> Ishmael turned her head to stare at their manager. <The both of you should go patch yourselves up and get some food while you’re at it. We’ve still got a lot of battles to fight today.>
“A quest?” Don Quixote gasped in excitement and Ishmael could practically feel the uncontained energy within the shorter woman, “Fear not, Manager Esquire, I shall retrieve the aforementioned items with utmost urgency!”
“Will you be alright alone?” Ishmael asked.
Their manager pointed a hand towards the remains of their crew. <I won’t be alone for long. Don’t take longer than an hour.>
“Understood,” Ishmael said with a decisive nod.
“Verily!” Don Quixote quipped.
They found the shop rather easily, and the cashier, who had seen them fight a bloody battle right outside their window, trembled in fear as he saw them come in. Ishmael found it a bit amusing, battle had become the norm. It wasn’t morning until blood splattered on the ground of Mephistopheles. The times where Ishmael had a life besides fighting felt so far and alien to her.
So lost in her own thoughts, Ishmael didn’t realize they had made it to the first aid section until Don Quixote held up a roll of bandages.
“Look! We have procured the bandages. Dost thou want to use it now?” Don then gestured to the cashier, “I shall handle the haggling whilst thou does so.”
Ishmael raised an eyebrow, “Don’t we have to pay before we use it?” It struck her a bit odd that Don would suggest to use the bandages before paying for them fairly.
“We shall pay for the item regardless of when we use it, I see no point in delaying!” Don replied with her usual gusto, not faltering for a moment. “Besides, it is much worse a crime to let a lady bleed when I have a bandage in my hands.”
“I guess that makes a bit of sense,” Ishmael grumbled, taking the roll of bandages from Don and walking towards the restrooms, helpfully marked with a giant sign.
As she walked through the doors and at the mirror, she realized just how disheveled she looked. Ishmael took off her coat jacket, finally able to take a good look at the wound. It had cut a bit too deeply to be something she could shrug off, but it wouldn’t kill her if she bandaged it well. Ishmael steadily got to work, wrapping the bandages comfortably tight before tying it together with a well-practiced knot.
Putting her clothes back on, Ishmael turned on the faucet and began splashing water onto her face. She needed to rid herself of the crimson ichor that battle drenched her with, as if staking its claim on her soul. As she splashed the rest of the blood away, Ishmael wondered how Don Quixote could bear to grin while drenched with the lifeblood of the foes they’ve slain.
Was the purpose of justice enough to squash the inherent guilt of taking a life?
Ishmael splashed some extra water onto her face for good measure. Her face was clean at least. Her hands would require a great deal of scrubbing, and Ishmael didn’t want to give Don Quixote any more seconds to crash in through the restroom doors out of concern for her well-being.
Running a hand through her hair, Ishmael pushed open the door to the restroom to see Don Quixote animatedly gesturing with her hands at the poor cashier who kept glancing between the faux-knight and her massive weapon beside her.
Sighing, Ishmael walked towards them only to be stopped by a sudden whistling beside her.
She turned to see a man leering at her with beady eyes. “Oh, hello there, missy. You know, you should smile more. It brings out the pretty eyes,” he said with a chuckle.
Ishmael could not be bothered right now.
Unfortunately, the man took her silence for a sign of demure shyness, despite her deadpanned look. Emboldened by his delusional conclusion, he took a step closer, yet his eyes never strayed from a point lower than her eyes. “Say, did anyone tell you you’re pretty? Because you are.”
“Scram.”
“Hey, now!” The piece of low-life trash had the gall to look offended. “I was just giving you a compliment! If anything, you should thank—”
A fist slammed against his cheek and he crumpled onto the ground from the blow alone.
Ishmael barely raised her hand, which meant someone else had beat her to it.
Sure enough, standing by Ishmael’s side was the blonde haired knight, amber eyes steeled with her lips stretched in a disapproving line at the man on the floor. “The lady told thee to scram,” Don Quixote repeated, eyes wide and the fires of justice ever-burning its violent vengeance. “Dost thou legs not work correctly? If so it would be my pleasure to escort you out myself.”
“Why… You!” The man scrambled up to a sitting position. “Did you just threaten me?”
“A bit slow, aren’t thou?” Don Quixote noted, leaning down mockingly. “Mine punch was merely a fraction of mine strength, thou shouldst not be suffering from a broken jaw or concussed crown.”
