[A murmur as he hears the "protest" of the noise as Dante eventually gives up the struggle. The last thing he wants is to have to strongarm Dante into behaving, and once again, he's thankful the manager is, well, manageable. He can imagine most of the Sinners would be a headache and a half to go up against in circumstances like these, mostly because they know how to fight.]
[Dante, meanwhile, is a lightweight, and it is surely something they would not want to hear out of him to add to their insecurities.]
Worried about how the others will see you? [He makes a guess - those sad ticktocks seem to be their own form of lament. Vergilius huffs.] Would you have preferred to stumble like a fool on your way back to the bus?
[And here comes the sight of said bus - he reaches out to wrench the door open, raising his voice to bellow inside:]
EVERYONE OFF THE BUS!!
[And he stands back, just before a couple of stragglers rush out nervously - the Sinners glance between him and his cargo, but Vergilius is already moving so that he can step up inside with Dante in tow and slam the door shut behind him.]
[Now, to find a place to do all this. Well, his bedside manner could definitely use work, since he's unceremoniously dumping them onto the floor before trudging along to the front to give a greeting nod to Charon and try to find at least some of the tools he used before.]
( their momentary struggle for freedom had simply been the feeble kicking of a deeply-buried fight or flight instinct; once refactored for context, the impetus had fled from them entirely. it's not necessarily that dante would always give up so easily, but when it came to vergilius... dante does not believe themself to be the unstoppable force to contend with an immovable object, and especially not one that they are technically allied with.
dante knows that it's not their place to fight. that's what the sinners are for โ and perhaps vergilius, if they are in such an imperiling situation as they had been in District 4. while they are willing to cede that, they are not willing to give an implication that they are quick to crumple in the face of pressure. as confusing as thoughts of who they are and what they are as "manager" are... they don't want to be that type of person.
the answer at first comes to his questions in the form of those subdued tick-tock sounds halting. the heavy silence is indicative enough, though afterward is further confirmed by a single, low, tock โ "no," perhaps. neither of these option were great, though at least one involved them walking onto the bus of their own volition, rather than being transported like luggage...
once they reach the bus and whatever sinners onboard are commanded to leave, dante lifts their hands to cover their clock-face in the few fleeting seconds of rushing action and movement as those aboard disembark and vergilius storms up the steps in their place. even before he moves to do so, they anticipate what he's going to do, so as they're shrugged off and onto the floor, they curl up just a bit so that it's the line of their spine that impacts the ground and not their prosthetic head. the latter would have been more problematic, certainly, but the former still hurts. they emit a short, sharp whistle before falling silent, lying on their back on the ground and staring up at the ceiling of the bus.
as moments pass, they grow more and more anxious. their gloved fingers itch to reach up towards their head, feeling for the groove where it might be opened. when they'd operated on them before, they hadn't really been... conscious for it (not fully, anyway). even with the alcohol distorting their mind now, they feel far more present than they had been then. the thought of their head being opened up and worked upon now is increasingly frightening, even though they're aware they had essentially asked for this. to imagine it then was one thing. to face the reality of it now was quite another.
their heartbeat increases at a clip. whether or not dante breathes is another question for the ages, but if they do, their narrow chest rises and falls in a similar tempo. )
["You'll suffer aplenty from now on, Dante", Vergilius had said all that time ago. Perhaps doing maintenance on an alcohol-filled clock head wasn't exactly what he meant by that, but its suffering enough, he supposes. He knows very well that he should be gentler - perhaps dumping them on the floor is a nice neat way to get even more damage, now that he's thinking about it - but its already too late to make reprimands for that.]
[He shoves a few tools into his jacket - a screwdriver, a wrench, a towel, some odds and ends here - before patting Charon once on the shoulder and heading back to his would-be patient. He catches the movement of the manager's hands, and he's at their side with a grimace, reaching down to pull away one of them.]
You're like a child who can't help but pick at a scab. Calm down.
[The words come gruffly, eyes flaring with irritation. His harshness is present as always, but there's another layer to it, something that Vergilius could hardly ever want to admit so readily. He did say as much last time, when the manager had come to after a frightening loss of consciousness, but to acknowledge the same vulnerability once more would be too much for someone so used to hiding genuine feeling under reticence and intimidation.]
[He's worried.]
[How could he not be? He's no engineer, no doctor. Common sense can only go so far. Dante's health and eventual recovery might be something quite easily obtained through something as simple as winding clock hands. Or it might be something easily destroyed in an instant, never to be returned again no matter how hard he toils.]
[He wants it to be the former. It has to be the former. He loses Dante, he loses everything.]
[Vergilius hovers for a brief moment, before moving to sit at the other's side on the floor, cross-legged. With a strong tug, he pulls their upper body onto his lap, clock head hanging slightly past his legs. He had momentarily considered just straddling them, but reconsidered it - compromising position aside, he would need to have some elevation so that the liquid inside could be tipped over and drained out.]
[He's reaching into his jacket now to pull out a flathead screwdriver. Before he does anything with it, his free hand rests against the other's upper chest, above their clavicle, his deep voice as level as he can make it.]
I could knock you out for this, if you want.
[An honest offer. Last time, it might have been a blessing in disguise to be out of it (weird dreams aside). He's not sure how it may feel being conscious and having someone rummaging in their head.]
