Work Text:
What led to all this? Would it ever happen again?
Why did Sinclair and Yi Sang approach them some days after Xichun’s final evaluation as hierarch, apologizing for the alarm clock-dropping incident? Why did they care so much? Wasn’t the whole thing kind of funny? Why did they think Dante needed to be apologized to over something like this? Of all the pain they had endured, surely an accidental hit from an alarm clock ranked among the lowest? Why did telling the two Sinners that last part make them even more upset and insist on making it up for them?
And why did they also buy them a mirror? Did they want to drop that on Dante’s head as well? And the joke worked, because didn’t both of them crack a smile, but still assured Dante that it was a gift?
“Presumptuous it may be, we had hoped to return some small amount of what you had endured for us.” Yi Sang said, a soft smile blooming on his lips. Did he not know that his smile was more than Dante could ever ask for?
“It’s something for your room. It reminded us of you.” was Sinclair’s explanation.
How much of their gratitude transformed into a much stranger feeling as they thanked the two? Why did it take them until later that night to realize that the feeling was confusion?
Were people supposed to accumulate more personal items after a year of living somewhere? Was it really so unusual that both Sinners had noticed and agreed upon it? In Dante’s defense, where would they even get anything from? Where had they ever been to they would want keepsakes of?
Also, what did Sinclair mean by the mirror reminding them of Dante? Was it because the mirror was red with a thin golden band around the edges? Was it because the perfect circular surface perched on the support arm of the mirror resembled how the clock rested on their neck? Was it just their association with mirrors as part of their job? Was it their subtle way of telling Dante they had tended to have blood or rust on their clock? But looking at it now, there wasn’t any, was there? What if they looked harder?
…what is that? That thing, that dark presence that stands a few steps away from them? Was a sinner here for a late night consultation? But surely that couldn’t be the case, because when they looked around no one was there?
So then, what was that presence in the mirror? Did it get closer since Dante saw it last? Had their vague shape collapsed into the shape of… a person?
And why was that person so… unfamiliar?
Why was that person so unfamiliar, when they wore a red coat tinged with gold, black dress shirt and pants, red tie? Why was it so hard to imagine calling that person in the mirror Dante? Because that person was Dante, right? Was that not the point of mirrors? Why did calling that person Dante feel like calling Hong Lu Jia Baoyu, or Don Quixote Sancho? But weren't they the same people? Were they the same person? Why couldn’t they see their face? But would they even be able to recognize their own face?
But they even wore the same pair of gloves, didn’t they? Did they recognize the shape of their hands, at least? Were those long slender fingers wrapped around the clock, fingertips pressing firmly inwards, pressure real and warm and it ached even though—
The sound of a metal rending from fresh tore from just beneath them. The clock dragged, infinitesimally, on their neck.
What are they doing? Are they tugging harder on their neck? Why weren’t they getting up? Why weren’t they moving? Why weren’t they resisting? What good will the sinners’ protection do, if they freeze up at the first sign of danger? Aren’t they sick of dying? Is the body starting to lift up your chair? Why is it so much gentler than when the N-Corp inquisitor from what seems like years ago, from what seems like yesterday, gripped the clock in one hand and threatened to crush it? Why is the grip so kind? Would that warmth ever embrace them again? Why can’t they feel the blood on their fingers on your face? Is it even their face, or is it theirs? Is it even their face, or is it yours?
Where are their arms? Where are your legs? Where is their body, where are you? Can they cry out for help, or have you already done that? Is the sound of delighted laughter crueler than it is closer? How cold is the air settling on the surface of their neck, soft, red, inner flesh never meant to be exposed? Had the figure torn off more of the clock? How much more was left? Would they be able to tear through your spine? The bough? Shouldn’t they be reaching for the self-destruct button? Where are your arms? Are they trembling? Why can’t you move them? You cannot let this be the end, the button, the button, you need to swing your arm however blindly and reach for—
What was that sound? Why is everything so quiet again?
Why is the mirror in pieces on the floor? Was there a thud as the empty frame hit the floor? The sound of shattering glass as shards scattered? Did they knock the mirror over? You must have, right? But why is there no stinging on the back of the hand if you did? Was it because of those gloves? Or was it because the body don’t feel such mild sensations anymore, after nearly a year of daily agony?