During this exchange, Ishmael caught the poor cashier’s eye, who looked like he was going to either cry and fain on the spot. Beside him were a bag of goods, it seemed that Don Quixote had scoured the shop while she’d been freshening up. Interestingly enough, Don Quixote’s trusty lance was also beside the bag of goods.
Knowing it’d be better if they didn’t immediately start a fight in the nice store they’d just entered, Ishmael just stared at the pathetic man on the floor and sighed. She turned towards the knight, a disgust expression on her face.
“Let him go, it’s not worth it,” Ishmael said, reaching out with her hand to hold Don Quixote back from committing first degree murder in a place with multiple witnesses.
“But, my lady!” Don Quixote gasped, affronted. “He had impure motives! His mind were filled with filth!” She took another step closer and the man let out a scared yelp before scurrying further away.
Ishmael rolled her eyes. “You already punched him, isn’t that enough justice?”
“Nay!” Don Quixote disagreed vehemently. “I should gouge out his eyes at the very least,” she snarled, getting down on one knee to grab the man’s scruff and pull him towards her.
“You will not,” Ishmael rebuked, ignoring the shorter woman’s dejected huff. “Let’s just get this mission over with. It’s almost been an hour.”
“As my lady commands,” Don Quixote murmured, knelt upon one knee with one hand gripping onto the man’s tie tight enough to suffocate him and the other hand gently holding onto Ishmael’s bloodied one.
Ever since she became a sailor, hands calloused from hauling rope and clutching onto her mace, no one had ever held her hand so reverently. As Ishmael paused to process this new turn of events, she wasn’t able to pull her hand back until it was too late. So caught up in her own thoughts, she did not return to the present moment until her hand was lifted ever so slightly by the kneeling faux-knight.
Dazed green eyes met shining amber ones, Don’s eyes peaking up from underneath her disheveled bangs with such a focused stare that drove clear thought from Ishmael’s mind.
The faux-knight’s lips barely grazed Ishmael’s hand, a sorry attempt of a kiss if it was one, but something in Ishmael knew that she had refrained from doing so out of careful consideration.
It took only a second, but Ishmael knew that from that point on, the winds at her back had changed direction, barreling her towards a dark storm that Ishmael wasn’t sure she’d make it out with her sails intact.
The next second, Don Quixote was herself again, and anything that had happened between the two of them was but a passing memory.
“Take heed and redeem thyself, vile miscreant! You have been mercifully forgiven this once but should your mouth spit out more vile words I shall remove your tongue posthaste!” Don shouted and tossed the goon away with the casual flick of her wrist.
Ishmael sighed, feeling annoyance steadily rise within her, like water filling up a leaking boat. “Shut up,” Ishmael muttered under her breath, instinct at this point as her hand (the one…the one Don almost) gripped unto the scruff of the other’s jacket sleeve. She didn’t expect Don Quixote to listen, most things unrelated to justice or Fixers usually goes in one ear and out the other. As Ishmael hauled Don Quixote away, the thug had the audacity to laugh.
Ishmael glared at him over her shoulder, brandishing the hatred that could fill up the entire ocean in her gaze, and the man wisely closed his mouth.
Walking away, hand tight on the scruff of Don’s black coat jacket, she couldn’t help as the corner of her mouth tugged upwards as Don shouted her last threat: “If it were not for my lady’s command, I would’ve slaughtered you!”
My lady, why did she call me ‘my lady’? No. Not important to the mission. Crumple it up and toss it into the depths of her mind.
Once they were a few feet away from the man, Ishmael nodded her chin at Don’s lance. “Why’d you leave your lance at the counter?”
“It is because mine wallets are empty! Dost thou hast some coin?”
Ishmael groaned.
As the Sinners filed in one after the other to enter the bus, Ishmael stepped forward behind the rest of them all since she was moving slower than usual. One step forward was all she took before there was the clearing of throat from behind her. Don Quixote stood there in all her bloodied glory, fist half covering her mouth.
“Prithee, Ser Ishmael, I would like to say a few words.” Don Quixote barreled on, “That is if thou findest the time—”
“Hurry up before they decide to leave without us,” Ishmael said, dry and matter-of-fact.
Don Quixote nodded, taking a deep breath before shouting, “Thou art not only pretty, but beautiful beyond compare!” And with that holler, the knight rushed onto the train, leaving Ishmael last.
Ishmael quickly followed, an irritated expression crossing her face though something within her felt absurdly happy about the compliment.
She quickly tossed that, too, into the depths of her mind.
Ishmael would not be thinking of Don Quixote today.
(But those thoughts would be keeping her awake tonight.)