( they are words that dante thinks about often. sometimes bitterly, which is most common after they are forced to once again weather the pain required of them in order to rewind the clock and bring the sinners back to life. they often feel as though they've been given very little information on what is actually expected of them as manager of this team, but despite that vagueness and obfuscation, the only expectation that has been made very clear to them is that they will suffer. is that, then, the width and breadth of their purpose to the company โ as the sacrificial lamb necessary to move along whatever plan they seem to be stuck right in the middle of? there is, of course, their own goal, but the reason why it was so important to them seems lost to them now; they merely pursue it on some vestigial instinct, like a moth flying into a candle flame.
they keep these thoughts to themself. they're not things to burden the sinners with โ they all have their own reasons and their own demons โ and it's not as though they could accurately communicate them to anyone else. this sort of isolation might be just another burden they must bear.
they begrudgingly lower their hands, though they don't seem to know what to do with them afterwards; they worry at their shirt, at their coat, at one another. they're nervous, but dante's body language is always pronounced enough that such things are obvious โ perhaps this is a subconsciously learned behavior, magnified in the absence of their ability to communicate with most people. despite this, they try to be a good patient (or at the very least a decent one, if that isn't attainable). they are certainly trying harder to be a good patient than vergilius is trying to deliver on decent bedside manner, though they certainly wouldn't have expected such a thing. really, it's probably for the best that he decides to pull them across his lap like this โ it's embarrassing, but if he had decided to straddle them instead, he might have to contend with dante being both anxious and suddenly flustered. as it is there's a faint element of that, but they are distracted from it by heart-racing apprehension and how badly their neck hurts when in a position like this, given how much heavier their head is than normal...
they resist the urge to squirm. it's difficult. they feel like they're in the position of receiving brain surgery without anesthesia or restraint. when vergilius' hand comes to rest at their chest, one of their hands moves without thinking to grasp white-knuckled at his wrist; they aren't sure what they intend by it, overwhelmed in the moment, heart thrumming like a bird's.
it is an honest offer, and perhaps a kind one. it's not one that vergilius has to make. and dante does consider it, weighing momentary pain over what terrible discomfort being conscious through someone opening up their head and rifling around with its insides might bring.
but โ they don't know how long they are going to be like this. the possibility exists that they might never regain their own head; this prosthetic might be with them for a very long time. if that's the case, they might have to receive maintenance to it many times, and some of those times might be under far worse circumstances than these.
slowly, their grasp slackens, and they lower their hands again; they know it would never have been enough to stop him from anything he might do, but they want it to give enough of a message. though it's one that they clarify slightly with another, albeit this time more subdued, tock and a very slight shake of their head. )
[Everyone suffers in this world. This place, this damned City, is built on it. The cogs turn, people are chewed up and spit out and the machine moves on. Dante is one such cog. And yet....and yet...once upon a time, Vergilius had told a certain man about his dream - an unreachable ideal, a version that couldn't be. The man, himself a Color, had said to that idea that Colors like him had a screw loose. But still, even long after that, when he had lost everything, and a honeyed voice had spoken to him about the corner of the world he wanted to cultivate and nurture to produce the seeds of a future worth investing into, he wondered if there would be a time where people like Dante wouldn't need to suffer. The cruel machine to be broken, and a new world constructed.]
[But that time isn't now.]
[The manager's body language is like that of an anxious child - it reminds Vergilius momentarily of the orphanage, some vague mental image of a worried kid having woken up from a nightmare.]
Don't worry.
[He immediately hates himself for the kneejerk instinct to comfort. Dante may be not quite the same as before, their experience erased along with their memory. Guidance was necessary. But this is still someone who was feared, and respected, and carried power even they weren't aware of. To baby them would be a disservice to them, Vergilius thinks, a slap in their face (or their clock). Same difference.]
[The other's hand grasps onto his scarred wrist - he lets it hold there for a moment, watching for their answer. And there it is - a shake of the head. He wouldn't take a page from Ishmael today. Perhaps better for it - knocking them out may have more consequences, and he didn't want to add to the list, here.]
[The grip loosens, and Vergilius lets out a him, shifting the screwdriver's head under the groove. A pause, and a press on the handle, letting the head inch in before he pops it upward - and the face of the clock opens on its hinge away from him. He lets his red eyes gaze downwards to assess the damage, or lack thereof, and clicks his tongue in distaste.]
I'll kill them. I really will.
[He murmurs, already noticing the sheen of liquid pooling around the gears and parts and modules he can see. Great. Great..]
I might pull you forward to start draining all this alcohol so I can see what I'm doing. [He says, finally, to Dante, his voice droning as he makes a gesture.] How does that sound?
( hope... it is a beautiful but insidious concept, isn't it? in many ways it's likely a byproduct of necessity, conjured by desperate minds in order to contrive a reason to believe that there could be some alternative to the pain that they suffer and the hardships that they face. but even if it is by its nature an invention for this purpose, there is something mystifying and brave about it. even in the face of that which might crush a soul beneath despair, many would dare to dream for better, for more โ perhaps that is simply the nature of the human spirit.
without their memories and their self, dante misses much of this kind of context. but what they do know is that their purpose and their personal goal feel vitally important โ as vitally important as the blood that rushes through their veins, just beneath the skin.
"comforting" is certainly an odd look on vergilius, yes. it's so surprising that for a long moment dante is startled into stillness, the restless twitching of their fingers halted. it feels like a piece, or a facet, or a side of the man that they haven't previously gotten a sense of โ the uncharted portion of a map, hidden beneath the obfuscating fog of the unknown. it's fascinating in its mystery, in the stark contrast it paints against his usually severe, resolute, and unyielding demeanor.
but it is there and gone quickly, like the strobing flashes of light that streak through the bus' interior as they pass by lit streetlamps when traveling at night.
dante applies themself. they focus every ounce of attention they can muster on trying to keep calm, on trying to twitch and fidget as little as possible. it would only do more harm than good. but when the tip of the screwdriver finds the fine seam between the pieces of metal and leverages the clock-like prosthetic of their head open, their first very human impulse is to scream. they can't, of course, and they can't even find any sound they can make that feels comparable. it's not... pain, not like the pain that they bear upon themself when they rewind time for the sinners. pain is a biological reaction, the body's signal to the brain that whatever it has done or whatever has happened to it is bad and dangerous and should be halted. their head is not biological, and so it doesn't have the same signal, but it does have something roughly adjacent. the best dante could hope to describe it as the horrible, heartbeat-skip moment between having lost control of something and knowing just how much damage it will sustain in consequence. the intense, present dread of Schrรถdinger's box, beautifully wrapped and tied in a ribbon of existential dread.
they wish they had something to hold onto, something real and physical that could anchor them away from that sensation. the floor of the bus beneath them is flat and featureless, without purchase โ after a brief scramble there with the arm facing away from vergilius, they end up reaching toward him instead, clenching the hem of his coat in one fist. it's not much, but it's enough to give them what feels like a tiny island in a turbulent sea to stand upon.
