Chapter Text
Smoke is actually quite pretty.
When it coils up in thin wisps, diffusing the light around it before floating away.
They say some dreams are like smoke, but what’s so bad about that?
Things are oftentimes beautiful because they’re ephemeral.
To be honest, though, he’s fairly sure it’s just him pretending.
Smoke’s also an ugly, bulbous thing that drops visibility to zero, dredging the world in muddled tones that’d make even T. Corp. blush. All sorts of rotten smells hide in it, it gets people sick without them even knowing, and the way it doesn’t even do a good job of hiding death is a sin.
… The banging is so loud, but that’s not it. It’s the way each bang starts like the beginning of a whip crack, before bursting out in sound.
If it were just regular banging, he’d be fine.
There’s a difference, after all.
So when he hears and sees ‘war’, he falters.
Falters and tumbles back into that fifteen-year-old idiot who thought he could change the City with nothing but mindset and grit.
It’s scary.
It’s disgusting.
It’s too familiar.
The world blows up suddenly after what feels like a slap across his face, before a gloved hand yanks him to cover.
<Gregor! Gregor!>
“Ah… Ah… Uh…”
<Sorry, I didn’t think the Centipede would react like that.>
The smoke is so thick.
His vision is so blurry.
The sight of war blurs into a mush of color.
“Manager… Manager-bud?”
The unmistakable color of life gained and lost blooms in his peripherals, and he turns to face red flames.
<Here you go.>
His glasses are pressed into his hand, and Gregor puts them on.
The weight on his face makes him sigh.
Glasses make him different from her.
Glasses make it easy to run away.
But glasses also make it easier to see everyone.
“Sorry about that.”
<Mmhm. Ready to try out the plan?>
“Yeah. Lemme head out.”
Gregor dashes onto the field and swings his arm in between the joints of the centipede’s body. He lets momentum slam down, where the chitin rattles but absorbs the shock before it can run up his shoulder.
“Oops, sorry!” Don’s head rolls near his feet, and he hops over it, dodging the Centipede’s tackle at the same time.
<Fall back, Gregor!>
“Got it!”
Don’s head bounces over the dirt back onto her neck, and before the centipede can grab him, she jabs her lance straight up into its abdomen.
As soon as she’s pierced it in place, the others, now revived, close in. In nigh-supernatural unison, they all attack the centipede in a single moment, taking care to avoid clashing with anyone else’s weapon.
Took a while to get to this point, but Outis will no doubt be swooning over Dante’s genius, despite this being the result of both Dante's direction and their careful training.
They tumble out of the Mirror Dungeon, where instead of the ass-kissing, Outis gasps and scuttles over to Dante, gesturing at their bleeding hand.
“How did this happen?!”
<Stuff happens, it’s fine! Gregor, can you help patch me up?>
“You want the guy with only one working arm… to help?”
Dante makes an odd clicking noise, awkwardly checking the wound on their hand.
<... Please?>
Gregor sighs and the others scatter.
Dante still sucks at being discreet, but they’re given privacy and respect nonetheless.
<Let’s go to my office. I think I have a kit there.>
“Sure.”
The office is cozy, though a bit of a suffocating situation that reminds Gregor of the barracks. Closed in and cluttered.
<Uh… Don’t feel guilty about this.>
“... Why would I feel guilty?”
Dante eases the glove off their injured hand, where the gashes have clotted up and stopped bleeding. There’s an odd serration to the cut as well, the skin at the edges ruffled up and creased like ribbons. Whatever was used must’ve been sharp, but also varying in width and shape.
Gregor pauses, letting the shock settle, before scraping up enough courage to speak. He fights through the anxiousness that tells him to avoid taking blame and skate away, allowing the awkwardness to fester forever.
“Wings. You grabbed the ‘arm’, didn’t you?”
<I just went for what was closest and ran.>
“You did the same thing for Sinclair, back at that party boat, right? Actually, you always know when to run.”
<... If the Executive Manager won’t tell everyone to retreat, who will?>
“Who.. Yeah.. Who will?” Gregor swallows.
He ran.
He ran without taking anyone’s hand.
<Gregor. It’s okay. I’m okay.> Dante reaches up and pats Gregor’s shoulder, though it looks more like them slapping their palm up and down, with their arm in a rigid line. <I’ll never regret doing something like this for you or any of the other Sinners.>
Gregor groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, right above the glasses.
“I know.” The words fall so easily out of his mouth because of how believable it all is. The words he used to second-guess or dissect for meaning now settle in all of the Sinners’ brains as hopelessly honest, even when Dante tries to do otherwise.
Even if they said they were gonna do something insane like erasing someone from reality, Gregor would believe ‘em.
If Dante says things are gonna be alright…
They probably will be.
Something teeters on the edge of Gregor’s mind, but he’s too hesitant to call that sensation ‘reliance’ yet.
He remembers what it was like to rely upon and trust someone else, even when things were going to shit. To see just flashes of blue tap on a metal countertop and be lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sound.
Associating those emotions with Dante doesn’t feel right, but Gregor doesn’t have the words or knowledge to say anything else.
So for now, he decides to stagnate.
<Um… Do you think this needs stitches?>
Gregor looks again at Dante’s hand, and decides on an impromptu scale that Sinclair would call this ‘mangled’, and Mersault ‘an injury requiring professional medical attention’.
“Yeah. I think you’re gonna need more than just a ‘few’ as well, Manager-bud.”
<Aw…>
A knock on the door startles them both.
“Manager, I’ve brought the Guide to assist with your injuries. Do you still require the excuse of needing help to continue your conversation?”
Some mismatched dings plop out of the clock as Dante wilts.
<I’m starting to think maybe I did more harm than good,> they try to quietly confide in to Gregor.
“That assessment would be correct,” Faust answers, her blunt voice causing a crushing blow to Dante’s pride even while muffled.
“Whelp, that’s my cue to leave then!”
<... Sorry about that.>
“Nope, ya’ didn’t do anything wrong. Miss Faust, make sure they don’t chicken out of all the stitches they need!”
He locks eyes with Faust and Vergilius as he leaves, and she elegantly nods in response to his request. The amount of whistling he hears as he goes down the hall is concerning, but someone soon appears to distract him.
“Woah! Hong Lu?”
“Yes, that’s me!”
Considering how Gregor saw the other man picking through Heathcliff’s innards like a gourmet a few days ago, and how unsettling Corroding is, Hong Lu appears impossibly fresh-faced.
“Gregor, do you know how to boil water?”
“‘Scuse me?”
Hong Lu holds up a large, fragrant disk wrapped in paper and labeled with adhesive seals.
“I was given some nice tea before joining the LCB, and I figured the current monotony means we could all enjoy some without fear of interruption, though…” The man tilts his head to one side, where the lamps catch the green-ish iris at just the right angle to make it look murky. “I suppose not everyone will be able to appreciate its complex taste.”
“You mean Heathcliff, right?” Gregor chuckles and gestures for Hong Lu to follow him. “Yeah, I can boil some water for you.”
“Thank you~!”
Hong Lu seems oddly chatty and sticks close to Gregor, but that’s more than fine for him. He pushes aside all those unnecessary thoughts to make some tea, gawks at how much Hong Lu wants to waste, and brings in the rest of the cavalry to stop the man before he can pour an entire saucepan down the drain.
All those difficult thoughts about trust and reliance are pushed to the side, added to the ever-growing pile of ‘things to unpack’.
