Archive of Our Own ^beta

Don Quixote is a creature of habit.

She knows it's not the impression she gives with her impulsivity, but her life has a strong schedule, breaking her day into convenient parts. Wake up at five to exercise, study at six, eat at seven, go to work at eight, and return home at five or later. A few months ago, this rigid structure was the only thing that kept her standing.

Now she had an addition to it.

Five-thirty: go to Ryoshu's Bistro and remember that life is worth living.

"Greetings!"

The doorbell rings loudly, declaring her entrance to an empty restaurant. Ryoshu's clientele prefers to come later at night. This doesn't phase Don Quixote, who goes to sit right next to the kitchen window. She knows better than to try and enter the kitchen, with the chef being very strict about where she's allowed. She settles on waiting for Ryoshu and trying to catch a glimpse of her silhouette through the window. At first, she sat near the exit or in the corner of the restaurant as far away from Ryoshu as she possibly could. As time passed, however, the warm urge to sit closer to where Ryoshu resided tempted her to inch more and more towards the kitchen.

It took a lot of time and countless dinners to be able to sit this close to Ryoshu's workshop. Having other people being too close to her space stresses the chef out, so Don Quixote treasures this honor, not daring to raise her voice too much as she sits there patiently. She settles down and lowers her head, searching the gap between the cabinets sat against the window, and finally notices a white uniform. She can't see Ryoshu properly, but her presence within the kitchen is too familiar. Don Quixote stretches herself over the table just a bit and manages to get a better look.

She's making soft meat pies. Don Quixote can't see it but it's safe to assume so, considering what is the most popular item on the menu. It also explains why she doesn't hear the loud clanking of knives that most kitchens are accustomed to producing.

At first, they danced around the nature of Ryoshu's pies. For weeks, both of them avoided acknowledging the mystery meat that was used.

It's not like Don Quixote learned to recognize human flesh in any condition, so she didn't ask, and perhaps the chef decided that she didn't have to know.

A year ago, before being hired by the corporation, before seeing freight cars full of gore, blood, and violence, she could try to deny it. But now, her experience makes it too obvious to ignore.

It takes Ryoshu ten minutes to take a break and shift her gaze enough to catch a person watching her. She turns to the window fully, and Don Quixote smiles brightly, giving her a wave. The chef takes a towel from the table and approaches the dining area, disappearing from her sight before emerging from the kitchen door.

"You. How long have you been here?" Ryoshu snaps in an accusing tone rather than greeting her. She stops the kitchen door from closing with her leg and throws a bloodied towel into Don Quixote's hands. It's nice, in a way, that her role in this place is blurred enough that the chef doesn't even pretend to have customer skills. "If you saw me earlier, why didn't you call me?"

"I wished not to divert thee." Don Quixote feels her smile grow wider. "Furthermore, I find pleasure in observing thy labors."

Ryoshu shoots an annoyed glance at her, and Don Quixote just gazes back, trying to be as charming as possible. It's true, after all, she likes to watch Ryoshu work. There is something magical about skilled people working in their field. And Ryoshu's professionalism is exceptional. Don Quixote could spend hours just watching her prepare meat—if she was allowed to. She would dutifully observe the way the knife moves, a familiar weapon that works so differently in another person's hands, and her slender fingers deftly sliding the meat to cut it one slice at a time.

But even behind the window, her earnest stare distracts Ryoshu, forcing the woman to keep her distance. It makes Don Quixote feel guilty for daring to take the chef's time away from her art, but surely if her presence wasn't wanted, Ryoshu would get rid of her, perhaps forcing her to become a more direct part of cooking process. The mere thought of Ryoshu's knife pressed to her skin; the chef's crimson red eyes staring down at her like she's nothing but a piece of meat, sends a giddy shiver down Don Quixote's spine.

"Are you sick?" A hand covered in latex gently touches Don Quixote’s forehead, and she flushes with a visible shiver. A look of worry flashes across the chef's face. If Don Quixote wasn’t so embarrassed, she would try to enjoy the moment. "It's almost winter, but you always go out in nothing but your uniform, so I'm not surprised." Ryoshu scolds her so naturally that it feels like this isn't the first time that the chef has considered this a concern. She savors this fantasy for a second before chasing it away.

"I fare well, lady Ryoshu," Don Quixote laughs, harnessing all her willpower to lean away from the touch. "This was but a reaction to a thought that crossed my mind," she musters up a half-truth, hiding her gaze. Don Quixote feels wetness on her forehead and guesses that Ryoshu left a bloodied spot there, but she doesn’t dare touch it. Instead, she attempts to change the conversation. "Pray tell, what will grace my table for this evening?" She throws a glance towards the window, not making any actual attempt to see what is hidden in the kitchen. Ryoshu guards her secrets, and Don Quixote treasures this friendship more than her own curiosity. "Perhaps I shall don a blindfold and wait patiently for what you have in store?" She murmurs an idea, playfully extending her hand out to the chef, a nervous roleplay habit that she can’t fully suppress.

Ryoshu watches her ridiculous gesture with narrowed eyes. Her crimson gaze forces Don Quixote to retrieve her hands, embarrassed. "You are getting soup." She says in a firm tone, concluding that the other woman's nervousness is born from a measly attempt to hide her winter chills.

"N-no need! I insist! I am doing quite fine, actually!" Don Quixote whines uselessly. It's an empty gesture of confrontation, because she would never actually say no to Ryoshu's food. This woman could turn coal into something delicious if she wanted. "And should anything happen, I shall utilize my Wing's health assurances to expunge what evils harbor within me!" Flashing out her Feather benefits isn’t a nice move from her side, but Ryoshu doesn’t really seem to care.

She ignores her whining and disappears back into the kitchen, and Don Quixote closes her eyes, concentrating on the noises that begin to emanate from there. She hears Ryoshu putting a pot on the cooker, and for a second, there is hope in her heart. Then, she hears water being poured in.

Don Quixote swallows.

"Yet, I do believe that soup tastes quite Wanda-ful in such tempestuous weather." She says rather loudly, earning a hum from Ryoshu. As the chef concentrates, Don Quixote sits alone in silence.

Soup cooks slow. Slower than most of the dishes Don Quixote has there. An hour later, when she's almost laying on the table mulling over her empty stomach, Ryoshu comes out and finally places a steaming bowl of dark, almost black liquid in front of her.

"I give thee thanks for this repast," she murmurs and takes a quick sip without hesitation. Ignoring the searing heat, her bravery and faith in Ryoshu’s talent get rewarded with a sweet and sour soup with an aftertaste of fruits, with a hint of metallic notes.

"Verily, there are a lot of greens this time." Don Quixote sighs but obediently drinks. It’s not an actual complaint but more of curious remark. Ryoshu’s favorite food to work with is meat, and anything else is only meant to be a side ingredient.

"F.Y.F. It's better for your health." Ryoshu grumbles.

"I was unaware that thou focused on dietary restrictions like this," Don Quixote notices. She doesn't know that much about a proper diet, but the menu of the restaurant is definitely skewed to the side of protein. She can only hope that the food in W corp's cafeteria has all the vitamins she needs.

"I don't." Ryoshu's voice is dry and relaxed. "Just making sure you won't have to skip your visits because you're S.O.S.," she says offhandedly, and Don Quixote almost drops a spoon. The undeniable truth that her presence in the Bistro is not just tolerated, but also wanted, brings more warmth to her body than any dish could.

"Agents on site, please complete the Cleanup ASAP."

She raises her daggers without a second thought, the mechanical voice of the announcer ringing through her head. She wonders if the woman behind the voice is still alive.

It's easier to concentrate on a stupid question like this. To cast her mind somewhere far away, letting her body take control, and placing the burden of making decisions on her superiors.

The door opens with a quiet exhale of steam, and they enter a preparation space before a lock on the cart door flashes green and deactivates.

Don Quixote charges first, cutting through one of the passenger's sinews before it can notice her. It looks skinless and deformed but maintains a humanoid figure, which brings her some kind of relief.

The creative ones are the most dangerous, straining their flesh to form convoluted shapes or even using the weaker more docile passengers as spare material for their form. Thankfully, the cart they're working with doesn't seem to reach this level, with only a single oversized passenger wearing jewelry made from the livers of their neighbors. Even this anomaly keeps a human-like form, not even trying to experiment with skeletal structure. No spare limbs, only muscles draped over other muscles in a feeble attempt to grow stronger. Don Quixote severs its leg and pushes it back.

One of her teammates joins her, putting up a spear in front to stop any oncoming passengers while she retreats behind to collect what is left from the bodies. Later, they can start to sort this pile according to their original seats. They fall into familiar roles without a single word.

"Continue to move forward up until the tenth cart!" The captain shouts out a command and tears down a passenger that tried to hide on the ceiling. It falls down with a weird muffled shriek, its vocal cords clearly damaged

"Roger!" Don Quixote has to raise her voice to be heard over the distorted cries of the passengers. The door to the next cart opens with a few powerful kicks, fleshy strings ripping apart and flying into the darkness as if someone had tried to barricade the door. The agents walk into a dimly lit space as the door behind them closes, and Don Quixote feels an unpleasantly soft squish under Rocinante. It takes a second to understand what happened as she can barely make out the shapes of mangled matter with a partially covered dim blue light above her.

Everything is covered in a thin layer of flesh, forming a weird pulsating cocoon. She sees two figures in the dark. There are definitely more of those things deeper into the cart. She thinks about jumping up and freeing up some light when another passenger flies at her, which she easily dodges. Before it can try to rise up from the bloodsoaked ground, she stabs right into the back of its neck and tugs, severing its head from its body.