they don't want him to hurt the sinners because of this. because, despite what they had said before, this does feel like a personal failing to dante โ they had once again failed to manage them correctly, to provide an authoritative figure that they wouldn't mess with like this. but perhaps the rest of it is they don't want to have to rewind them back from whatever vergilius would do to them โ it was essentially the same as being killed by him themself, but worse, and several times over...
they comprehend the words somewhat slowly through their panic. really, they think that their opinion means very little here, but it is something that vergilius had gone through the effort to ask โ he certainly didn't need to. they can't nod their head, and with their head open and all of its mechanics exposed, they can't even seem to find their "voice" to try to tick-tock out a response.
so, instead, they feebly extend their free hand in a "thumbs-up" gesture, hoping vergilius doesn't notice the tremble in their shoulders as they do so. )
[Is hope a disease? A dead man's log to cling to, long after he is drowned? Vergilius doesn't have the answer. He's not sure he wants it. Even this paltry hope to keep on, after losing everything, sometimes feels more like a curse than a blessing. Like a thing to choke on, in an attempt to swallow. But it isn't his life to throw away, but another's to save, and when he is determined to keep on, that's all he has.]
[He doesn't know how it feels. He can't even begin to know how it feels. Perhaps its painful. How could he tell? It isn't as if there's a version of himself with a prosthetic for a head to compare to, and he inwardly hopes it isn't so uncomfortable as to get in the way of all this. Dante may have thought it earlier, but its Vergilius's turn to chew on the thought, on possibilities of this being something to repeat more often than not. Dante's clock head is a marvel. But in its own way, its a burden and a half, a wicked thing that stole away memories and abilities to live on as a human does, and replaced it with the power to pull souls from the Inferno itself.]
[He's not envious of it. He pities Dante for it, in his own way.]
[Dante's hand clutches to his coat. Anywhere else, and he'd pull away with a grimace. Here, he allows it. Better this, than wild chaotic movement. He is a guide, after all. Let them hold onto Vergilius like an anchor in a darkened sea, and keep their head above the water.]
[(Ah, he thinks. Am I the log of hope you cling onto, Dante?)]
[He only lets the poetic idea filter in and out like a passing light in a window so that he can focus on the task at hand. Punishment will come. Perhaps he should rethink it, given its blowback on Dante, but Vergilius is not kind. He was cold and cruel in his own way even to the people he loved. A way to beat them into the idea to steel their heart, and protect themselves from the worst. Sinners are not free. He is not free, either. In a way, he knows, that attitude he has wrong. But he is the last person equipped to show mercy.]
[...Which is why his insistence to make Dante aware of the steps he's taking may be surprising, and more of a showing of a soft underbelly more than he thinks. He makes the excuse that it'll prevent Dante from freaking out and making his job harder. Excuses always sound nice like that.]
[And so, with the gesture, he puts a strong hand between their shoulder blades, tipping them up and readying the towel to catch the flow of liquid out of their head. It spills onto him too, but Dante may remember the grease on his hands from before - Vergilius could care less about getting dirty. The most important part is getting as much liquid as he can out, and then dealing with what is left. He surmises there's enough for two bottles worth of alcohol, here - again, he mentally curses those damn Sinners and their idiocy - but eventually the flow dribbles to a stop, and he's letting Dante fall back onto his lap slowly with his guidance. He grimaces, moving his hand out to wipe a few droplets from around a frame with his thumb.]
I'll probably have to try to dry the inside a bit. Just so fluid doesn't get trapped anywhere it shouldn't.
( sometimes hope can feel like a relic of a bygone era, fit for more hopeful or idealistic worlds than the one that they have all inherited by birth. but, by the same token... is not some twisted manner of hope at the essence of this world, of the City, of each and every company that dreams one day to rise to be a Wing? certainly many of them begin with the best of intentions, dreaming wildly of rewriting the slate of reality they have been given and providing people with better opportunities and a brighter future. but such a fragile ideal can only exist in harsh reality for so long before it's either crushed or corrupted.
given vague comments made by vergilius and some of the other sinners, dante thinks the person that they were before they lost their head and their memories likely had quite an opinion on this. but in this... reduced state that they are now โ they just try to focus on the tasks at hand.
because motivation is a complicated thing for them. want is a complicated thing. at a most base level, they know they are not being given a choice โ they had tried once to refuse to rewind time, and all it had earned them was very credible threats of violence that would provide a pain far worse (it's hard to imagine that's even possible, but they do not want to find out). but as they've gotten to know the sinners better and feel more personally responsible for them, they do want to learn to lead and manage them better, both for their shared goal but also for their safety and wellbeing. it would benefit all of them to succeed at securing the Golden Boughs, even if they know precious little of what the Company actually intends on doing with them. and, on a personal level that dante can't even begin to comprehend or put into words, they do want what faust had promised they'd be able to do โ to engrave the Aspect. whatever that means.
so they will continue to suffer whatever anguish they must. though, as time has passed and they have rewound the sinners more times than they can count, they do think vergilius was wrong about one thing. familiarity with the pain doesn't make it any easier to suffer. each time is as fresh and horrifically brutal as the first, enough to force them to strongly consider ripping free this prosthetic head from their shoulders and just being done with it. but they don't, and they continue to restore the sinners as they must โ if this is the one "strength" that they can show, they will do so, and they will do so silently.
they feel oddly nauseous as vergilius places a hand to their back and leans them forward (a bizarre feeling to have once again, considering they no longer eat or get hungry), but it's a feeling that immediately (and blessedly!) begins to release once the majority of the alcohol swimming within their prosthetic's primary chamber is drained out. it's not enough to completely alleviate their anxiety about having it open, but the fact that their thoughts stop drifting and their vision clears and their head feels significantly less heavy is enough to make some of the tension ease out of their body. as much as they try to control it better, they end up falling gracelessly into vergilius' lap, looking perhaps just a little bit like the strangest depiction of the Pietร .
dante still holds onto his coat, though they do so far less desperately now; their other hand takes stock of how much of the alcohol had gotten accidentally poured onto them as well, though they had suspected as much might happen โ this hadn't seemed a problem that would be solved without a mess. as it is, some of their shirt and a small portion of their jacket is damp, though it could have been far worse.
they try to reply "verbally," but with their head still open, it just results in the interior workings turning and spinning and working without any actual sound being made. oops. but at least now they can nod, so they do, beginning to brace themself for how nerve-wracking that's going to feel. )
[Vergilius has sometimes wondered what would happen the day Dante got their head back. Of course, they had a reputation, an attitude that was almost as steely as whatever the City threw at them, but now that reputation seems like a far-off dream. The person in his arms seems so far away from that image that he could imagine their original personality being quite a shock to the Sinners. The timid, half-hearted manager being someone else entirely...]