And even more than that, oh, oh oh, what had you almost done? Did you almost press the suicide bomb button and get everyone killed because of— because of what? Because of your fear? Because of a bout of… what?
You shouldn’t be alone right now, right? Should someone restrain them? Surely someone on the nightwatch would have heard the mirror shatter on the floor? Didn’t Ryoshu spy on them for fun from the ceiling in that fake hotel room? For Wings’ sake, didn’t two of the most “well-behaved” sinners sneak into your room while you were sleeping? Why didn’t you tell them that I couldn’t care less about the stupid alarm Clock, I’m more upset about the fact that you invaded my private quarters and hid it from me? What if they were here right now?
What if you turn around and they’re there? What could they even say about the mirror, about what you did? I’m sorry, Sinclair, Yi Sang, I know it was a gift, thank you so much for it, I’m so sorry I broke it, I just think it’s haunted? Can one of you ask Faust if she can open up the Clock again? Would they take it as a joke? Will they actually be here? Was someone actually here?
Why won’t you turn around? Will the figure in the mirror be there, broken free from its glass prison? Have they come to finish the job? Why won’t you turn around? What would the Sinners’ reaction be, to see the Manager murdered in their own room? Did the Gesellschaft, in their apathetic omnipotence, predict this would happen? Did Faust try to hint at something like this, and you were just too stupid to understand it? Why won’t you turn around? Do they think that if you pretend the figure isn’t there, they won’t be? Why won’t you turn around? Why are you seeing a long red coat and black gloves in your peripheral vision? Why are you seeing a long red coat and black gloves moving in your peripheral vision? Why won’t you turn around? Are they just going to let them finish the job? Why won’t you turn around?
When you turn around, what do you see? No one?
Are you going insane? Have you lost your mind? Do you even have a mind to lose? Do you even have a brain? Surely you must have a brain, because wasn’t it a taboo of the Head or something to not have a brain? But where is it? Has it been squished and compressed into the metal folds of The Clock? If the person in the mirror had succeeded in ripping it off, would your brain matter have come splattering out like vomit where it was once attached to your neck? Is that the red mass you’re seeing on your desk, right now? Did the figure in the mirror get you? After all, wasn’t there a lot of fresh blood when the Sinners’ brains got blown out of their skulls?
Why are you still in your room? Shouldn’t you flee?
Why does the act of turning the doorknob and leaving seem to take so much effort when you’ve done it hundreds of times effortlessly before this? Did you forget to close the door when you fled out into the corridor? Would that even matter against the determination of a Clockhead-tearing maniac? Where would you even go? Isn’t the corridor even more dangerous, technically? Aren’t there so many other places that are so much more dangerous than your own room, like Daguanyung, or La Mancha Land, or Wuthering Heights, or the Great Lakes, or K-Corp, or J-Corp, or D-Corp, or every other letter of the alphabet, and every place that has ever existed except not because for some reason, in that room that is something that scares you without even existing?
Why does it take until you're in the kitchen for you to realize how ridiculous you’re being? Even if the figure in the mirror did exist, how would anyone even get on Mephistopheles? And even if someone did manage to sneak on board, why would they enter your room and not say, Hong Lu’s? If your brain was decorating your desk right now, wouldn’t you be unable to even exist, let alone walk? Maybe? Probably? Definitely? Isn’t that a bit of a contradiction? What were you here for again?
Oh, for that, isn’t it? For the broom and dustpan hanging on the back wall? To sweep up the mirror shards?
Why does the solid…ness? solidity? of the handles feel almost foreign to you as you hold them in your hands? Were you subconsciously expecting them to phase through your hands as though they were a ghost? Or are you the ghost?
No, you’re definitely not a ghost, because why does every step back towards your room seem to echo so loudly? Will you bother the night watch if you aren’t more careful? Should you bother them? Wouldn’t you feel better if someone were at your side? To do what? Open the big, bad, scary door with the nonexistent intruder that wanted to rip out your nonexistent brains?
Don’t you know you’re being ridiculous? Why won’t you open that door?
