Chapter Text
Dante lingers behind everyone to watch the trained seagull for a bit longer. They knew seagulls were smart birds, but even Faust was surprised at the speed with which it learned tricks. It squawks, so Dante dutifully goes to open the door to the deck. It will then fly out, do its business, and handle whatever bird-chores it has before coming back. The door is a bit stiff, so they shove it open with their shoulder.
<Huh?>
The gull zips out, but Dante stumbles back into a seat, clipping themselves as they fall into it. The pain has returned, but unlike the cold rain and air outside, their shoulder bubbles with warmth. Rowing for their lives into the stomach of a Whale while showered in freezing ocean water and acid right after getting stitches seemed like a good idea back then, when everyone was in a hurry.
However, was that the most conducive environment for healing a puncture wound to the shoulder?
Definitely not.
Still, they’d been doing fine for a few days post an adventure that went soda pop bonkers, so they should’ve been in the clear.
<Oh no…> What finally ripped their stitches was pushing open a door for a seagull. <Oh no,> the moan again to themselves.
“Manager, it’s time to get some grub. Dante?”
<Hey, Ishmael. Just let out the bird.>
“Okaaaay? Food.”
Against the grey seas and skies outside, her hair waves like a brightly colored flag in what Dante tentatively calls their ‘vision’, dizzying yet enchanting.
<Gee golly, I think I’m about to hit the deck.>
“Huh?”
Dante pitches forward, knees slamming onto the floor, catching themselves at the last moment using their right arm and hand. With that, they manage to crumple forward, instead of piledriving their head into the ground.
“DANTE!”
Ishmael’s screech is all they hear before falling unconscious.
“EVERYONE!” Ishmael roars, and the rest of the Sinners dash out, pulled in by her strong voice. Heathcliff is the first to rush in, so she clicks her tongue and compromises. “Help me carry them!”
“What the hell?”
Multiple Sinners, seeing the most pressing issue handled, scatter to get other things in order, while some stay, desperate for entertainment.
Ishmael goes to throw one of Dante’s arms over her shoulder, when Heathcliff snaps.
“Do you have shite for brains?! Get the other arm!”
“What are you talking about?!”
The man doesn’t even bother trying to explain and simply supports Dante using their right arm and shoulder instead.
“There’s no way you’re that daft,” Heathcliff groans, right as the others rush in. “You stabbed them on the left, remember?”
“Uh… I’ll grab their legs.”
“Us two gonna princess carry them?”
“W-Well!”
Heathcliff, for once, doesn’t argue and grumbles as they end up side by side, him hoisting up Dante’s torso while Ishmael hooks her arms under Dante’s knees.
“Why is the Manager so heavy?!”
“Shut up and just carry them!”
“They’re like a bag o’ rocks!”
“Hah! Rich coming from the guy that swings around a body bag all day!”
“E.G.O.’s aren’t the same!”
“Careful, Heathcliff∼!” Rodya teases. “Don’t bring up a lady’s weight like that, you know?”
“Do we even know if they’re a lady or a bloke?”
“Better safe than sorry?” another voice says.
“Shut up, rich kid!”
Hong Lu giggles and moves in, poking the clockface.
“Stop it, Hong Lu!”
“Do you think they feel it, Ishmael?”
“Ask them when they’re actually conscious!”
Mersault, after watching them bicker for a few minutes, wordlessly goes to pick Dante out of their arms into a proper princess carry, followed by Gregor from behind.
“Oh. They are rather heavy.”
“... Did you not hear what Rodya just said?” Gregor asks, though his tone is more resigned than incredulous. “Just here to tell you all that Faust got our energetic girlie and kiss ass all wrangled together into bothering Vergil. Guy says he can patch up Manager-bud again.”
<Stop… arguing, guys…> Dante instinctively mumbles at the sound of shouting.
Somehow, Heathcliff becomes the voice of reason again, once Vergil and Charon shut the door currently leading to the clinic.
“… Did’ya ever write that ‘report’ or whatever Kiss Up and Genius said you had to about… stabbing them?”
“I hate this,” Ishmael mutters. “Why do you have to be the one who reminds me?”
“Oi, so you were gonna just faff around and ignore it?!”
“Heathcliff… being the responsible one?” Gregor is so shocked it's almost insulting to the other man.
“Real bold of ya gits to say this all right in front of me!”
Ishmael is now obligated to finish this stupid written report… Which she realizes she’ll need to hand over to either Vergilius… Or Dante. She knows how to use computers, but Limbus exists in a strange limbo. Paperwork is the most common form of communication (besides alarms), but the data needs to be input digitally.
Inputted by either Faust, Vergilius, or… Dante. She takes a few hours to procrastinate, mentally retrace her thought processes, and then get over the shame. The necessary paperwork is in the communal office, so she heads through that specific door.