[How would Dante feel about that? Or would Dante not feel anything at all? One person gets replaced with another. The person that was would be long gone.]
[Something twitches in Vergilius's face at that, like a sting to his heart. There's a lot he's steeled himself for. The idea of something (someONE) being replaced like that brings a moment into his head that still is tender like an open wound, and he does his best to shove it down, even as the hand on Dante's back trembles for a moment, before gripping into the fabric to keep it still. A messed up Pietร , indeed.]
...You look like you're feeling better.
[He murmurs - the tension in Dante is still there, but abated. It feels like looking over a patient whose fever has finally broke. Even so, lasting damage is still a major concern, and he moves aside his hand with the towel to squeeze it and drip out some of the fluid to dry it partially before moving in. His scarred hands are as gentle as he can move them, shifting the towel into the innards to dab at the edges of cogs and gears and modules, one by one. The last thing he wants is to jostle anything out of place, but the way things are interlaid and interwoven is complicated enough, and it almost gives him a headache remembering when he was trying to put together the other before after their sudden collapse.]
[He shakes his head as he works, bangs drifting in front of his dull red eyes.]
You really chose something complicated. Seems like you.
( it would be better if they didn't think about that eventuality, but of course they do. dante is not a fool; they are well aware that their existence is like a bubble, ephemeral, ready to burst at just the right disruption of their surface tension. they are only an existence that is in the absence of something else. it's a terrible and lonely thought, and so it's not one that they try to entertain often. what they are now, who they were before, and what they might end up becoming in the future... if they allowed the roots of these thoughts to entangle their mind, they would never be able to focus on anything else, regardless of the very real and present dangers that might await for them in consequence.
there is a base, instinctual part of them that wants to regain their head, their memories, their self. it's reflexive, beyond them; it's as automatic as the heart's will to beat and the lungs' will to breathe. but together with that they know doing so will mean they will experience a death. that is what it would be, isn't it? the "dante" that they are will exist, and then it will not.
it's terrifying. but so many things in this cruel world are.
dante makes their free hand flat, wavering it from side to side in a gesture that indicates that the way they are feeling is "so-so," but not necessarily worse now that most of the liquid is drained. they know they aren't out of the woods, so they don't let themself slide into a false state of relief. but vergilius going so far as to dry certain interior components with the towel... again, there's not much of a way that they can explain it. most of the time, it just causes that horrible, gut-wrenching sensation of wrongness to sharpen, lethal, as if the edge of a blade were pressed firmly to the nape of their neck. this is not easy to deal with, but it is at least in the same vein as the fear and discomfort dante has been fighting for the last few moments, so they mostly weather it with suppressed fidgeting and a tightened grasp on vergilius' coat.
but there are a few pieces... perhaps there's something embedded deep within their subconsciousness that knows that these are more vital, more important than the others. when vergilius draws near to these, the reaction is like boring into a sensitive tooth with a drill. a twinge like a lightning bolt shoots up and down their spine, making them want to twist away instinctually; they force the impulse down, but still one of their heels makes a sharp squeak against the floor of the bus as they draw a knee up, free hand working up towards their open clock-face โ but not so far as to interfere (their self-preservation instinct is at least strong enough to prevent that).
not thinking it through, they try to speak, but it just results in the gears and cogs of their head to click and spin uselessly. what would they even have to say? "be careful"? he already knows that. it's not a problem that vergilius can solve. it's just one that dante has to endure.
they try. they try to think of other things. perhaps they even try to think that surviving something like this is better than disappearing entirely.
slowly, vergilius' words sink in. yes, they must have chosen it... it's so hard to remember, but they were under the impression that they had done something to swap their own head out (or something) prior to being attacked in District 4. did they have a particular reason for choosing it? did they know all that it would entail? was it part of some bigger plan?
these thoughts are a good distraction, but a potential headache. instead, with their hand lowered back to their chest, they tap an anxious forefinger on their clavicle and once more spin some of their inner clockwork in a clicking question mark. did it seem like something they would do? just how much did vergilius know about them โ about who they were supposed to be, anyway? )
[Replacement. What a word. What a hateful word. And yet, they deal with it every day, what with those shards of identity being interlaid onto each and every sinner. Worlds beyond their understanding intersecting into a single person. He thinks Dante must be blessed not to deal with any of that. But there's still the problem of the Dante of the past, the Dante of the present, and the Dante of the future. And the future feels like it could be here, a thrumming truth ready to be opened, like a set of curtains.]
[Thrumming like these winding gears he sees below him. Perhaps Faust would have a better idea of what this exactly is. All he knows is that one component is some sort of memory module, which is best to be dried but more or less left alone. To "reset" the other back to some base memory-less state would be terrible for everyone involved. Well..maybe not? But the thought of having to bring Dante up to speed makes his head twinge with the echo of a headache as he moves along, trying his best to steel his hand as he feels them twitch and grasp him, like an anchor in a stormy sea.]
[He wonders, offhandedly, if it hurts.]
[...Oh well. They all hurt, in some fashion.]
[A bit more dabs, wipes, and he feels like he's getting close to catching what wet spots he sees. The new noise makes him pause - he glances down, catching the tap of a finger, before that noted red gaze meets where human eyes would likely be located. All he sees is gears, here.]
...You're wondering about this thing? I wouldn't choose it in a million years. I like my head where it is. [Even if his body is augmented past human recognition, to switch out his head like this? Nah. He shifts his hand to slide down the rag over the edge of their frame, like a nurse would wipe off the sweat off a sick man's face.] But you did have a bit of an ego. Probably came with the bigwig status.
