Chapter Text
“Why do you keep holding your blade like that?” Heathcliff lifted a brow and took a step forward as Ishmael braced, knowing he was about to correct her. She wasn’t overly fond of his hands-on approach in training, but his verbal instructions were inadequate and his patience unevenly waned.
“You keep holding the bloody thing like you’re going to throw it.” His rough hands forced her to correct her stance. “You were made a Wakashu and you still can’t hold a damn sword proper?”
She almost hissed as she inhaled sharply, her bruised ribs throbbing still from her last scuffle in the streets, a sign as to why she was being subjected to such reprimanding. She winced and swatted his hand away.
Heathcliff retreated a couple of steps and folded his arms, scowling as he studied her. “Are you still hurt?”
Ishmael blinked, wondering what good this kind of question was, she already took as much of a rest period as available in their frenetic lifestyle. He may just take evidence of her struggle as a reason to continue his lecture another time. Irritatingly, his status as a Kashira compelled her to answer him no matter what. “It's just bruising. I’ll work through it and consider it a penance.”
He scoffed. “A penance? While it's true that you’re no good to anyone dead, working through the pain is not really some sort of extra sacrifice now is it? You’d have to do that anyway.”
She noticed a small lilt of amusement in his voice, reigniting her frustration. “Then what would you suggest would be a better way?”
“A better way of what? Punishing yourself for taking a hit? I didn’t ask you to do that. Though it is a pain in the ass to have a man down or die, it's part of the business.” Heathcliff glanced at her, noting her face was getting red again. He didn’t even mean to be particularly teasing at that moment. He shrugged down one of the sleeves of his kimono jacket, exposing part of his clan's black cloud tattoos across his arms and shoulder blades, and a portion of the many scars that marked his body. “Bruises will fade in time, at least.”
Ishmael’s response was flatter than he expected, as he really tried to give her a poignant display of leadership. She looked rather bemused at his attempt, that he began to become self-conscious. She said nothing, but took off her blazer and unbuttoned her shirt.
“What are you-” He began to question. “I didn’t order you to-”
Ishmael took a deep breath and bared a section of her midriff, showing the purple and yellowish splotches on her bruised ribs but also a litany of healed scars that the horrors of the Great Lake bestowed upon her.
Heathcliff observed thoughtfully and frowned. His hand ghosted over her flesh and she almost shuddered and pulled away. “Why does this one look like a rope cut into it?”
Ishmael let the fabric of her shirt fall back into place. “I used to be a sailor, I got caught in some of the ropes while we were dealing with a storm, amongst other things...” She explained in an uncomfortable and sighing voice. “It was a whaling ship.”
Heathcliff let this revelation sink in, looking at her thoughtfully. A small smirk soon twisted at the corners of his mouth. “So that's why you held your sword like that.”
Her gaze wandered away from him, she fixed her clothes as her anxiety bubbled from exposing herself in that manner, but she could not help but feel patronized by him. She had already lived what felt like lifetimes aboard that ship. She fell into working for the Kurokumo Syndicate because she was just a bystander who got involved in the backstreets brawl, and had to declare some sort of allegiance or most likely die. Just as well, as she was having a hard time getting assigned to a desirable fixer office. Though the tattoos were already stained and needled into her skin and her position was made, in the back of her mind she was always fixated on finding that bastard and making them pay. The more she climbed the ladder of this Syndicate, the more freedoms were provided, and she may convince the Kumicho to help her with her cause. At least, that is what she convinced herself as matters were more extended in the Hierarchy than that. If she survived running away, she would be more like her beloved lost to the sea, and would never be able to leave the Great Lake ever again. She would accept that ending if she could get her revenge.
“Hey. Why’d you join us?” Heathcliff asked, breaking her from thought. And once again, his status compelled her to answer no matter what.
Ishmael listlessly sighed. “You were there sir, remember? It wasn’t a very formal agreement.”
Heathcliff recalled he barked at her to either join them in the fray or become street meat, one of his most effective recruiting methods. Even though it was more or less extortion, he thought treated his units well. But that wasn’t exactly what he meant by the inquiry. “Okay.” He gritted his teeth slightly. “Say that you had more choice in the matter. What are your goals here?”