As if it was seared into her mind subconsciously, her blade slices through another creature, moving on sheer instinct to stop another reckless attack. Her blade misses a bit and instead cuts through its fingers as they fall to the ground. Darkness hides the humanity still left in these creatures with a hazy shade, making it easier to consider them nothing but monsters. The bare flesh exposed on their mangled bodies helps too.

Her teammate is there with a spear, stepping up to create a distance between them and the passengers, and Don Quixote notices blue sparks of energy running around the blade. It gives her enough light to see the deformed face of another passenger with mouth twisted in the way to help teeth reach its eye sockets. Should she feel pity for these barely human things?

Perhaps her daggers are charged too. The endless waves of attacks from the passengers don’t give her enough time to check for sure, but it feels like a safe bet. Even if they aren't, using a stronger attack would make this all go faster, so she decides to make a leap of faith and changes the grip on her daggers.

"DON QUIXOTE." The captain snaps at her, a sign of her disobedience in possibly undercharging, but it’s useless. The daggers are already charging up and her teammate makes a fast step back without hesitation, giving enough space for Don Quixote to shift her stance.

Surrounding noises drown in the buzz of electricity, the wet cracking of flesh and bone tearing apart, and her own heartbeat. The passenger can’t even react when a violet flash runs through its wrist, sinking into its shoulder and glides down stopping only at the second rib. It's at this point when the consequences of her decision hit hard, the undercharge throwing her off balance.

Don Quixote feels tension rising in her chest and a painful spark shooting from her hands to her head. A shiver continues to run through her body when she thrusts a dagger down the muscle lining of another passenger and she feels taste of iron in her mouth. She swallows both a cough and bloodied salvia and uses her shoulder to give a final push to an unlucky cut, correcting her miss. The passenger falls on the floor. Seems she miscalculated. Maybe a single spear charges faster than dual daggers.

Doesn't matter. Not like a bit of her blood will stand out in the surrounding scenery. Her impulsive actions allowed her to take down a big one, its torso severed almost perfectly in half, revealing a chaotic mess of organs and bones shuffled inside. She sees an extra spleen and a weirdly placed finger phalange, and the thought of separating all of these misplaced parts tires her more than any actions.

A few more carts, a few more passengers, and she once again falls into a familiar trance, where nothing matters but her blades precise movements and the delightful emptiness of her mind. If she had been asked what part of her job she loves, Don Quixote would try her best to avoid such a question, but a battle in which she can switch her brain off is definitely more preferable than meticulous sorting of biomasses to their seats or tearing near unmovable flesh from the walls and floor.

That demands her presence and understanding of what's happening. In a fight, she only needs to keep herself alive and gallop onwards. It almost feels as if Don Quixote leaves her body, allowing it to finish a job by itself, while she sleeps in a dark corner of her mind that even W Corp's cold blue light could not illuminate.

Everything seems to be done, when someone shakes her shoulder. She almost raises a dagger to cut the hand, but a gauntlet grabs her blade, forcing Don Quixote to blink and then look properly at an annoyed captain. Her other colleague is also there, barely phased by her attack. Well, if he tried to behead her with his polearm, she wouldn't overreact either. She snaps back to reality and realizes that the cart is absolutely silent, and all of the passengers are disposed on the floor in one pile that seems to be almost melting into each other.

Not only that, but the entire cart seems to have been turned upside down. The seats were somehow overturned from their metal hinges. Some of the ceiling lights were damaged, flickering across the rest of the ruined scenery. She's standing at the entrance of the main cart, in front of the scratched and dented door that is now ornamented with a perfect bloody print of Rocinante’s sole. Perfect evidence, with culprit’s name written in bold red.

"My apologies, it seems I lost count." Don Quixote tries to explain, but from the gaze of her colleagues, it's obvious they don't believe her. "It won't happen again." She looks at her dagger, still being gripped by the captain's gauntlet, and makes a note in to sharpen them later.

The uniform cap throws a shade over the captains face in the dim light, making her face unreadable.

"I genuinely hope so," The captain groans dryly and pushes her away to the seats. Don Quixote almost crashes into the wall. "But you damaged the property of W Corp, and you'll have to pay for it." Don Quixote looks at her with an empty gaze. "Go clean your shit up, and after that, I will inform the seniors that you lost your lunch privileges for a week." She stomps away to keep some distance.

Don Quixote blinks confused. She expected a harsher punishment, but she guesses that the corporation has to clean up the carts often anyways, so it's fine. It just feels annoying.

"Roger," She immediately gets to work, pushing all the bodies to the middle so she could properly move the seats back. Groaning as she pushes each heavy metal box to its proper place, a hint of regret starts to seep within her mind. Of all of the instances of her disassociating during battle, this had to happen.

After everyone work in silence, broken only by the ear shattering sounds of metal scraping against metal, the seats were finally back to where they were before. Falling on her knees in front of one of the bodies, Don Quixote stabs its wrist, severing several tendons and leaves her dagger there to keep them from regrowing as she digs more into its flesh. It takes a few seconds to find its number.

"Seat A-12,” she reads out loud and tugs, studying the way its muscles contract, and notices how under a bit of pressure, the connecting tissue between it and another torso breaks, leaving quite a huge chunk in her hand. “Seventy percent of its body mass is intact." She declares, dragging it away from the pile. There is a wet slurping sound when it separates fully from the mass and she can see a desperately waving limb trying to return it in mutual embrace.

"They used parts of themselves to create a doorframe, so go look at that structure." Her colleague answers, throwing minced meat on one of the seats. Don Quixote hums and drags a passenger to the opposite side of the cart, and there, from the floor rose a solidified line of blood between it and the ruined entrance.

She sighs and grabs a piece, not caring about a possible sharp snap of bone breaking. With a disgusting sound, a piece of flesh falls down from the construction, splattering blood all over her before it starts to roll back to the hosts. One agent jolts away from the splatter by instinct, and Don Quixote wonders how much time it would take him to care no more. It took her two weeks of intense shifts if she remembers correctly.

"Careful," commands the captain.

The procedure takes an hour and a half, and after finishing, Don Quixote is sick from the sharp hues of red and blue and dreams about getting back to the comforting colorlessness of their dormitories. But her stomach growls hungrily, which reminds her that instead of getting a fast dinner with everyone, she will have to go out to eat.

She has half a thought to skip it tonight, but understanding that she’s highly unlikely to find anything that opens before her shift start forces her to move.

She barely remembers the sight of the street nearby, but there should be some restaurants. She remember bright banners advertising dishes that she had to scrap flesh from in the train. It takes a moment for her to remember where the exit from the corporation is. Don Quixote didn't notice how her life has become centered around W Corp, and she no longer has any strength to study the City as she once dreamed.

At least this cage is bigger, and Don Quixote knows that she can leave it. Even if there is no longer a desire to do so, she can walk out of the building without a problem.

Just like now. She tilts her hat, protecting her eyes from the bright sunlight. Natural illumination feels weird for her eyes after weeks of electrical lamps. Part of her wants to succumb and run back into the protection of the station, but Don Quixote forces herself to move.

Unfortunately it turns out that while there are a ton of cafés around the station, the pricing of them makes her realize that she forgot how rich you need to be to even afford an economy class ticket.

As a starting agent, there's no way Don Quixote can afford to eat there regularly. She knows that some of her coworkers buy ingredients and cook meal themselves, but Don Quixote has no experience or mental fortitude to try doing something like that. So she has to go to backstreets to find food.

The twenty third district is famous, or someone would say notorious, for its eccentric interest in cuisine that makes citizens of this Nest more willing to visit backstreets compared to other Wings. That makes the border between the two parts of the district have far less surveillance than most of districts. Food in the backstreets is usually better than in the Nest and almost always costs less. Before this predicament, Don Quixote didn't really care about it with W Corp providing the meals for their employees at an extremely cheap price.

But the situation has changed, she reminds herself bitterly. Now, the weight of the captain’s punishment finally starts to take a toll. She must be truly annoyed with Don Quixote’s actions.

The difference between Nest and Backstreet is huge in its architecture, but for everything else it’s surprisingly mostly the same.

Don Quixote wants to go into the first restaurant she sees, but the number of people cramming in makes her stomach clench, reminding her of the carts full of indistinguishable bodies. After moment of consideration Don Quixote comes to conclusion that puking her dinner back would be counterproductive to the whole goal of this expedition, so she continues strolling until the street starts to thin out, ending with an empty small vendor taking a part of the first floor of a miniature building. The contrast between it and other restaurants is wild, making Don Quixote wonder how horrible the food is if people choose to be stacked as fish in a barrel everywhere else instead of going here.

Giving it a thought, she comes to the conclusion that she doesn't really care about taste.

The bell over the door rings melodically, signaling her presence without the need to speak. Don Quixote appreciates this little gesture and silently starts to look around, waiting for any staff to come.

From the inside, Bistro looks regular, as far as Don Quixote can tell. Calm natural colors with a splash of red, simple but clean tables and chairs, and the smell of food from the window to the kitchen in the wall. Her stomach growls, but Don Quixote ignores it, continuing her research. In her months of living in the City, the curiosity faded under the pressure of the ugly truths, but she's not against learning something new if there is an opportunity.

Then the chef comes out. The door snaps open with a loud sound and before Don Quixote can react, a dark-haired woman in white with a bloodied knife in her hand appears. Her every movement is filled with sharp anger, as if she wants to use her knife on a person daring to think that if the door was open, she has a right to go in.