( it has been, of course, a temptation to look into the mirror for themself as they had directed the sinners to do so many times before. the inherent dangers in that, of course, are obvious. given the state their mind is in suddenly devoid their previous memories and self, it might be potentially dangerous to them to view alternate versions of themself; either those that might have proceeded down a similar path than before, though perhaps having chosen differently in the events leading up to them donning this prosthetic and being swept up as the manager of the LCB team. and even if they did view versions of themself that were parts of other companies in different parts of the City... what would that matter to them? they need terms as basic as "Fixer" explained to them, so would it not just be more confusing when all of those memories and knowledge of alternate universes came flooding into them?
and then there was the functional danger of it: were dante's memories and thoughts temporarily overwritten by a different version of themself, but still with all of the abilities and authority they have over the sinners... what on earth might happen? there are too many variables. it's too dangerous. with some of the identities they call on their sinners to assume, that's dangerous enough...
no, it's best this way. they... they have to accept that they are best this way.
for the life of them, dante can't remember anything about the moments leading up to when vergilius, charon, and the sinners had come charging through the wilderness in District 4 to save their life. they don't know anything about this prosthetic, about why they had chosen it... they think that it has to have been a practical choice, though maybe their former self really did just have that bombastic of a taste in style? the gears and mechanical parts click once more, moving forward a single iteration, to acknowledge vergilius' comments on the matter.
unlike their guide, they don't believe they have any other parts of themself that have been replaced or augmented... though, then again, they probably wouldn't know, would they? it just makes them wonder why they had made that decision, and why it makes them more convinced it had been done for a purpose.
the cloth wiping over the edge of the clock's frame is an odd sensation, one like being tickled by a stray hair; dante suppresses the impulse to reach up and mess with it.
an ego... they can't imagine it. they are the "executive manager" of this part of the Company, so they acknowledge that they have a certain amount of importance and authority within it, but... everything they have heard about their former self implies they had had all of that and more, and they had worn it with confidence and perhaps even arrogance. as much as is possible in this vulnerable state, dante seems to shrink in on themself as they consider it, wilting as a flower might under severe sun without adequate water.
"am I a disappointment, the way that I am?" is the thing they wish they could ask. or perhaps they don't. they don't want to hear the answer. instead, after a long silence, they try to leave the difficult subject behind, pointing towards their head, still left open.
the lack of existential dread makes dante think that vergilius is close to doing what he can to dry it out. they certainly... feel better, though still not quite calm. but better nonetheless. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clockfaced) wrote2023-04-21 12:24 am
awww AT LEAST ITS OVER
[A murmur as he hears the "protest" of the noise as Dante eventually gives up the struggle. The last thing he wants is to have to strongarm Dante into behaving, and once again, he's thankful the manager is, well, manageable. He can imagine most of the Sinners would be a headache and a half to go up against in circumstances like these, mostly because they know how to fight.]
[Dante, meanwhile, is a lightweight, and it is surely something they would not want to hear out of him to add to their insecurities.]
Worried about how the others will see you? [He makes a guess - those sad ticktocks seem to be their own form of lament. Vergilius huffs.] Would you have preferred to stumble like a fool on your way back to the bus?
[And here comes the sight of said bus - he reaches out to wrench the door open, raising his voice to bellow inside:]
EVERYONE OFF THE BUS!!
[And he stands back, just before a couple of stragglers rush out nervously - the Sinners glance between him and his cargo, but Vergilius is already moving so that he can step up inside with Dante in tow and slam the door shut behind him.]
[Now, to find a place to do all this. Well, his bedside manner could definitely use work, since he's unceremoniously dumping them onto the floor before trudging along to the front to give a greeting nod to Charon and try to find at least some of the tools he used before.]
no subject
dante knows that it's not their place to fight. that's what the sinners are for โ and perhaps vergilius, if they are in such an imperiling situation as they had been in District 4. while they are willing to cede that, they are not willing to give an implication that they are quick to crumple in the face of pressure. as confusing as thoughts of who they are and what they are as "manager" are... they don't want to be that type of person.
the answer at first comes to his questions in the form of those subdued tick-tock sounds halting. the heavy silence is indicative enough, though afterward is further confirmed by a single, low, tock โ "no," perhaps. neither of these option were great, though at least one involved them walking onto the bus of their own volition, rather than being transported like luggage...
once they reach the bus and whatever sinners onboard are commanded to leave, dante lifts their hands to cover their clock-face in the few fleeting seconds of rushing action and movement as those aboard disembark and vergilius storms up the steps in their place. even before he moves to do so, they anticipate what he's going to do, so as they're shrugged off and onto the floor, they curl up just a bit so that it's the line of their spine that impacts the ground and not their prosthetic head. the latter would have been more problematic, certainly, but the former still hurts. they emit a short, sharp whistle before falling silent, lying on their back on the ground and staring up at the ceiling of the bus.
as moments pass, they grow more and more anxious. their gloved fingers itch to reach up towards their head, feeling for the groove where it might be opened. when they'd operated on them before, they hadn't really been... conscious for it (not fully, anyway). even with the alcohol distorting their mind now, they feel far more present than they had been then. the thought of their head being opened up and worked upon now is increasingly frightening, even though they're aware they had essentially asked for this. to imagine it then was one thing. to face the reality of it now was quite another.
their heartbeat increases at a clip. whether or not dante breathes is another question for the ages, but if they do, their narrow chest rises and falls in a similar tempo. )
no subject
[He shoves a few tools into his jacket - a screwdriver, a wrench, a towel, some odds and ends here - before patting Charon once on the shoulder and heading back to his would-be patient. He catches the movement of the manager's hands, and he's at their side with a grimace, reaching down to pull away one of them.]
You're like a child who can't help but pick at a scab. Calm down.
[The words come gruffly, eyes flaring with irritation. His harshness is present as always, but there's another layer to it, something that Vergilius could hardly ever want to admit so readily. He did say as much last time, when the manager had come to after a frightening loss of consciousness, but to acknowledge the same vulnerability once more would be too much for someone so used to hiding genuine feeling under reticence and intimidation.]
[He's worried.]