One of her pieces of hair fell from her precarious bun that struggled to stay contained. She sheathed her katana and went to work fixing it, and forced open her mouth to answer, hoping the words were carefully enough gathered. “Survive and use what skills I can to continue to survive. What else can I do?”
How obvious, he thought. He knew she was guarding her ambitions from him. “What brought you here in the first place? You’re a long way from UCorp aren’t you?”
She finished smoothing the bun as much as she could. “I was looking for a Fixer office to work for, so I could save up and find a way back into UCorp.”
“And now you’re trapped in the Backstreets.” Heathcliff said in a tone that hinted at a deep bitterness.
“Would you know something about that?” Ishmael replied, scanning down at his hands, as they fidgeted with the ring he wore.
He brought up his arms to fold them once more. He didn’t need to answer her, but she couldn’t do anything with the information even if he shared his entire life story. “I have worked to the bloody bone to get where I am. But I don’t intend to stay here.”
His position as second in command, or in the Backstreets under the Thumb, she was left to wonder which of the two he was referring to. If Heathcliff were to become Kumicho… She stopped the thought in its tracks. She found his leadership questionable at best, but there was no denying he was very good at getting results. But would he help her?
“I don’t intend to stay here either.” She tacitly admitted.
Heathcliff glanced away, pretending to not have heard it, so as to not be burdened with wonder. “I let you loaf about enough today. Report back to your captain.”
Ishmael customarily bowed and turned to exit his office room quietly.
Heathcliff cleared his throat. “And get your head out of the waves and wield your blade proper next time!”
She paused to turn slightly to nod and continued to exit. He may have seen through her after all.
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Whatever notion of status and dynamics they shared now, their familiarity did not stop them from bickering in public. Drinking parties, raids, scuffles, payment collection, it did not matter the setting, as long as the Kumicho was not there.
“Oi. I told you to slash that bloke’s ankles, not his stomach!”
“He would have had time to land his blade on you in that position, or do you like constantly being covered in bandages? Do you not wish to live long enough to become Kumicho?”
“You failed to listen to my order, bird.”
“I wish to remind you that my main mission is to protect you before battle execution, SIR.”
Despite their verbal clashes, for some unknown reason Heathcliff never subjected Ishmael to finger removal; others would suffer for the same boldness she had. Some of her fellow Wakashu noticed this light treatment and pointed out the Kashira’s kindness, but Ishmael would respond that his company was punishment enough.
“I find it interesting that your Hosa barely holds the leash.” Hong Lu mused, knowing his own found many opportunities to force their power like a noose around their necks. “My Hosa would have punished me for such impertinence. Or at the very least threatened it.” He smiled blithely.
Ishmael did notice that her Hosa barely spoke a word to her in recent months, and began to wonder if her behavior really was that obscene. She glanced back at Hong Lu, who sat next to her, filling another glass for their captain.
At this moment, several of the squads all sat around an izakaya-style restaurant, lines, and rows of tables filled with monochrome uniforms, as they all gathered to blow off some steam before the endless loop of street battles began again.
A man named Gregor was made into a Hosa, and though his drunk antics were often called insufferable, the Wakashu and their squads were competitive to work under him. Rodya, one of such Wakashu, was recently assigned under him, and she would openly say it was the most fun she had as a syndicate member in a long time. She sat across the room next to Gregor, refilling his cup. She noticed Ishmael’s glance toward them, throwing a small wave at her before slamming down a drink of her own.
Ishmael felt a tap on her back as she was pulled out of her conversation with Hong Lu, who remained unbothered.
“Ryoshu~” He greeted their guest playfully and began to make room on the bench. “Come to drink with us?”
The black-haired woman exhaled a puff of smoke in his direction as her answer, but Hong Lu’s resilient smile didn’t fade as he was subjected to it. He was used to her irascible manners and he even found a strange delight in her lack of them.
“Red hair, this way.” Ryoshu began to turn.
“Huh?” Ishmael responded. “Maybe she was tasked to fetch you?” Hong Lu suggested. “Better follow her, she won’t repeat herself~”
Ishmael wearily sighed and half-sprinted to catch up. “What’s going on?”