It's been a long time since Don Quixote has seen someone with such intensity in their eyes.

The chef doesn’t look older than her, but definitely livelier. There is a tension in her pose, sight of which Don Quixotes drinks in remembering how to read facial expressions and not countless tensed up muscles, ready to lash out and attack. If the chef did choose to attack, her own speed was far superior to whatever the inhabitants of Backstreet could show. And caring about her own life felt too much of an effort now. Hell, wouldn’t it be interesting to fight against something human for once?

"So, what's on the menu?" She asks calmly. "I don't see any planks inside or outside of Bistro, so it leaves asking you directly."

A spark of irritation flashes across the chef's eyes, and Don Quixote can't make herself care enough to wonder why. The longer this conversation takes, the louder the desire to just turn around, go home, and sleep.

Perhaps her colleagues could help. Faust seems to be someone who doesn’t eat too much, and she doesn’t mind Don Quixote’s company. Or Rodion. The idea takes a clearer form in her head and Don Quixote is ready to leave, when the chef finally answers.

"We sell mostly pies." The chef replies as she lowly puts her knife away. It's such a sudden change in attitude that Don Quixote feels stunned for a few seconds, wondering if this is some type of trap or if her first read on the chef was wrong. But then the silent pause stretches uncomfortably and she nods awkwardly and walks to a table as far away from the kitchen as possible. Whatever the chef makes for her will be enough. And the price should be fine.

"One slice of a meat pie?" Words come to her as she finally remembers that she needs to confirm an order instead of silently taking a tray from the cafeteria. Some of her colleagues would probably puke when a meat dish is mentioned after a working day, but she has the guts. Albeit, the opportunity to have some meat isn’t exactly making her drool, but to be fair, what does?

"Sure." She agrees, realizing that she has a really poor idea of what pie actually is. She's seen this word before, of course, somewhere in the thousands of letters and books she's perused. But in most of them, the writers assumed prior knowledge and did not describe it properly.

The chef returns to her kitchen, leaving Don Quixote alone. It's a strange experience. Working in the W Corp, she is rarely left by herself, surrounded by teammates or roommates. Don Quixote heard that the higher you climb in the hierarchy, the fewer people you can live with, but the thought of it leaves a cold pit in her stomach. Despite most of her feelings being dulled with time, one thing she is sure of is that she doesn't want to stay completely alone. Just not surrounded by other humans to the point of lacking air to breathe.

Don Quixote zones out as she continues to wait. She tries to ignore the painfully familiar sound of flesh being sliced and minced in the back of the kitchen. When did she became so attuned to catching this type of noise? The lighting in the trains isn’t that good but she never expected to rely on hearing that much. Luckily for her, preparation takes only a few minutes, and with a quiet ring, something starts to work, perhaps the oven?

Time drags unpleasantly slow in comparison with the efficiency of the W Corp dispenser. She can add it as one more positive next to cheap price.

When the chef rings a bell, Don Quixote, already feeling quite impatient, moves fast, wanting to get back to the dormitory before it gets dark. She takes a good look at the plate, and the pie seems nice, with meat juice dripping from the side mixing with orange sauce that looks as though someone tried to paint a stroke directly on the ceramic. She gets ready to take a plate when the chef instead places it away from her grasp.

"Take off your hat." Don Quixote raises her eyebrow, confused, and after a second of silent staring, the chef lets out a heavy sigh. "And gloves. I.R.B." Don Quixote freezes, trying to comprehend the last part but quickly gives up.

She takes down her gloves first, considering what they've possibly touched. Then, she catches her cap between her fingers, dragging off as the unpleasant white light of the dining area hits her eyes. "Done. Is that enough?" She clarifies weakly.

"P.I.E." The chef spews out nonsense once again, but she nods with obvious satisfaction. Under the sensation of a burning red gaze attached to her back, Don Quixote finally goes back to her table.

The plate warms her cold fingers and for a few moments, she's almost excited to dig in.

But something is off. She understands that only after taking a fork and sinking it deep in the crust, the way the filling of the pie breaks in a way that Don Quixote is awfully familiar with.

The meat that they're given in the cafeteria is a greasy grayish mass that's barely recognizable as something organic, but it's something that only the rookies eat. Employees with stable income bring actual meat for lunch, and Don Quixote remembers the smell and sight of them.

Chicken, beef, and pork. Don Quixote saw the whole variety of meat on Lady Rodion's plate.

And the thing that she has in front of her is different.

Don Quixote wants to leave.

Damn dinner, damn this bistro.

However, despite her mental disgust, her starving stomach clenches from the smell, and saliva fills her mouth for the first time in months. The hunger is all encompassing, the hole in her stomach growing larger and larger.

She can pretend that she doesn't recognize what this meat is, and never visit this place again.

She cuts away a small piece and raises it to her mouth, biting slowly, and all her moral values are lost in a divine taste that seems to bring color rushing back into her world.

It's been a few weeks since her first visit. Today her dinner is some sort of stew. Don Quixote spent last week going through some variants.

It's honestly the most difficult thing in her visits. Ryoshu isn’t just a cook, she’s an artist. And she demands her food to be not just consumed, but appreciated properly. And Don Quixote, with her lack of experience, is a horrible critic.

But despite her harsh words, Ryoshu is patient and Don Quixote is willing to learn. It's an interesting experience to familiarize herself artistically with things that she saw at her work so often. Muscles, blood, liver, spleen, and other viscera appeared almost alien in Ryoshu’s bistro.

She knew how to find them on a body and distinguish them by texture, but taste? Taste was new, and the fact that Ryoshu could take something as disgusting as human flesh and turn it into a work of art made Don Quixote utterly fascinated.

But Don Quixote’s job provided her with experience head start only in matters of human’s body.

Other ingredients still are mostly a mystery for her, but Ryoshu seems to be okay with it. The chef likes to make her guess what the dish is made out and how, but it's more of game for Don Quixote than an actual challenge.

The chef sits on the other side. "So?" She asks impatiently after a few bites.

Don Quixote smiles lightly, "Delicious as always, my lady!" a compliment comes to her very easily.

The chef squints, unsatisfied with such an answer, so Don Quixote thinks hard trying to expand her review. "I like the way you mixed vegetables in it. Their bitterness mixes nicely with the sweet blood." Only recently has Ryoshu started to add greens into her dishes. A strange development but not unpleasant one.

Ryoshu's face changes just a bit, and yet, Don Quixote feels her heart beating faster.

"I am going on a W.T. soon," Ryoshu says offhandedly, making Don Quixote freeze mid bite. She raises her head at the woman, and Ryoshu doesn't seem like she's joking. "Bistro will be closed for a week and a half."

It's strange how much it scares her. Don Quixote places her spoon on the side, trying to hide the way her hands shiver. Ryoshu has been a part of her life for only a short period of time, and Don Quixote knows more about living without Ryoshu than with her. And yet, the thought of Ryoshu not being here is scary.

But Don Quixote tries. "Congratulations!" She says, locking her fingers together. "I assume ‘tis some sort of tournament or masterclass?" She suddenly misses Gregor. Ryoshu’s sous-chef was a bit weird and made her nervous at first, but turned out to be far nicer than she expected.

Ryoshu looks at her, and Don Quixote feels her gaze dissecting her. "Big order," she clarifies calmly, "Someone from the outside wants to have a great banquet and hired T.B.C.”

"I am not surprised that thou art placed amongst their kind," Don Quixote says sincerely and tilts her head back, gazing over the empty bistro. "Does Gregor have the reins of command, then? How did he respond? I wager he's delighted!"

It was quite embarrassing to get rust of her communication skills when she became a regular visitor, but the chef surprisingly didn’t mind it, starting conversations with her again and again.

Ryoshu squints her eyes just a bit, and Don Quixote bites her tongue. She is still learning to read the chef's expressions, but sensing her displeasure already became an instinct.

"N.A.H., so he's going with me," Ryoshu says. "Why?"

"Oh, I wanted to know if I could still come here."

"And you'd be fine with Gregor's cooking?"

Don Quixote laughs quietly. Ryoshu, despite being actually quite confident in herself, hated when her food was compared to anything.

"No one could match up to thee," Don Quixote says, "but when thou depart, I'll have to settle on the W corp meals."

Her lunches and breakfasts now taste like plastic in her mouth while still being her main source of nutrition, and late shifts have started to unsettle her appetite. The first time occurred during a long and demanding shift, where a passenger tore open their ribcage. Stray muscle fibers draped across the ribs and the intercostal tissue, as the mangled heart fervently palpitated, shooting out excess blood from the ruptured pulmonary artery.

She barely caught her saliva before it stained the passenger’s biomass.

It was a terrifying and embarrassing discovery that almost scared her away from Ryoshu's bistro.

But the hunger that Ryoshu made her aware of, and only Ryoshu could fulfill, turned out to be stronger.

She swallows another spoonful of the stew, savoring the light bitterness of the sauce and the warmth of it spreading through her chest and stomach.

"I wouldn't dine anywhere else, out of respect for thee." Don Quixote suggests jokingly, giving Ryoshu another smile.

She doesn't want to go anywhere else anyway. The good food helped her regain herself after the Warp trains almost reduced her to an empty shell of a person, so wasting this newfound energy on searching for a place that will without a doubt lose to Ryoshu's cooking feels useless. The nearby restaurants and cafes are mediocre at best. True artists, as Ryoshu said, prefer not to settle close to each other. And searching for another chef like Ryoshu... feels like betrayal.

Don Quixote licks her lips and throws the thought somewhere in the back of her mind. Starving to death would be better. No one would be as good as Ryoshu anyway.