[How could he not be? He's no engineer, no doctor. Common sense can only go so far. Dante's health and eventual recovery might be something quite easily obtained through something as simple as winding clock hands. Or it might be something easily destroyed in an instant, never to be returned again no matter how hard he toils.]
[He wants it to be the former. It has to be the former. He loses Dante, he loses everything.]
[Vergilius hovers for a brief moment, before moving to sit at the other's side on the floor, cross-legged. With a strong tug, he pulls their upper body onto his lap, clock head hanging slightly past his legs. He had momentarily considered just straddling them, but reconsidered it - compromising position aside, he would need to have some elevation so that the liquid inside could be tipped over and drained out.]
[He's reaching into his jacket now to pull out a flathead screwdriver. Before he does anything with it, his free hand rests against the other's upper chest, above their clavicle, his deep voice as level as he can make it.]
I could knock you out for this, if you want.
[An honest offer. Last time, it might have been a blessing in disguise to be out of it (weird dreams aside). He's not sure how it may feel being conscious and having someone rummaging in their head.]
no subject
they keep these thoughts to themself. they're not things to burden the sinners with โ they all have their own reasons and their own demons โ and it's not as though they could accurately communicate them to anyone else. this sort of isolation might be just another burden they must bear.
they begrudgingly lower their hands, though they don't seem to know what to do with them afterwards; they worry at their shirt, at their coat, at one another. they're nervous, but dante's body language is always pronounced enough that such things are obvious โ perhaps this is a subconsciously learned behavior, magnified in the absence of their ability to communicate with most people. despite this, they try to be a good patient (or at the very least a decent one, if that isn't attainable). they are certainly trying harder to be a good patient than vergilius is trying to deliver on decent bedside manner, though they certainly wouldn't have expected such a thing. really, it's probably for the best that he decides to pull them across his lap like this โ it's embarrassing, but if he had decided to straddle them instead, he might have to contend with dante being both anxious and suddenly flustered. as it is there's a faint element of that, but they are distracted from it by heart-racing apprehension and how badly their neck hurts when in a position like this, given how much heavier their head is than normal...
they resist the urge to squirm. it's difficult. they feel like they're in the position of receiving brain surgery without anesthesia or restraint. when vergilius' hand comes to rest at their chest, one of their hands moves without thinking to grasp white-knuckled at his wrist; they aren't sure what they intend by it, overwhelmed in the moment, heart thrumming like a bird's.
it is an honest offer, and perhaps a kind one. it's not one that vergilius has to make. and dante does consider it, weighing momentary pain over what terrible discomfort being conscious through someone opening up their head and rifling around with its insides might bring.
but โ they don't know how long they are going to be like this. the possibility exists that they might never regain their own head; this prosthetic might be with them for a very long time. if that's the case, they might have to receive maintenance to it many times, and some of those times might be under far worse circumstances than these.
slowly, their grasp slackens, and they lower their hands again; they know it would never have been enough to stop him from anything he might do, but they want it to give enough of a message. though it's one that they clarify slightly with another, albeit this time more subdued, tock and a very slight shake of their head. )
no subject
[But that time isn't now.]
[The manager's body language is like that of an anxious child - it reminds Vergilius momentarily of the orphanage, some vague mental image of a worried kid having woken up from a nightmare.]
Don't worry.
[He immediately hates himself for the kneejerk instinct to comfort. Dante may be not quite the same as before, their experience erased along with their memory. Guidance was necessary. But this is still someone who was feared, and respected, and carried power even they weren't aware of. To baby them would be a disservice to them, Vergilius thinks, a slap in their face (or their clock). Same difference.]
[The other's hand grasps onto his scarred wrist - he lets it hold there for a moment, watching for their answer. And there it is - a shake of the head. He wouldn't take a page from Ishmael today. Perhaps better for it - knocking them out may have more consequences, and he didn't want to add to the list, here.]
[The grip loosens, and Vergilius lets out a him, shifting the screwdriver's head under the groove. A pause, and a press on the handle, letting the head inch in before he pops it upward - and the face of the clock opens on its hinge away from him. He lets his red eyes gaze downwards to assess the damage, or lack thereof, and clicks his tongue in distaste.]
I'll kill them. I really will.
[He murmurs, already noticing the sheen of liquid pooling around the gears and parts and modules he can see. Great. Great..]
I might pull you forward to start draining all this alcohol so I can see what I'm doing. [He says, finally, to Dante, his voice droning as he makes a gesture.] How does that sound?
no subject
without their memories and their self, dante misses much of this kind of context. but what they do know is that their purpose and their personal goal feel vitally important โ as vitally important as the blood that rushes through their veins, just beneath the skin.
"comforting" is certainly an odd look on vergilius, yes. it's so surprising that for a long moment dante is startled into stillness, the restless twitching of their fingers halted. it feels like a piece, or a facet, or a side of the man that they haven't previously gotten a sense of โ the uncharted portion of a map, hidden beneath the obfuscating fog of the unknown. it's fascinating in its mystery, in the stark contrast it paints against his usually severe, resolute, and unyielding demeanor.
but it is there and gone quickly, like the strobing flashes of light that streak through the bus' interior as they pass by lit streetlamps when traveling at night.
dante applies themself. they focus every ounce of attention they can muster on trying to keep calm, on trying to twitch and fidget as little as possible. it would only do more harm than good. but when the tip of the screwdriver finds the fine seam between the pieces of metal and leverages the clock-like prosthetic of their head open, their first very human impulse is to scream. they can't, of course, and they can't even find any sound they can make that feels comparable. it's not... pain, not like the pain that they bear upon themself when they rewind time for the sinners. pain is a biological reaction, the body's signal to the brain that whatever it has done or whatever has happened to it is bad and dangerous and should be halted. their head is not biological, and so it doesn't have the same signal, but it does have something roughly adjacent. the best dante could hope to describe it as the horrible, heartbeat-skip moment between having lost control of something and knowing just how much damage it will sustain in consequence. the intense, present dread of Schrรถdinger's box, beautifully wrapped and tied in a ribbon of existential dread.