<Oh, Ishamel. What’re you doing here?>
Damn it.
She fiddles with one of her ribbons, looking away from the clockface.
“The written report about, you know. Your shoulder.”
<Oh, I forgot about that! Lemme find the right forms for you.>
“Wait, do you need any help-!”
<I’m all good now. Shouldn’t be a problem.>
Dante leans over to look through their office desk, pulling open a drawer and rifling through it for a long time. Ishmael stands there, waiting in silence. She can’t tell if she’s the only one who feels awkward or if Dante feels that tension as well.
<Found it!> The manager clambers up into a proud form, chest puffed. It seems like the forms associated with purposely attacking your manager were hidden away and or needed to be repurposed from other types of paperwork.
They go around their desk, set at the head of the room, then move down to a grid of smaller desks meant for the Sinners, should a rare moment of legit office work be needed. This room always makes Ishmael feel odd. There’s disgust yet relief at such a safe, familiar environment. Dante coming over, however, is something no boss from back then would ever do.
<Here you go.>
She accepts the stack, and to her relief, it’s not as serious as she thought it’d be. It’ll be tedious at most, but the Limbus Company’s bureaucracy can be extremely efficient at times. There’s the usual stuff, such as requesting personal information, the date the incident occurred, reasons for the injury-
“Dante,” Ishmael says, peeling a sheet of paper away from the pile. “This form is for damage to company property.”
<The clock wasn’t hurt by your harpoon, but I figured we should get that in writing, in case… Something happens in the future.>
“Do we need to include this?”
<This technically isn’t my head, so I think we should keep that.>
“But the clock is part of you right now--the ‘injured parties’ form should be enough.”
<Yeah, but Faust told me we should record all instances of ‘damage’, even incidents where damage could have occurred.>
“Hah. Can’t argue with that. I’ll finish it up here.”
<Sounds good. I gotta stay behind to balance our budget for this month anyway.>
She flips the pages back and forth between her fingertips as Dante meanders back to their work desk.
“Oh. You know… how to do accounting, Dante?”
<Seems like it,> Dante replies, fingers tapping over a calculator as they run a finger down a column of values. <Guess I learned how to do all of this before I became everyone’s manager.>
“That’s interesting.”
<Yeah. I’m kinda curious to find out what else I know, even with the amnesia.>
The conversation dies, so Ishmael picks a desk and starts filling in and signing forms. Outis and Faust said she needed to make a written report, but the ‘report’ honestly boils down to pre-written questions with blank boxes underneath. She’d filled in similar papers in high school and university, then even more while doing practice CPA tests. It’s easy enough until she gets to the meat. The clicks and beeps of a calculator in the background contribute to an almost peaceful environment, while the world outside soaks through the windows in colors resembling melted rubies, topazes, and citrine.
[Explain what caused the incident, such as any physical or mental contributors (this includes Distortions and E.G.O. manifestations).]
Easy enough to answer under the warm glow of sunset.
I was in a heightened state of agitation, knowing that someone involved with my past trauma (as mentioned in my contract) was in close proximity and directly linked to the Bough. Additionally, my thinking was impaired even more due to preexisting biases against the Middle caused created I formed during previous relationships. This caused me to attack a member of the Middle, using the Bough as my overall justification. The Executive Manager interrupted this assault to prevent future retaliation by the Middle. In the process of stopping my attack, the Executive Manager was injured.
It’s to the point and impersonal, just the way the higher-ups in all her previous positions liked. It somehow makes her take responsibility, but also absolves her of this sin.
But it doesn’t feel satisfying.
She decided to accept all her mistakes. This one just happens to be more recent than the majority of them.
“Dante.”
The clock rises up with flames softly rippling behind, as fingers stop flitting over yellowed plastic buttons.
<Do you need any help with the paperwork?>
“I’m sorry.”
<Huh?>
She can hear the singular ‘tick’ layered over Dante’s ‘voice’, confused and startled.
“For stabbing you.”
<Uh, I mean, according to Vergilius, because you sharpened your harpoon so much, the 'poke' was really clean and easy to patch up. Also, you made sure to miss the clock.>
“I want to apologize for hurting you. You… helped Queequeg fulfill her final wish for me. To make sure I still had a future.”
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
<Mmhm. I accept your apology, Ishmael. I should also thank you, though, for trusting me with your ‘compass’, even if only temporarily.>
“... Yeah. Um, I’ll get these over before dinner.”
<Okay.>
They both settle back into the flow of things and-
<... I FORGOT THE SEAGULL OUTSIDE!>
“What?!”
Dante dashes out, risking the integrity of their stitches yet again, while Ishmael chases them down before they reopen the wound.