"I don't want you to eat shit like that," she hears Ryoshu's voice, curious and thoughtful as if she was surprised by her own words. “And I don’t want you to starve.”

The care implied by these words makes Don Quixote want to curl up and hide.

"Then prithee, share with me a place where I could dine." She still doesn’t want to go anywhere else, but if there is a place that Ryoshu recommends… Don Quixote is at least curious.

"No," Ryoshu winces rather cutely, before a pleased smile appears on her face. "I have a B.I.(better idea.)"

Her eyes gleam with an unfamiliar mischievousness as she leans closer, hovering a bit over her guest.

"How about cooking lessons?" Ryoshu suggests lightly.

Don Quixote laughs nervously, but the chef's crimson eyes keep studying her, and she realizes that Ryoshu is serious. Her first instinct is to say no. Ryoshu treasures her skills. There is no way Don Quixote would be good enough to satisfy her.

"I'll teach you the easiest recipes."

"Can thou read my mind?" Don Quixote inquires.

Ryoshu throws a gaze at her, that tells everything that she thinks about Don Quixote’s mind without saying anything out loud.

"Finish the plate and go wash your hands.” She says with an unfamiliar hint of authority in her voice. “First lesson, keep the workplace clean."

Fighting with immortal creatures screws the understanding of what the human body can and cannot withstand.

The weapons in her hands can kill. They've always been able to kill. It was stupid of her to forget how lethal can be a sharp piece of metal be.

She's not sure what happened. Seconds ago, she casually strolled through the backstreets. Then there was an attack, a flash of the blade, and suddenly the attacker was no more.

The person was no more.

Instead there is a body at her feet with blood leaking from a cut in a puddle that feels so weird to see after dealing with blood, flesh and bone turned into gooish biomass for so long.

Even the scent of the blood is different, Don Quixote notices offhandedly. In the train, it's much more overwhelming but mixed with a deeply metallic scent and electricity.

Now, she smells a clear, bright scent and feels how her stomach clenches in a familiar desire.

It terrifies her. Her blood runs cold. The idea of salivating over another person disgusts and scares her. Eating another human. Like a beast.

The hypocrisy of this thought hits and she feels even worse.

She already did it, didn't she? In Ryoshu's bistro and on the train. It was just easier to distance herself from the nature of the meat there. There is nothing that reminds her of humanity on her plate or in the passengers. It was easy to…not forget, but ignore.

This newfound understanding doesn't make the situation easier, and Don Quixote wishes for her body to be overwhelmed with disgust, yet it remains pliant, staying calm despite storm in her mind.

At least he attacked her first.

Or was it even an attack? He has an axe in his hand, still clutching it even in death. But moving without a weapon around Backstreets would be stupid. She never leaves the corporation without daggers. Was it some unfortunate movement from him that her sick mind used as an excuse to end his life? Wings, he even suits the parameters of the meat that Ryoshu likes to work with!

Don Quixote blinks at the thought and after a slight hesitation, hover over the body and taking one of her daggers to slowly cuts the upper clothes. She doesn’t even feel any remorse doing it. Should it come to her now, or is it too late, when she already sees him more as a piece of meat than a victim? Or was it already too late when she became Ryoshu’s regular? She shakes her head and continues cutting.

His face is tenderly young, as if he had only reached adulthood, but under formless clothing, Don Quixote sees a surprisingly well-built body. He looks more fit than her after months of proper eating and there no tattoos on his chest or wrists that could make the meat toxic. She presses on the skin and doesn’t feel any metal that would signal presences of augmentation. The way she cut his throat is smooth too, as she checks the neat edges of the wound.

He's in almost perfect condition, answering all of the demands that Ryoshu discussed with Gregor, half-lecturing him and half-complaining about the lack of good suppliers.

A vile thought comes to her. Don Quixote understands the horror of it, yet doesn't feel any negative emotion. Slowly the voice cursing her for this attitude dies out.

She carefully picks up the body from its armpits.

And she activates her daggers.

With full charge, they're usually only used over short distances. To get to the Bistro, it takes three jumps. One full charge, after which she tries to walk the rest of the distance, and then two half assed jumps, blood filling her mouth when her shoulder hits the bistro's door.

The pain and exhaustion are really good distraction from any moral conundrums haunting her mind, but she has enough awareness to understand that she can't just barge into a dinner with fresh meat.

So she drags him to the back entrance, slow and careful.

It's difficult to knock with her hands still gripping something.

The door opens with a knife greeting Don Quixote, but thankfully, this time her damn reflexes less aggressive, and she just tilts her head away.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I brought thee meat?" Don Quixote smiles awkwardly, and raises the body forward. "Doth he not possess the qualities thou desire?"

Ryoshu finally notices what she's holding. There is a soft surprise, then disbelief, and finally a glint of satisfaction. Don Quixote savors this mix of overtones.

The chef pushes the door open and drags both her and the body in. The second she steps in Don Quixote is overwhelmed by the spotless whiteness of her surroundings, the place seeming almost holy.

"O.T.," Ryoshu says and Don Quixote obeys.

He isn't as heavy now with Ryoshu’s help, or perhaps because the chef removed his axe and set it next to the wall. It takes them only a few seconds of cooperation to get him on the movable table and when he hits the metal with a soft noise, Don Quixote no longer sees him like a human.

It's strange. She looks on as Ryoshu takes another knife and cuts away his clothes as if skinning an animal, and doesn't feel anything but awe. Fingers in white gloves run from the arc of the throat down to the stomach in a fast smooth motion. Don Quixote feels a strange ache in her heart.

It seems she really overused her abilities. She looks down and sees a thin layer of blood covering her hand. The red looks breath-takingly rich under the bright light of the room.

But Ryoshu finishes with the examination and turns her head to face her. Her own condition no longer matters.

Don Quixote is startled with the sheer excitement written on the chef's face. Don Quixote had never seen Ryoshu smiling like that. Smiling at her like that. A smile so beautiful that she would anything to see it again.

Suddenly killing no longer has a toll on her heart.

Suddenly she wishes she’d done it intentionally, with a gift to Ryoshu being the purpose and not an afterthought.

She will correct her mistake next time.

"Good job," Ryoshu purrs, and Don Quixote senses a soft spark of electricity running down her spine. It's way more pleasant than a badly used Space Rip. Remembering it forces another more violent shiver through her entire body, nerves remembering earlier electrocution.

Then Ryoshu's expression darkens. Taking off her glove, she crosses the distance between them. Hot fingers touch her tensed throat with slow gentleness, a bright contrast with how she dealt with the body.

"He did it?"

It takes a significant amount of willpower to tear her gaze from Ryoshu's face and look at her skin, stained with her blood.

She chuckles nervously. Ryoshu's words sound like an actual concern. "Nay, he couldnt' have done this," then she elaborates for some reason. "I did it to myself."

She isn’t delusional enough to imagine relief in the way Ryoshu's shoulders relax.

"H.A.T.E.," Ryoshu says to Don Quixote, who stands in confusion, and the chef goes to one of the lockers, taking out a few towels and a white box. "C.A.P. yourself up." Ryoshu throws it.

Don Quixote picks up a towel that seems too easily stainable, so she awkwardly raises her gaze towards Ryoshu and the cart that she's getting ready.

"Pray tell, is it possible that I join thy company? Thou shalt cleanse him, and methinks haze couldst be used on me too..." She slowly stops speaking, seeing how Ryoshu's face tenses.

"You," Ryoshu breathes in deeply, eyes tracking Don Quixote from head to toe with cold intensity, "are not going in there."

She once again becomes painfully aware of how clean and white and bright kitchen is, a wide contrast with her working place that is full of grey cement and stainless steel. Feeling awfully out of place, Don Quixote wants to leave, but Ryoshu’s command rings in her ears. She manages to deal with her wounds, ruining only three of Ryoshu’s towels and leaves them in the corner. Then she walks out from the back door and walks into the Bistro through the main entrance, the space where she has right to be.

It takes some times for Ryoshu to finish. Don Quixote listens to the weird noise in the kitchen before Ryoshu jumps out with a strange look at her that startles the agent. She looks almost surprised to see Don Quixote. No, to see her here.

But Ryoshu doesn’t say anything, and just goes back.

It takes half of hour for the chef to come out with her favorite dish, and Don Quixote isn't sure if it's out of gratitude, an apology, or both.

>

The street outside the bistro lights up, and Don Quixote wonders what's supporting the electricity. Technically, the Backstreets are still a part of the Wing, and most likely have the same architects and city engineers. However, it doesn't explain the point of lighting them up so late if they'll just be put out during the Sweeper's hour. Or, one hour and twenty one minutes, to be exact.

"N.E.C.”

Don Quixote merely turns her head from the window, giving her... chef a crooked smile.

She knows she has a problem with picking up hints, so she doesn't even try to think about how long Ryoshu tried to keep her later and later and for how long she stupidly ran away, not comprehending this subtlety. Without thinking, she can assume it’s been weeks.

At least for that long, Don Quixote has felt a looming gaze upon her. As if Ryoshu was looking for something new. Something else to consume whole.

"Indeed, Lady Ryoshu."

Perhaps she should worry about why a cannibal chef wants her out of the Nest, but Don Quixote doesn't find in herself to care.

"Any plans for the night?" the chef asks.

Don Quixote squints at Ryoshu. She thought she had figured out her intent, yet this woman was full of more mysteries to torture her with.

"Should I…?"

The danger of the backstreets fades away, Ryoshu once again being the center of her mind. Ryoshu, who seems pleased with herself, and Don Quixote has no idea why.