they wish they had something to hold onto, something real and physical that could anchor them away from that sensation. the floor of the bus beneath them is flat and featureless, without purchase โ after a brief scramble there with the arm facing away from vergilius, they end up reaching toward him instead, clenching the hem of his coat in one fist. it's not much, but it's enough to give them what feels like a tiny island in a turbulent sea to stand upon.
they don't want him to hurt the sinners because of this. because, despite what they had said before, this does feel like a personal failing to dante โ they had once again failed to manage them correctly, to provide an authoritative figure that they wouldn't mess with like this. but perhaps the rest of it is they don't want to have to rewind them back from whatever vergilius would do to them โ it was essentially the same as being killed by him themself, but worse, and several times over...
they comprehend the words somewhat slowly through their panic. really, they think that their opinion means very little here, but it is something that vergilius had gone through the effort to ask โ he certainly didn't need to. they can't nod their head, and with their head open and all of its mechanics exposed, they can't even seem to find their "voice" to try to tick-tock out a response.
so, instead, they feebly extend their free hand in a "thumbs-up" gesture, hoping vergilius doesn't notice the tremble in their shoulders as they do so. )
no subject
[He doesn't know how it feels. He can't even begin to know how it feels. Perhaps its painful. How could he tell? It isn't as if there's a version of himself with a prosthetic for a head to compare to, and he inwardly hopes it isn't so uncomfortable as to get in the way of all this. Dante may have thought it earlier, but its Vergilius's turn to chew on the thought, on possibilities of this being something to repeat more often than not. Dante's clock head is a marvel. But in its own way, its a burden and a half, a wicked thing that stole away memories and abilities to live on as a human does, and replaced it with the power to pull souls from the Inferno itself.]
[He's not envious of it. He pities Dante for it, in his own way.]
[Dante's hand clutches to his coat. Anywhere else, and he'd pull away with a grimace. Here, he allows it. Better this, than wild chaotic movement. He is a guide, after all. Let them hold onto Vergilius like an anchor in a darkened sea, and keep their head above the water.]
[(Ah, he thinks. Am I the log of hope you cling onto, Dante?)]
[He only lets the poetic idea filter in and out like a passing light in a window so that he can focus on the task at hand. Punishment will come. Perhaps he should rethink it, given its blowback on Dante, but Vergilius is not kind. He was cold and cruel in his own way even to the people he loved. A way to beat them into the idea to steel their heart, and protect themselves from the worst. Sinners are not free. He is not free, either. In a way, he knows, that attitude he has wrong. But he is the last person equipped to show mercy.]
[...Which is why his insistence to make Dante aware of the steps he's taking may be surprising, and more of a showing of a soft underbelly more than he thinks. He makes the excuse that it'll prevent Dante from freaking out and making his job harder. Excuses always sound nice like that.]
[And so, with the gesture, he puts a strong hand between their shoulder blades, tipping them up and readying the towel to catch the flow of liquid out of their head. It spills onto him too, but Dante may remember the grease on his hands from before - Vergilius could care less about getting dirty. The most important part is getting as much liquid as he can out, and then dealing with what is left. He surmises there's enough for two bottles worth of alcohol, here - again, he mentally curses those damn Sinners and their idiocy - but eventually the flow dribbles to a stop, and he's letting Dante fall back onto his lap slowly with his guidance. He grimaces, moving his hand out to wipe a few droplets from around a frame with his thumb.]
I'll probably have to try to dry the inside a bit. Just so fluid doesn't get trapped anywhere it shouldn't.
no subject
given vague comments made by vergilius and some of the other sinners, dante thinks the person that they were before they lost their head and their memories likely had quite an opinion on this. but in this... reduced state that they are now โ they just try to focus on the tasks at hand.
because motivation is a complicated thing for them. want is a complicated thing. at a most base level, they know they are not being given a choice โ they had tried once to refuse to rewind time, and all it had earned them was very credible threats of violence that would provide a pain far worse (it's hard to imagine that's even possible, but they do not want to find out). but as they've gotten to know the sinners better and feel more personally responsible for them, they do want to learn to lead and manage them better, both for their shared goal but also for their safety and wellbeing. it would benefit all of them to succeed at securing the Golden Boughs, even if they know precious little of what the Company actually intends on doing with them. and, on a personal level that dante can't even begin to comprehend or put into words, they do want what faust had promised they'd be able to do โ to engrave the Aspect. whatever that means.
so they will continue to suffer whatever anguish they must. though, as time has passed and they have rewound the sinners more times than they can count, they do think vergilius was wrong about one thing. familiarity with the pain doesn't make it any easier to suffer. each time is as fresh and horrifically brutal as the first, enough to force them to strongly consider ripping free this prosthetic head from their shoulders and just being done with it. but they don't, and they continue to restore the sinners as they must โ if this is the one "strength" that they can show, they will do so, and they will do so silently.
they feel oddly nauseous as vergilius places a hand to their back and leans them forward (a bizarre feeling to have once again, considering they no longer eat or get hungry), but it's a feeling that immediately (and blessedly!) begins to release once the majority of the alcohol swimming within their prosthetic's primary chamber is drained out. it's not enough to completely alleviate their anxiety about having it open, but the fact that their thoughts stop drifting and their vision clears and their head feels significantly less heavy is enough to make some of the tension ease out of their body. as much as they try to control it better, they end up falling gracelessly into vergilius' lap, looking perhaps just a little bit like the strangest depiction of the Pietร .
dante still holds onto his coat, though they do so far less desperately now; their other hand takes stock of how much of the alcohol had gotten accidentally poured onto them as well, though they had suspected as much might happen โ this hadn't seemed a problem that would be solved without a mess. as it is, some of their shirt and a small portion of their jacket is damp, though it could have been far worse.
they try to reply "verbally," but with their head still open, it just results in the interior workings turning and spinning and working without any actual sound being made. oops. but at least now they can nod, so they do, beginning to brace themself for how nerve-wracking that's going to feel. )
no subject
[How would Dante feel about that? Or would Dante not feel anything at all? One person gets replaced with another. The person that was would be long gone.]
[Something twitches in Vergilius's face at that, like a sting to his heart. There's a lot he's steeled himself for. The idea of something (someONE) being replaced like that brings a moment into his head that still is tender like an open wound, and he does his best to shove it down, even as the hand on Dante's back trembles for a moment, before gripping into the fabric to keep it still. A messed up Pietร , indeed.]