“K.A.F.Y.” Ryoshu uttered, but it only left her with more questions as she tried to decipher her code. Ishmael figured it out, though, as she was led to one of the private rooms of the izakaya. The door slid open, and she was greeted by her Hosa, and Heathcliff sitting at a table.
“Thanks, Ryoshu.” Heathcliff made a signal for her to return to her own devices. He lifted his gaze to Ishmael and pointed at a chair across the table from him. “Sit.”
She wordlessly heeded him, and took her seat, hoping to get a reason for this meeting. In the back of her mind, she feared that this was her long-delayed punishment that the other Wakashu warned her about. The silence began to choke her as the two men around her let it linger.
“Right. Let’s keep this brief.” Heathcliff produced a paper and a pen and slid it over to her side of the table. “From today on you will take on the rank of a Hosa, and become my apprentice, so sign this.”
Ishmael looked dumbfounded, but her Hosa kept a neutral expression, refusing to even look at her.
“Should I take your waffling as you’re not interested?” Heathcliff said gruffly, almost letting his underlying nerves show.
She snapped out of her shock to take up the pen, glancing through the contract. Her heart pounded, as she tried to actually read it.
“You may go.” He motioned to her former Hosa who seemed relieved to be dismissed. Once he was out of the room, he leaned slightly in her direction. “Are you gonna sign the damn thing or not?”
Ishmael wanted time to try to ascertain his motivations, still trying to read through the document’s conditions and restrictions, it was about the same as the original contract she signed at her Wakashu ranking, the loyalty clause and claims on her life still withstanding. She knew that there was no real choice, as long as her body bore that tattoo. She signed it and slid the papers back at him.
“Hm.”
She sat, wondering why he would do this for her, but to actually ask made her feel a little sick and giddy at the same time. Her face contorted into an expression of discomfort.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” His brow furrowed.
She bit her lip and sighed. The question would be coming sooner or later, so she may as well ask it. “Why did you promote me?”
Heathcliff sighed, scratching lightly at his neck. He knew she would be like this. “How else could I keep you in line?” He wanted to mention her desire to leave but left it to hang in the air.
“You’re a fool to do this.” She replied bitingly, testing his patience.
He ached with a strange familiarity in her acts of temerity towards him. “You’re just the same. I could have had you killed many times over by now. Maybe I should have?”
Ishmael nodded. She wondered if this was his way of finally tightening his collar around her neck or his way of loosening it further. A sigh escaped. “Thank you.” She even felt a bit more relaxed as the words came out.
“Sure,” Heathcliff responded, tossing a kimono her way, hitting her straight in the face. “Put that on and follow me.”
Ishmael annoyedly swiped the article off her face, shrugged off her blazer, and put on the kimono loosely over her blouse. She didn’t like what the next part implied but did what she was told. He led her to the back of the house of the restaurant, where the majority of their forces sat. Heathcliff addressed the population and formally introduced her as a Hosa, where her new authority was now fully on display. He then retreated back to his private room, and she was left to be poured drinks and addressed by those below her.
Rodya cheered for her possibly the loudest at the introduction, happy to have another promising captain and another she considered a friend.
Ishmael refound her spot next to Hong Lu, who somehow convinced Ryoshu to join him in the interim of her absence. His smile was slyer than before. “Ah, so that is how it is~” He insinuated.
“I assure you, it is not.” Ishmael replied, taking up the full cup placed before her. “I think he intends to make my life even more a living hell.”
“K.F.”
Hong Lu laughed at Ryoshu’s comment and his blue eye twinkled with amusement. “You figured that one out, right?”
Of course, 'Kashira’s Favorite'. “Should I sit somewhere else?” Her eyes narrowed on them, but it wasn’t much of a threat. Ishmael did end up spending time at Gregor’s table, as he drunkenly spouted his wisdom for being a successful captain as Rodya poured herself and Ishmael many drinks.
The night began to wane to the impending gray sunrise and she was determined to get a bit of sleep before the morning’s mandatory meeting. She was also sick of being forced to drink, her constitution hardy from the ale she used to consume with her fellow sailors, but the taste was strong in a different way.
Heathcliff had finished his own meeting with the Kumicho, who had just departed for bed. The meetings were less formal between them, but as second-in-command, he had to see to every whim they had while also overseeing their forces. He was taking a walk to grab some water before retiring for the night himself, as he saw his new apprentice wobbling up the stairs to the Wakashu quarters. She was definitely drunk; but her face was comically serious, as if she was trying very hard not to show it.