"You need to sleep somewhere.”

She didn't even think about it. She doesn't think about it still. Something about Ryoshu wanting Don Quixote outside the Nest at night didn't suggest sleeping. But Don Quixote nods, deciding to play along.

"And I suppose it's my fault that you missed your time," the sultry tone of her voice makes Don Quixote feel like she swallowed liquid fire, "so I need to help you with it."

Ryoshu puts out her cigarette slowly and in the same torturous pace gets closer to Don Quixote, hovering over like a hundred times before. Don Quixote remembers how the first time startled her.

It feels more dangerous as they stand there in the darkness, with only source of light being the dim lamps from the street.

She looks up, swallowing. She isn't hungry, but this feeling is close for her to apply the same logic, freezing on the spot anticipating Ryoshu allowing her to move and indulge. The answer to Ryoshu’s mystery, to Ryoshu’s motive feels so obvious now.

"How about spending the night at my place?" she whispers, her hand gently sliding down Don Quixote's throat.

Oh. She feels her pulse speeding up, and Ryoshu smiles as she feels each jump of her jugular vein.

"Sure," she croaks out, feeling hot like in an oven despite the coolness of night air. "I would love to."

Then a soft touch on her neck morphs into a desperate drag of her collar, forcing Don Quixote up and into Ryoshu until their bodies collide.

Every part of Ryoshu scorches her. Her mind feels like its turning into mush, with only Ryoshu's tight grip keeping her from melting onto the ground.

"Up the stairs," the chef breaks the kiss and hisses in her ear, the agent's legs completely faltering, and Don Quixote can only nod obediently as she tries not to fall over.

Next is a mess.

A marvelous, shameless, toe-curling mess.

They get up, or more precisely, Don Quixote gets dragged up, losing her uniform on every single point of their journey: jacket on the stairs, hat on the floor of the corridor of the flat, and pants next to the door that leads inside Ryoshu's bedroom. When had they gotten this close? At what point did she give in and let herself be swept away like this? Her clothing is tossed into the apartment when Ryoshu finally strips her bare, stopping only at Rocinante when Don Quixote grabs her wrist. The chef easily obliges, more interested in getting her on the sheets.

Ryoshu spreads her onto the bed like she's a lean piece of meat ready to be pounded with a tenderizer. Her legs, already tightly squeezed together, are pried open with surprising gentleness as the chef's eyes are glued to the warmth emanating from between Don Quixote's legs.

And Ryoshu tastes her.

Her sweat, her tears, her blood, the slick between her legs, and the cries that the chef drinks straight from her mouth. Then her saliva, her tongue, her teeth, and finally, the entirety of her mouth seasoned with her desperate hot breathing, until her lungs are empty and Ryoshu can lick the panic off her lips.

Ryoshu tastes her with the diligence of a gourmet chef and the ravenousness of starved animal.

And Don Quixote allows her, weak and willing under Ryoshu's touch. A new form of hunger blossoms within her, a need for this passion, the heat, the heaviness in the air. How the hell had she lived without this for this long?

She doesn’t care about anything but a chance to return Ryoshu a favor. White uniform discards so easily baring to Don Quixote a map of scars and she kisses each one losing her count and mind at the same time.

Don Quixote doesn't know how much time it takes to satiate hunger. Seconds blur into minutes that blur into hours until her body can no longer move and her mind ceases to think.

When she comes to her senses, Don Quixote finds herself with her face buried into a pillow, calm and relaxed, in the dark bedroom, with the only source of light being a cigarette near Ryoshu's lips as she sits next to her.

She is beautiful like this, Don Quixote thinks lazily, looking at her sated expression and trembling fingers.

Her cheeks flush as she imagines those fingers inside her mouth, drenched in the scent of the smoke caressing her palate. But there is no way her already exhausted body would withstand the desires that this action could evoke in Ryoshu.

Instead, she shifts her pose until her wet forehead doesn't hit Ryoshu's hip bone and, with a trembling heart, waits for Ryoshu to move away. To her surprise, she feels how a palm lands on her head and combs slowly through her hair, and her heart almost explodes from the amount of tenderness.

Ryoshu could cut anything out of her body and use it. She could sacrifice Don Quixote to be used as a worthy meal for a woman as captivating as herself. But for some reason, the agent isn't sure if she would ever ask for it. If she would ever need it. Despite the obvious interest in what Don Quixote tastes like, the chef doesn’t want to see any part of her as an ingredient for her dishes.

The agent isn't sure about if she's grateful or disappointed. But the hand in her hair is so gentle and the bed she lays in feels so soft. She's far too content with the present to waste time on digging through her own psyche.

Using the last bit of her strength, Don Quixote raises her knees to her chest and curls up next to Ryoshu like a cat, closing her eyes and her mind slipping into unconsciousness. Ryoshu's warm thigh presses against her hot body, and a heavy fabric gets carefully thrown over her shoulders. It's comforting, especially with another body trapped under the same blanket.

"Wake me up when it's six," she murmurs weakly when the chef's hand returns to stroking her hair, gentler than before.

Ryoshu hums, nor agreeing or disagreeing, and Don Quixote, thinks that it seems she is going to have a sick day tomorrow.

She can’t find it in herself to care.

_____

Despite her work hours being cut in half, it's the longest day at work Don Quixote's ever had. She's sure that their cleanup was less than a second in real time, but in the cart? It felt endless.

She doesn't know what insanity happened with this specific train, but the longer she stayed here, the more she felt infected by it.

These passengers really outdid themselves. Don Quixote would appreciate the amount of time and patience required to do this if she weren't the one fixing it.

Strings. They tore each other to the smallest parts, and then dragged and twisted themselves until they became a long thin string of biomass: blood, flesh and bone. And then, they knit themselves together into something incomprehensibly disgusting, into something that did not resemble life. What could be said about humans?

This turned them into terribly dangerous creatures, flexible red-and-black shadows with long claws that easily escaped most attacks and patched themselves up the second they got away from agents’ blades.

The strings are mixed from different visceral organs.

Passengers from different carts are tightly wrapped together.

It's horrifically genius and so inhumane, with seemingly conscious thought in every single decision. Often times, these passengers mindlessly tear away at each other in despair, but this? It feels so complex. And exhausting to work with

Cleanup agents are used to cutting pieces of flesh, ripping apart badly attached muscles, collecting different organs, and dispensing huge amounts of flesh onto the seats. They would never expect to be tasked with such delicate work, unweaving biomass that is knit so tightly that blades are barely able to slice through more than one layer at once.

But even when they saw first cart there were an optimistic hope that they will be able to deal with it.

Then they got stuck there for six hours.

Then eight, and the captain got a message that the Corporation can’t send another team.

At hour twelve, they got one passenger returned to a seat.

At nineteen, a second one.

At twenty-three, they lost an agent when he didn’t calculate his charge count properly and jumped into a cart blind. Passengers teared him apart and seem disappointed when his flesh did not move according their wishes.

At forty-four, the survivors started to envy him, when a forgotten monster slided into cleared cart and freed its comrades from the seats.

At fifty-two, they managed to shepherd the most difficult passengers into one cart and the last battle ensued.

At fifty-nine, the captain declared the cleaning finished.

At twelve thirty, twenty minutes after they left the train, the W corp sends them another type of “cleaners”.

In the aftermath, the captain doesn't have the strength to speak, merely commanding her team to stick together with a single wave of her hand. The remains of the dead agent lie in the same room with them.

Clerks talk about the quintuple shift. Some of the agents try to keep attention.

Don Quixote definitely doesn't.

She stares down at her gloveless hands, a thin layer of bloodied sweat over her skin, but no sign of any biomass or anything she spent three days digging her fingers in. These hands are strong and reliable.

She clenches her fist, charmed by the way her muscles move.

They're also made out of other people. They're strengthened with help of other people. Her whole body worked as a well-maintained machine for three days using energy from humans she ate. The thought is weird, but Don Quixote doesn't rush to repress it, lazily rotating it around in her head like a curious puzzle. In the train, they had to separate the DNA of fourteen people from one creature. How many separate humans did she eat, and how many of them became the building blocks for her body?

She knows it takes almost ten years for the body to completely replace every cell within it, yet she thinks about how she's gained more weight in these three months.

Ryoshu’s diligent work.

The idea of Ryoshu changing her so significantly sends a pleasant tingle through her tired arms, but then, her gaze darkens as she realizes how she has not brought as much change to the chef's life.

Suddenly, she wants to return into the hellish cart and tear apart each passenger all over again. For daring to come up with such a beautiful way to connect with each other, and showing it off as if trying to mock her. Lucky bastards.

The thought that she could never tie herself to Ryoshu in such a fascinating and elegant way weighs heavily on her consciousness. The inherent imbalance in their dynamic feels even more unfair. Don Quixote is so bitterly angry at her own helplessness that she wants to let out a hollow, mirthless laugh.

But she keeps her mouth shut. Their guests are already jumpy.

"So, I hope we all understood what's going to happen?" awkwardly asks one of the women in suits, after droning on and on in a long explanation.

Don Quixote’s lips curl into a smirk.

The team stays quiet, missing at least half of the points made, and the captain noticing the absolute lack of attention raises her hoarse voice.

"Can you summarize it in one sentence?"

"But we already-"

"Do it."

Like one person all of them flinch.

"Okay. We can't remove you from a schedule, nor can we pay you fully for this job right now, because W Corp is not in the best place financially."

Someone lets out a short hysterical laugh, and Don Quixote can't shake off her smile.