...You look like you're feeling better.
[He murmurs - the tension in Dante is still there, but abated. It feels like looking over a patient whose fever has finally broke. Even so, lasting damage is still a major concern, and he moves aside his hand with the towel to squeeze it and drip out some of the fluid to dry it partially before moving in. His scarred hands are as gentle as he can move them, shifting the towel into the innards to dab at the edges of cogs and gears and modules, one by one. The last thing he wants is to jostle anything out of place, but the way things are interlaid and interwoven is complicated enough, and it almost gives him a headache remembering when he was trying to put together the other before after their sudden collapse.]
[He shakes his head as he works, bangs drifting in front of his dull red eyes.]
You really chose something complicated. Seems like you.
no subject
there is a base, instinctual part of them that wants to regain their head, their memories, their self. it's reflexive, beyond them; it's as automatic as the heart's will to beat and the lungs' will to breathe. but together with that they know doing so will mean they will experience a death. that is what it would be, isn't it? the "dante" that they are will exist, and then it will not.
it's terrifying. but so many things in this cruel world are.
dante makes their free hand flat, wavering it from side to side in a gesture that indicates that the way they are feeling is "so-so," but not necessarily worse now that most of the liquid is drained. they know they aren't out of the woods, so they don't let themself slide into a false state of relief. but vergilius going so far as to dry certain interior components with the towel... again, there's not much of a way that they can explain it. most of the time, it just causes that horrible, gut-wrenching sensation of wrongness to sharpen, lethal, as if the edge of a blade were pressed firmly to the nape of their neck. this is not easy to deal with, but it is at least in the same vein as the fear and discomfort dante has been fighting for the last few moments, so they mostly weather it with suppressed fidgeting and a tightened grasp on vergilius' coat.
but there are a few pieces... perhaps there's something embedded deep within their subconsciousness that knows that these are more vital, more important than the others. when vergilius draws near to these, the reaction is like boring into a sensitive tooth with a drill. a twinge like a lightning bolt shoots up and down their spine, making them want to twist away instinctually; they force the impulse down, but still one of their heels makes a sharp squeak against the floor of the bus as they draw a knee up, free hand working up towards their open clock-face โ but not so far as to interfere (their self-preservation instinct is at least strong enough to prevent that).
not thinking it through, they try to speak, but it just results in the gears and cogs of their head to click and spin uselessly. what would they even have to say? "be careful"? he already knows that. it's not a problem that vergilius can solve. it's just one that dante has to endure.
they try. they try to think of other things. perhaps they even try to think that surviving something like this is better than disappearing entirely.
slowly, vergilius' words sink in. yes, they must have chosen it... it's so hard to remember, but they were under the impression that they had done something to swap their own head out (or something) prior to being attacked in District 4. did they have a particular reason for choosing it? did they know all that it would entail? was it part of some bigger plan?
these thoughts are a good distraction, but a potential headache. instead, with their hand lowered back to their chest, they tap an anxious forefinger on their clavicle and once more spin some of their inner clockwork in a clicking question mark. did it seem like something they would do? just how much did vergilius know about them โ about who they were supposed to be, anyway? )
no subject
[Thrumming like these winding gears he sees below him. Perhaps Faust would have a better idea of what this exactly is. All he knows is that one component is some sort of memory module, which is best to be dried but more or less left alone. To "reset" the other back to some base memory-less state would be terrible for everyone involved. Well..maybe not? But the thought of having to bring Dante up to speed makes his head twinge with the echo of a headache as he moves along, trying his best to steel his hand as he feels them twitch and grasp him, like an anchor in a stormy sea.]
[He wonders, offhandedly, if it hurts.]
[...Oh well. They all hurt, in some fashion.]
[A bit more dabs, wipes, and he feels like he's getting close to catching what wet spots he sees. The new noise makes him pause - he glances down, catching the tap of a finger, before that noted red gaze meets where human eyes would likely be located. All he sees is gears, here.]
...You're wondering about this thing? I wouldn't choose it in a million years. I like my head where it is. [Even if his body is augmented past human recognition, to switch out his head like this? Nah. He shifts his hand to slide down the rag over the edge of their frame, like a nurse would wipe off the sweat off a sick man's face.] But you did have a bit of an ego. Probably came with the bigwig status.
no subject
and then there was the functional danger of it: were dante's memories and thoughts temporarily overwritten by a different version of themself, but still with all of the abilities and authority they have over the sinners... what on earth might happen? there are too many variables. it's too dangerous. with some of the identities they call on their sinners to assume, that's dangerous enough...
no, it's best this way. they... they have to accept that they are best this way.
for the life of them, dante can't remember anything about the moments leading up to when vergilius, charon, and the sinners had come charging through the wilderness in District 4 to save their life. they don't know anything about this prosthetic, about why they had chosen it... they think that it has to have been a practical choice, though maybe their former self really did just have that bombastic of a taste in style? the gears and mechanical parts click once more, moving forward a single iteration, to acknowledge vergilius' comments on the matter.
unlike their guide, they don't believe they have any other parts of themself that have been replaced or augmented... though, then again, they probably wouldn't know, would they? it just makes them wonder why they had made that decision, and why it makes them more convinced it had been done for a purpose.
the cloth wiping over the edge of the clock's frame is an odd sensation, one like being tickled by a stray hair; dante suppresses the impulse to reach up and mess with it.
an ego... they can't imagine it. they are the "executive manager" of this part of the Company, so they acknowledge that they have a certain amount of importance and authority within it, but... everything they have heard about their former self implies they had had all of that and more, and they had worn it with confidence and perhaps even arrogance. as much as is possible in this vulnerable state, dante seems to shrink in on themself as they consider it, wilting as a flower might under severe sun without adequate water.
"am I a disappointment, the way that I am?" is the thing they wish they could ask. or perhaps they don't. they don't want to hear the answer. instead, after a long silence, they try to leave the difficult subject behind, pointing towards their head, still left open.
the lack of existential dread makes dante think that vergilius is close to doing what he can to dry it out. they certainly... feel better, though still not quite calm. but better nonetheless. )