“Oh. it's you.” She slurred a bit casually. “Gooood evening.”
“You good?” He almost wanted to laugh, barely stifling it before reaching out to steady her as she began to slump against the wall. He noticed her bun had all but fallen down, her hair wildly snaking out of control. “Have you vomited yet?”
“Trying not to.” She choked, hiccuping after. Just the thought of how much alcohol she consumed was making her nauseous. “I think I am going to...” She choked back a heave.
“Hell, not here, lass!” He backed her into the restroom at the end of the hall quickly and ended up holding her mass of hair as she discarded an expensive amount of alcohol out of her stomach into the porcelain bowl, coughing as it finally ended. Her face was streaked with involuntary tears and she got up to immediately wash her hands and mouth. He still held a bundle of her hair as she turned to thank him for keeping it out of the way.
“It's a wonder no one has cut this shaggy mess off yet.”
She pouted, grabbing her hair completely away from him, attempting to put it back up before giving up halfway through. “I don’t want to.”
“Hrm.”
She walked towards the exit to leave, but some voices came down the hallway as Heathcliff pinned her to lock the door, in case someone else couldn’t hold their alcohol and spotted them. Ishmael went silent as his body held her in her place, standing against it, waiting for the noises to pass. They stood quietly, with each other breathing becoming noticeable company for several minutes, as some Wakashu continued to loiter in the hallway socializing. Heathcliff understood the weird position he put them in and removed himself away from her, but he tensed up as someone came by to open the door, wiggling the doorknob. “Ugh.” Ryoshu’s voice uttered.
“Aww, someone might be having a bad night.” Rodya’s voice could be heard. She knocked on the door. “You doing alright in there?”
Heathcliff and Ishmael looked at each other in panic. It made far less sense for him to be in there than her, so Ishmael put on a strained voice. “I’m fine, just had too much to drink.”
“Oh my, Ishy is that you?” Rodya asked, wiggling the doorknob even more. "Let me help you keep your hair out of the way!”
Heathcliff’s brow darkened at the prospect of them coming in. “Do not.” He whispered. Ishmael rolled her eyes, she would never even consider it. “I am fine, just leave! Go to the other restroom on the other side.” She replied hastily.
“Are you sure?” Rodya removed herself from the door, still worried.
“I said leave. Tell everyone I said for them to get in their rooms now.”
“I.T.A.O.?” Ryoshu questioned.
“Yes, that is an order,” Ishmael affirmed, sighing. She didn’t want to treat them like this, but it was the only way.
“Oh. Okay, feel better.” Rodya said tensely, shrugging at Ryoshu. “Come on, orders from Captain Ishmael to go to our rooms!” She shouted across the halls. “Its bed time!~ We’ve got a curfew and it's noooow!” Her words slurred, evident she was still drunk herself.
“They’re not gonna like that.” Heathcliff chuckled.
“Shut up.”
“Such a tyrant.” He teased.
Ishmael flashed him a murderous look, and they went silent as they waited for a myriad of doors to shut as the hallway went quiet. She exited and let him know it was clear for them to escape.
Her quarters were just a few yards away, but he turned to yank on her arm. “Take a walk with me.” He instructed.
“Fine.” She sighed, wanting only to sleep. She followed him to the kitchen, not yet manned for the morning shift and luckily, also eerily quiet. He got his glass of water, and she took one too, as her throat burned a little as she sobered up earlier. “Thanks.”
“Mhm.” He took a seat at a vacant table. She assumed a place next to him, and he felt an odd sense of relief when she did. “Do you know why I asked the Kumicho to allow me to promote you?”
“Absolutely not.” Ishmael replied flatly. It was the truth, at least. “Are you going to tell me?”
Heathcliff rolled his eyes. “Yes, I suppose I have to now.” He took a long sip of his water before looking back her way. “Our conversation a while back, when you showed me your scars. The way I see it, we both have similar goals.”
“Do we?” She asked, feigning ignorance.