Everyone knows about W Corp's issues. how slowly and horribly it sinks lower and lower with every day.

"But we also understand that leaving you without a reward would be unfair and damaging to your morale." As if there was anything left to damage.

"I asked you to summarize."

"Right. You're getting a bonus at the end of the month and two extra days off, of course discussed with management, and two people from your team will get a promotion."

Don Quixote blinks. That's actually an impressive reward even if she can't find it in herself to feel happy about it. Instead, the cynical part of her mind wonders how much of their bonus was a from insurance for the agent whose body was still laid in the same room with them covered with someone’s uniform jacket, and how many people they lost in other carts if they're giving out promotions so easily.

She thinks that she could get a promotion if she wants it. She deserves it.

The idea, while amusing, rapidly fades away in her barely working brain. More work is the last thing she wants.

Her colleagues walk off, and she finally rises and follows after a clerk who is trying to leave as fast as possible.

"Excuse me." Her voice is so hoarse she barely recognizes it as her own.

The clerk almost jumps, and Don Quixote takes a few steps back to not scare her even more.

"I just wanted to ask if I could take a day off tomorrow."

She watches her shoulders relax. "R-right, I can see why you would want to take a break," she mutters.

"Can I?" Don Quixote asks again, her voice almost sheepish.

"Of course, let me check something." The clerk gets out her tablet and searches for something, from time to time shooting a nervous gaze at Don Quixote as if afraid that she'd do something stupid. "Right, could you please state your name and position?" The clerk finally assumes a more professional tone, which amuses the agent.

"Don Quixote, third-level cleanup agent from L team," she obeys.

"Great, it seems you won't have any problems with getting tomorrow off!"

She smiles at Don Quixote, corporate but bright, which leaves her startled before she awkwardly twists her own face to mirror this person.

Luckily, she isn't forced to interact with anyone else and picks up her things, not bothering with cleaning up.

The way to the bistro is a blur. It feels like she's jumping space, but she doesn't feel the familiar sore.

She freezes in front of the entrance. It's early, too early, way earlier then the first time she visited.

She wonders if Ryoshu even remembers this, the way Don Quixote was that day.

She feels almost the same toll even if today her work was brilliant.

Why did she come here instead of her dorm, where she could close her eyes and give in to the rest that her body demanded? Not even the chance of seeing nightmares could distract her from the exhaustion settling in her body.

But a sharp pain flashing through her stomach, forcing her to grimace and grit her teeth. The hunger accumulated through the three nonexistent days demands her attention now.

Especially here, where her whole being knew what Ryoshu could do to her. For her. Images of strings of meat mix with memories of dishes, and Don Quixote feels dizzy for a second thinking she’s back in the cart. She stumbles and hits a wall, her gaze covered in shadow and the air heavy with the scent of blood and gore. It takes a few moments to realize that the shadow is within her own gaze and blood stench is coming from her own body.

Rocinante is the only reason she doesn’t fall.

She shifts closer to the wall, and when her legs become weaker, uses it as support to slide down on to the floor. She tries to blink away dark moving spots flicker across her eyesight, but the second she closes her eyes they stay shut, refusing to open up. Her head is ringing, an annoying rapid heartbeat pulsating on her temples.

It does not surprise her. Don Quixote knows that she stretched her body’s abilities to get here. She honestly expected herself to drop dead somewhere on the half-way.

It’s fascinating that her body managed to keep itself up for so long. Humans are such resilient creatures.

"W.A.Y.D?" Through the noise of her own blood, she hears a familiar voice and turns her head toward Ryoshu, ignoring the way her shoulder ache from the stretch of the muscles.

She remembers how a claw made out of teeth and ribs sank into that very shoulder and sawed through both uniform and skin. One after another, she's reminded of her countless other wounds through sharp slices of pain all over her body.

She wonders where the hell the pain was on her way here. It seemed this body was held together by a single desire to see Ryoshu one last time.

A weak chuckle falls from her lips.

Isn’t it funny how much power this woman has over her? What other impossible boundary would Don Quixote cross for her?

When she forces her eyes open, Ryoshu is skinless. Save for her long white chef uniform, Don Quixote sees a complex overlaying of facial muscles, teeth connected to a moving mandible with the long muscle of a tongue. Her eyes are comically large and round as her red pupils stare daggers into the agents gaze. The chefs face moves awkwardly, like a unstable and worn down system of cogs, and Don Quixote narrows her eyes as her vision blurs up. Everything is spinning until Ryoshu falls on one knee in front of her.

"W.H.?" Ryoshu asks again, and the image of her face distorts in front of Don Quixote's eyes. The emotionless red-and white pattern of muscles changes to familiar pale skin twisted with an impossibly deep frown. The distress is visible on her face. Is it another hallucination? She wonders. Before she can think, Don Quixote raises her hand to check herself.

She stops her hand halfway, noticing blood covering her gloves. It soaked through the fabric, sticking to her skin in crusty patches.

Ryoshu notices it too.

Suddenly, she leans even closer. The light of the dim is covered by her as she hovers over the agent.

"Don Quixote," Ryoshu calls her by name, voice tinged with a strange emotion. "Are you here?"

That's a weirdly simple question, but Don Quixote isn't sure if she could answer it. She tries to concentrate on Ryoshu, but her vision keeps blurring. Her peripheral keeps switching in between the dingy street they're in and the cart that had trapped her for days, despite Don Quixote fully knowing that Ryoshu couldn't possibly be there. But she would like it, perhaps. Don Quixote remembers her paintings, an old hobby that Ryoshu had a strange relationship with, hidden in her room, somehow both treasured and neglected. They were beautiful.

She thinks of asking Ryoshu if she would like to hear her describe all the horror she sees in her work every day. The way the cold blue light makes blood look almost black, and how humans can tear themselves apart in a search for salvation from their own mind. How neither hell nor heaven can protect you from an infinity of boredom.

How a mere memory of her helps Don Quixote endure.

Instead, her mind slips and she sinks into unconsciousness.

She wakes up in darkness, half buried in the pillow without her clothes and with her wounds taken care of. For a second she panics, but then the memory of this room returns, and she blushes a bit before sitting up on Ryoshu's bed, with a blanket draped over her shoulders. She still feels like shit, but she feels more like herself and is not sure if she likes it. She notices a plate with a sandwich next to the bed and wolfs it down before she can even process the taste. Despite her horrible mood, Rocinante looks cheerful on her feet, and she allows it to lead her to the bathroom.

First she simply laps from the faucet until she almost chokes.<.p>

The water in Ryoshu's flat is cold in comparison with the showers in W Corp's dorms, but Don Quixote appreciates the sharp sensation that continuously jolts her awake.

She can't find her uniform and can only hope Ryoshu didn’t throw it away, so she sits back and wonders how to alert Ryoshu to her awakening. The familiar room is dark as always, giving her no hint about time, and she doesn’t want show up to a bistro full of guests.

The agent wants to wait, but when her hair finally dries out after who knows how long, she feels a surge of irritation and goes to Ryoshu's wardrobe.

It feels wrong to go through her things, but she couldn't possibly sit around any longer wasting time.

She gets out some pants, very dark and a bit too long and a plain white shirt. She tries not to think about wearing her clothes, and the fact that she's never seen Ryoshu wear them helps.

She still feels weak but manages to get down and everything is dark with curtains lowered. Her sense of time still feels disoriented, so she wants to look in the window.

"There will be Sweepers in a few minutes, but if you want to look, B.M.G." A cool voice hits her in the back and Don Quixote whips her head around rather sluggishly. The door to the kitchen is wide open and Ryoshu stands in the entrance, her shoulder pressed against the doorframe. A dull gray light seeps from the kitchen, illuminating her dark neatly cut hair.

"Hello," Don Quixote smiles and takes her hand off the curtain, "Thank you for letting me sleep."

Her voice comes out so hoarse, but sincere.

Ryoshu hums something and lifts her shoulder from the doorframe before approaching the agent slowly as if she was a wounded, paranoid animal, that would flee from any sharp movement. She doesn't feel offended by this thought..

Don Quixote does feels a bit like an animal. A rabid, soggy one who had just been picked straight off the street.

"It's not like I could wake you up," The chef's fingers run under the collar of an ill-fitting shirt, brushing over bandages on a flushed Don Quixote's shoulder. "And you could've slept until morning."

She hears a noise behind her, a familiar hungry parade pouring through the streets. It woke her up the last time she visited Ryoshu, but now it was nothing but a time signal. The shift ended at 1pm, so at most she slept for what, thirteen hours?

Or thirty-seven.

"I'm better now," Don Quixote whispers as Ryoshu removes her hand, leaving her skin feeling horribly cold. "Sorry for bringing trouble."

"I just had to store a body," Ryoshu jokes, but her gaze keeps studying Don Quixote, "Would you explain what the hell happened or are we still scared of W Corp's undisclosed policies?"

"Have you ever thought about eating me?" She blurts out. "I mean on the first day we met you definitely wished I was dead, but after?"

Ryoshu's shoulders stiffen.

"What is this for?" Ryoshu’s voice is calm, but Don Quixote senses uneasiness behind her tone. "Did the job finally push you into being suicidal?"

It sounds like a joke, but her eyes are dead serious. Don Quixote suddenly understands how she must've sounded just saying that out of the blue.

She lets out a weak laugh that turns into several dry coughs. Drinking the water in the shower clearly didn't help. Despite her state of distress, Ryoshu catches her wrist and drags Don Quixote into the kitchen, which whiteness is not as overwhelming with only one lamp on.