What is the first thing you see when you open that door? Is that your desk?
And what is that thing on your desk?
Is that the mirror?
Wasn’t it broken? Didn’t you break it?
Re: Bus Team Monthly Report to Limbus Company Headquarters; what is the most convenient means for the Manager to declare themselves mentally unfit to perform their duties? May I request reinforcements that I know you will not send us? Vergilius, I can’t do this, per che, se del venire io m'abbandono, temo che la venuta non sia folle? Someone, anyone, please help me, I think I’m losing my mind, for real this time?
What happened to the mirror? Why can’t you, who remembers all things except yourself, remember what actually happened? Is there a difference between not remembering and not thinking? If you barricade your doors and refuse to do anything but stare at the mirror, will you finally be able to recall what happened tonight? If you barricade your doors and refuse to do anything but stare at the wall or the Gates or the Star, if you tear free from this rumbling prison and flee towards the Dark Forest from where you might as well have crawled out of the silver dirt, if you abandon all the things you are now at present and everything you could be in the future, could you grasp at the straws of who you were in the past?
Isn’t that what you dreamed of dreaming of doing, in those earliest days, until eventually you realized that this nightmare was reality, and that you would never dream again? Are you regressing back to what you were back then? A stubborn, spineless, mindless, overwhelmed, terrified, frustrated fool? Well, aren’t you a disappointment, Executive Manager Dante? Or have you ever stopped being that person? Well, wouldn’t Executive Manager Dante still be a disappointment, regardless?
But is Dante not what you are by what you have lost? What would Dante become, then, to have all of you regained?
Why are you in the corridor again? And who is that person standing at the front of the corridor? Was it the night watch? Did you disturb whoever’s shift it was? “Oh, it’s you, Manager. I see you’re doing some late night cleaning.”
Why are you in the corridor again? How are you in the corridor again? Haven’t you sworn all those months ago that you would do your best to help the Sinners? And well, you’re hardly helping them now, are you? Aren’t you just distracting them from their duties? What are you even doing, now? Why aren’t you answering them?
Manager? Why are you called Manager? Why don’t you call them Sinner number… whatever their number was, and see how they react? Why do you want to? Is it out of spite? For what? Calling you by what you are? Please, I know it’s kind of weird, but can you call me Dante?
Is Dante even your name? Wasn’t it unfamiliar, the way the Aspect or the Star wasn’t? But wasn’t the name Faust gave when you were found in that dark forest? Was that your body’s name from before? Was that the name of the figure in the mirror? Do they hate you for stealing their name? Is that why they tried to kill you?
What would Dante look like? What do you look like? Does the mirror hold the answers? What would that person wear? Would they look anything like you? Perhaps they would wear a suit of green, or an armor of gold? Perhaps their hair would be shoulder length and white, or curly black with red ends? Whatever they looked like, they certainly didn’t have a Clock for a head, did they?
Ishmael shrugs. It’s not a big deal, and the dead silence was getting boring, anyways. The sinner turns to leave.
Can the Sinners tell the difference between you, Dante, and the Clock? Is there a difference between them? What do you sound like to them? <"What do I sound like to you?">
Why is the Sinner turning back around? What’s with the somewhat confused, somewhat concerned look on their face? “...You sound like you, I guess. It’s hard to describe. Seems… like that was keeping you up at night.”
Why did they say that? Did you ask them your question? What could you say in response? What would happen if you refused to respond at all? Would they let it slide or would they pry further? What would they want to do? What do you want them to want to do? Would they take revenge for all the times that you pried into their history? But that wasn’t your fault, was it? Didn’t you have to do it? Wasn’t it the bough? Wasn’t it the company? Wasn’t it the flow? Wasn’t it, like it always is, circumstances beyond your control?
Are you hearing the scrape of dead leaves being scattered along the ground outside the window? Are you any more of a person than them?
The Clock moves Dante’s head and speaks with Dante’s voice. Whatever it says, it says enough, because the Sinner nods and goes back, still confused but placated.
Then the Clock walks Dante’s body back to Dante’s room. The Clock closes the door, and finally lets go as you collapse to the floor.