“Oi. Don’t make me regret this.” He flicked her nose, his voice grew to a quiet grumble. “You want to go back to the Great Lake, and I want to head back to my home turf too. But those black clouds will hang over our heads until the bitter end.”
“What about the Kumicho? The Thumb? Hell, the whole hand?” Ishmael gritted her teeth. “I was damned that day I wandered into that part of the Backstreets and...”
“Calm down, everyone starts somewhere!” Heathcliff interrupted. “And I sure as hell will not end here. What about you?” He extended his hand for her to take.
Ishmael understood what he was asking of her. She was reminded of a conversation she had with a beloved person long ago. If she partnered herself with him, could they break free away from the Syndicate or use it to their own ends? He has proved himself capable, after all. What better choice would she even have? “I refuse to die here either.” She placed her hand in his, sealing their pact.
He shook her hand and let his hand rest onto the table, as she slowly removed hers. Once his hand was completely empty he picked himself up to retreat finally to bed. “See you in a few hours.”
“Okay.” She replied, knowing she would not be able to sleep at all. “Goodnight.”
He stood for a long moment, before returning the sentiment. “G-goodnight.”
She had no idea what to make of that but withdrew to head back to her quarters as well.
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What became of those two?
Dante wondered, as the two Identities were extracted at the same time. Try as they might, no further insight into that Mirror World could be gained aside from the small gleanings offered to them. All things considered, their Ishmael and Heathcliff were not all that different from those versions, though they seemingly got along better tactically, as well as the fellow Kurokumo identity holders who also seemed to smoothly follow their lead.
Despite Heathcliff’s rank being above, he seemed more than willing to shield his subordinate, who in turn would scold him for bothering. As with any Mirror Identity, once taken off, a slight influence remained outside of battle.
The second part of the team had been coming back from a dungeon as they settled back into themselves.
“Oh~You guys have been getting along so well!” Rodya pointed out.
“Huh?” Ishmael asked, reflexively taking two steps away from Heathcliff.
“Don’t you guys think so? I mean you still bicker occasionally but it's kind of a different vibe?” She continued, gesturing between them.
“I believe you could call the state of their rivalry currently… playful?” Hong Lu chimed in with amusement.
“Hah. Playful?” Heathcliff replied. “Are you all touched in the head? Oi Clockface, I think they came back wrong. Should I reboot them?”
“We’re fine. I think it's rather nice if you and Ishmael are buds.” Gregor spoke up, but retreated when Heathcliff raised his bat. “Okay, sorry for implying you had a friend at all!”
Ishmael scoffed. “That is enough. I think you guys are seeing something that is not there. Stop playing this joke on us.”
<It's not a joke, it has been nice to see you two get along.> Dante ticked, causing Ishmael’s face to grow red and Heathcliff to become further irritated.
“Oh come off it, not you too…” She whined. “We’re just working together as you asked.”
<Thank you for working together, then.>
The other squad of sinners had already exited the corridor back into the main part of the bus, awaiting the stragglers who just finished the final stage. Everyone came through the back door one by one, Dante accounting for all the sinners as they appeared.
Heathcliff held the door open for Ishmael. It made her pause, looking up at him and getting a sudden flashback from another life of them both standing against a door. She turned away suddenly and walked past him to take her usual seat, muttering a “Thanks.”
He gathered in his seat behind her and pretended he didn’t ‘remember’ something similar. He also wondered if that version of them ever made it out the backstreets, as he drifted into a nap.
<That concludes today’s business.> Dante announced some time later and the sinners began to disperse for their respective rooms. They stopped and wondered if it would be safe enough to rouse him awake, but Heathcliff had some mean reflexes, and still had a bat in his hand.
“I’ll get him.” Ishmael stated, coming over to nudge him from his sleep fearlessly. “Hey. Go to bed.”
<Heathcliff?> Dante ticked, still keeping a safe distance.
The man roused, seeing Ishmael he sleepily smiled, instead of becoming grumpy as expected.
“Okay. See you in a few hours.” He yawned out, getting up to sleepily walk into the corridor. “Goodnight.”
“G-Goodnight.” Ishmael replied, surprised at how easy that was, She turned and bid a second goodnight to Dante before catching up to Heathcliff to rein him to the right door.
Though nothing else could be learned, Dante was just glad they were able to work together.