"I don't want to die," she explains, avoiding Ryoshu's gaze. "Just at my job today or yesterday, who knows when," she chuckles, "some stuff happened and it made me think."

The tough grip on her wrist disappears and for a second, Don Quixote feels lost. Before a wave of an embarrassment flashes through her and her cheeks start to burn. Since when was she so dependent on Ryoshu’s touch?

"S.S.," Ryoshu repeats slowly and pushes a glass into her hands. She doesn’t retrieve her hands immediately, keeping them over Don Quixote’s fingers for a few moments, "You are eloquent as always."

Her voice is uncomfortably hollow.

"They merged into each other," Don Quixote blurts out, feeling rather cold after Ryoshu retracts her hand. She tries to gather her thoughts together. "in a way where they could barely be separated or distinguished. It was terrifying but beautiful."

And also fucking exhausting, but this part Don Quixote keeps to herself. The passenger’s brutality and ability to create problems for the Agents feels insignificant to her point. She drinks water and puts the glass down, pressing her back against the wall. It's steady, not like the vibrating shaking walls in the train, and it helps her to remember that she is no longer there. For now at least.

Ryoshu's gaze keeps her eyes still, forcing Don Quixote to continue staring.

Her attention is so sharp and direct that it feels like a knife is hovering over Don Quixote’s skin. It’s funny how she seems to be against cutting her physically yet each second of this conversation feels like a careful tug on Don Quixote’s metaphorical guts.

Maybe Ryoshu likes the taste of this insanity.

"They merged into one?" Ryoshu inquires, fishing out a cigarette from her pocket. She doesn't have a lighter on her and turns on the cooker instead, a familiar scent wafting into the agent's nose. It calms her down with such a fascinating ease that she wonders if she became addicted to secondhand smoke.

"No, they just mixed into each other and shared parts of themselves." She tries to keep her eyes wide open. “Knitted so tightly that it was impossible to tell what parts belonged to who.”

She raises her gaze at Ryoshu.

"They deformed themselves so diligently that you couldn’t tell that they were once human.”

Don Quixote swallows hard as the starvation from the past three days hits her stomach. Ryoshu notices and goes to the fridge without any questions asked. A spark of affection blooms in her chest, but the second she tries to stand up, a pointed glance forces her back into a seat.

"They mixed into each other," Ryoshu says quietly. The order to keep Don Quixote's work only within the company that once felt like a blessing, is now a noose slowly pulling her neck. "And you thought about yourself becoming a meal?"

Don Quixote can say that the chef got her logic, but there's a weird dissatisfaction in her tone as if she found the whole idea stupid. Don Quixote wants to defend herself but Ryoshu doesn't continue, concentrating on cooking.

Each movement calculated and graceful, Don Quixote doesn’t dare to take her eyes off of the process.

Ryoshu doesn't bother with anything fancy, perhaps worrying that the poor agent would die from hunger if she takes too long. It smells marvelous and Don Quixote almost drools when Ryoshu gives her a plate and a fork.

"W.I.I.?" Ryoshu suddenly asks her after the first bite.

Don Quixote pauses in confusion, before realizing. The meat.

"I don’t know either," the chef continues, "I didn't even hunt them myself." There is a strange undertone in her voice, a familiar thoughtfulness.

She steps closer, hovering over Don Quixote and gently moves a lock of hair away from her eyes.

"I don't know who they were, what they did, how their life was, and frankly speaking, I don't care. As long as the meat is good,"

She pauses.

"It's meat and nothing more. It didn’t worth anything before I got my hands on it.”

Me neither, Don Quixote ponders, but as if Ryoshu could read her thoughts, the hand in her hair becomes a little harsher.

Don Quixote gulps as she tries to look away from those crimson eyes, but Ryoshu catches her chin forcing her to keep eye contact. Her gaze is heavy and serious and answer to her stupid idea is loud and clear even if Don Quixote isn't sure if she believes it completely. But she will try.

"I-I understand."

"I sure hope so."

She hesitates before taking her hand back. Perhaps Ryoshu is as dependent on this touch as she is.

"Nice one," Gregor whistles as Don Quixote drags an unconscious body to the back of the bistro. "And right on time with what our dealer brought today."

"Something wrong with it?" She asks, hoisting the body up into her arms.

Losing their regular dealer was a shame, but with the help of Don Quixote they managed to keep up with demand.

"Yeah." Gregor throws an unfinished cigarette on the floor before picking up the legs. The sous chef hums something, but Don Quixote doesn't bother with listening. The body won't be able to run away even if he wakes up right now. The tranquilizer that Ryoshu's bistro uses could knock down a person twice his weight anyway. She still remembers how Gregor put syringes in her hands, too tired of sudden butchering.

Not her fault so many people want to be dead.

It's awkward to navigate with her back facing the entrance, but Don Quixote is used to this building and manages to cross a short distance easily, stopping only in front of the basement. It requires a careful pair of free hands to open a heavy metal door. Gregor throws her a key, easily holding body with one hand. Don Quixote carefully goes down the dangerously steep staircase, and finally, the idiot who tried to rob someone in the daylight is where he belongs. Don Quixote picks up some ropes from the shelf.

They are soft and sturdy enough to keep someone tied up, but not bruise them if they struggle. Especially if Ryoshu needs them alive for something.

Don Quixote likes to touch them despite only tying the most mediocre knots, Rocinante being her one dear exception.

"Don't bother," Gregor stops her with a slow lazy arm, straightening his back. "He won't wake up for a long time."

Don Quixote shrugs her shoulders and follows the sous chef out of the basement.

She honestly doesn't care about what will happen to the bodies she brings anymore. At first, there was a strange anticipation and hope that she would taste something that she hunted down herself, but as time passed, she brought so much meat that it lost its thrill. There was no longer a difference between the meat she, Ryoshu, Gregor, or their dealer brought.

Well, when the dealer did their job properly. Don Quixote looks at the meat that Gregor complained about and wonders how Ryoshu didn't kill the person who brought these sloppy slabs of junk into the bistro.

"Did they starve or what?" She asks with suspicion, looking at the weirdly torn pieces of meat.

"He had hidden augmentations that the hunter wasn't aware of," explains Gregor, chuckling. "Thirty percent of the body was metal, including most of the bones.

"So they didn't even check anything before butchering?"

"They got a new guy," Gregor says, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Or at least that's what we were told when we asked about the quality."

Don Quixote snorts at his tone, barely containing a laugh. Despite her obvious favoritism toward Ryoshu, she and Gregor had a strange camaraderie built on both of them being employees with a really demanding boss. It was refreshing to complain about her job, to concentrate on the less gruesome parts.

"Pray tell, what dost thou intend to do with it?" She asks. "Ryoshu wouldn't even use it in soup."

"I don't know." Gregor rises from his place and leans closer, turning his face to Don Quixote in a rather nonchalant manner. "What would you do with it?"

Don Quixote narrows her eyes. "What do thou mean?"

"As you said, Ryoshu would never sell a dish out of it. I'm almost sure she wouldn't even touch it. So I guess you could try something without worrying about wasting ingredients."

"Seriously?" She sputters in disbelief, staring at sous chef with eyes as wide as saucers. "I offer thee my deepest gratitude!"

Suddenly, the meat doesn't look as bad. Suddenly it's a pretty decent piece that could be used in many different ways. For Ryoshu it would be no better than trash, but Don Quixote isn't a professional chef, so she really doesn't need high-quality ingredients. Honestly, she’s better without them. Don Quixote would definitely get way too nervous and overexcited if she got her hands on actual good meat.

She's already shivering from the mere thought of cooking in Ryoshu’s kitchen.

All by herself.

Not like when Ryoshu taught her, hovering over her every movement, her presence suffocating in the most distracting way.

"So, what are you planning?" Gregor hums over her shoulder. She thinks to how he addresses Ryoshu rather similarly. The idea makes her feel strangely warm, but she chases the thought away.

She gazes upon the weirdly shaped flesh on the table.

"I'm thinking stew." Don Quixote turns her head toward the sous chef and sees a disappointed look on his face. "What? I am aware that 'tis a dull affair, but I have not cooked for ages," she defends herself bitterly, returning her focus towards the imperfect meat. She then turns towards the knives on the magnet shelf, its radiant sheen beaming at her. "Can I take one, or should I use my daggers?"

She wouldn't use them. At least, she trusts that Gregor will let her use the knives instead. The tools in this kitchen are better for kitchen work. Don Quixote even had to buy her own knife set to keep her promise to Ryoshu, to eat normal food more than once a day. She remembers joking that this was just an attempt to have her stay for a breakfast instead of leaving before Ryoshu wakes up, but a flash of her sharp look had the agent keeping her mouth shut.

Here, she's just trying not to damage anything, which is difficult with little bits of metal still trapped in the meat. But cleaning it feels relaxing. It takes a moment to understand why she manages to do it so well.

It’s similar to separating passengers intertwined into each other. The thought doesn't even phase her.

Everything else is easy, even with Gregor hovering over her shoulder. He gives a few pieces of advice here and there, but keeps his distance in contrast with Ryoshu, who was always two seconds away from placing her hands over Don Quixote’s.

The chef in question comes back to the bistro when the stew is already being shared by the two of them. Don Quixote and Gregor freeze like two thieves when she enters the kitchen. Perhaps Gregor had his reasons, but for the agent, seeing Ryoshu in casual clothing is a rare encounter, and she can’t take her eyes from woman’s silhouette in a long black coat. Would she be able to successfully convince her to wear it more often?

Ryoshu looks around, analyzing the situation, before she notices an unfinished piece of meat and an expression of barely hidden disgust settles on her face. "Y.U.T.?"

Don Quixote notices a suspicious wet stain on her sleeve.

"And what did you expect me to do, throw it away?" Gregor snaps on a habit. "I'm not going to feed Sweepers for my money. And besides, I wasn't the one cooking.” He waves a hand at her. “Everything was done by Donqui. She also got you a little present in the basement."

That changes Ryoshu's expression from mildly disappointed to curious, and she goes closer to the pan, picking up a spoon from nearby. Don Quixote's heart races in anticipation. "N.B.(Not Bad)."

Then she takes another bite and Don Quixote’s heart melts into puddle.

"Would it kill you to be nicer?" Gregor sighs. "It's not like she's a restaurant-level cook."

Ryoshu throws an annoyed glance at him, "Wouldn't you know." before taking a plate and putting a whole portion on it.

"T.Y. for the food," she murmurs, moving next to Don Quixote, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Gregor politely turns his head away, blowing a smoke towards the vents. "Perhaps we could try something more difficult."

"Wings, no," Don Quixote chuckles, "Methinks I am quite comfortable at this level…"

A lingering stare and a sharp arc of the brow has her realizing that Ryoshu isn't giving her a choice.

Despite her aversion to keeping secrets, her loyalty to the company manages to keep her silent for eight months. Primarily out of fear of what could happen to Ryoshu rather than herself.

But then she sees Ryoshu on the train. And something breaks.

In theory, she knows it's happened before. Warp trains are too convenient to ignore, and Ryoshu is City-worth talent that can’t be contained in a single District.

But she never allowed herself to think about it until Ryoshu returns to Wing 24 on the train she is assigned to clean.

Don Quixote knew that it was the date of her return, but kept clinging onto the hope that out of all today’s trains it wouldn't be hers.

Her cowardly rejection of reality holds strong from cart to cart until she sees those familiar crimson eyes and an even more familiar knife. Everything else is dead in the cart, to no surprise.

What surprises her is that she has no problem attacking Ryoshu, her legs moving on instinct.

Her opponent leaps forward and with a clean clash, a dagger is torn away. Suddenly, Don Quixote feels a rush of dread wedged within her throat. Those red eyes flash dangerously, and it's as if the skin over her jugular was ripped clean off.

She barely jumps away. Eyeing the red of kitchen knife, the blood furiously pumping through her seems to beat even more fervently.

Clean cut.

Perfect.

Professional.

“Ryoshu?” she calls out weakly, that stupid desperate hope bleeding into her voice.

Ryoshu charges again, and the agent hesitates, her dodge sloppy and mistimed.

The knife digs deep in the joined muscles of her injured hand, separating the muscles and severing several tendons. Don Quixote takes another blow to her chest, but she feels no pain.

She pushes the …passenger down and drives her remaining dagger into it from the shoulder to the thigh. It's not Ryoshu, at least not fully.

Don Quixote was almost gentle with her dagger, if cutting someone alive could be viewed that way. Her movements and gutting are as precise as possible, separating muscles, bones, and organs. The passenger twists under her powerful and furious digging, sinking some of its sharp fingers into her shoulder as she cuts off one hand. Don Quixote allows it for a few seconds, savoring the pain, before cutting off that hand too.

There is a certain intimacy in putting her hands on her chest and removing those organs one by one.

The chef glares at her like it wants to burn a hole through Don Quixote's chest when she places its skull with a bright blazing eye on the top of the neatly placed meat. The skull's teeth are chattering like it wants to chomp down.

Without thinking, she lowers herself and presses a gentle kiss against the wet bone.

Funny how now Ryoshu doesn’t have a trouble taking a bite out of her.

When Don Quixote pulls away she licks away its blood, watching it stain the pristine whiteness of Ryoshu’s teeth.

Then she runs off to the next cart.

She doesn't go to the station when the train appears in front of the public, mostly because she needs more time to finish procedures. With every day becoming more and more strict, the higher levels continue to panic about something and this fear ruminating through the station is suffocating. Ryoshu definitely went home already.

Don Quixote also doesn't feel ready to see her yet, not when the sensation of that woman's flesh is still stuck on her fingertips, and the cut on the throat still aches.

It doesn't disappear even with two more trains. None of the other passengers’ flesh, blood or viscera washes away Ryoshu from her hands, the sensation sticking to her skin as if it's how it's meant to be. The worst is that Don Quixote knows that there is actually nothing. Nothing but another hallucination. She was in gloves when she tore Ryoshu apart, and all biological matter in the train wouldn't. separate from the main body. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to take any piece of Ryoshu away. Even if she ate it, breaking every possible rule of the corporation.

The thought of eating human flesh disgusts her for the first time in ages, and Don Quixote almost loses her lunch.

The desire to have a part of Ryoshu still lingers.

She can only avoid this situation for five more hours as leaps into the carts without hesitation, not giving herself a second to breathe. Then her shift ends, and Don Quixote is faced with the reality that she will have to see Ryoshu again.

So, she kills time by going back to the dormitory. Don Quixote changes into her normal clothes and washes her hands, checks her schedule for the next week, and washes her hands again, sharpening her working daggers and cooking knives. She even finds an old pair of scissors and tries to obsessively sharpen them too. Washing her hands yet again, she changes the bandages on her throat, staring at the lines of the closed cut for a ridiculously long time. And finally, she washes her hands again and again until they're red and sore, like the color of blood.

Then she has to sit with the fact that she can't wait any longer, every moment of weakness straining her own sanity thinner and thinner.

She has no right to drag it on any longer. It’s simply not fair to the both of them.

They haven’t seen each other for a week and a half, and despite a lot of personal greivances, Don Quixote can’t deny that Ryoshu missed her.

The way to the bistro is quick, despite Don Quixote’s feet weighting her down like iron weights.

She keeps her hands in her pockets, far away from her unbearably itchy throat.

The Bistro looks both welcoming and threatening that Don Quixote freezes. It feels weird to be so hesitant with a place that became almost home to her. She can just head to the back door and get into the kitchen, hiding from any visitors, and Ryoshu would only frown at her for being late and then give her a plate with something fast and tasty off the check. She'd quietly complain about annoying guests and then, The agent would spend the rest of the evening like Ryoshu’s shadow helping her with work until last guest leaves.

Instead Don Quixote goes to the front door, ignoring a voice in her head that repeatably hisses coward, coward with each beat of her heart.

It's a busy Friday night and a lot of regulars are heading in, knowing that the main chef is finally returning.

Despite a nervous shiver running down her spine, Don Quixote takes a place next to the window to the kitchen, a place that people prefer to avoid knowing the owner's temper. Honestly, why did she even put seats there if she was always going to throw glances that cut no deeper than her knives? Don Quixote smiles; the memory of her unsubtle travel from the corner of the bistro to the deepness of the kitchen feels so natural now, despite her continuous shock at how Ryoshu seems to let her closer and closer into her heart.

The curtain finally moves, and Don Quixote sees the deep bloody red of her eyes that had haunted her ever since she saw it on the cart. Ryoshu doesn't look surprised. Her brows just lower in annoyance, the woman serving a delicious plate to a client nearby and steps closer to her.

Two hands fall on the table, supporting her position a few centimeters away from Don Quixote's own palms as she looms over her.

"Y.L."

Her voice, low and calm, rushes over Don Quixote’s nerves and adding fuel to the fire storming in her heart.

"My apologies," she swallows. "Would thou mind if I stayed later?"

Usually she is less bold. For a second Ryoshu studies her.

"I won't," she murmurs.

Ten minutes and Don Quixote gets a piece of pie that she savors slowly, surrounded by the liveliness of a Friday night. Ryoshu doesn't have time to sit with her, which is both a relief and a disappointment. It doesn’t stop her from throwing quick glances every now and then that make Don Quixote feel hot, both from embarrassment for her tardiness and something else. Time goes by, and guests shift until the clock's hand settles a little before 1am, and the last group leaves.

She helps Ryoshu close the whole place, cleaning the floor and tables and throwing trash away.

Don Quixote does everything in silence and Ryoshu doesn’t say a word either, sensing something in her mood.

Instead she does her part, and cigarette smoke fills the main room.

It's so domestic that she feels sick. It feels wild to feel both comforted and stressed. Warmth sticks to her throat, sugary sweet, and Don Quixote can't choose between wanting to claw it out and letting it choke her.

Only when the main room is finished and she had helped clean the kitchen to pristine condition, is when Ryoshu makes her move. As if the agent hadn't suffered enough for her misdeeds. Don Quixote is cleaning the cooker when she feels hot fingers lying on the back of her neck a bit over her cold bandages, making her shiver. She doesn't resist when Ryoshu drags her closer.

For a few seconds there is nothing.

Then, the chef's fingertip slide over the fabric, carefully trying to pinpoint the scar of the wound. Before any question can fall out of Ryoshu’s lips Don Quixote leans forward.

They kiss in the kitchen, the table edge painfully pressing against her back.

Ryoshu is slow and deliberate, her hand moving to cup Don Quixote’s chin and shift her head to make the kiss deeper.

Don Quixote's self-control lasts only for a few seconds before she breaks and throws herself on the chef with a desperate cry blooming in her throat. Ryoshu allows this hungry insanity to continue for some time, letting the agent feel her all over. But when Don Quixote’s hand tries to slide under her coat, she reacts immediately, tearing her away and pressing her against the table at an uncomfortable angle.

Her muscles and spine growl in pain, but Don Quixote doesn't resist, merely dragging Ryoshu's hand higher to leave a kiss on the thin strip of skin between the sleeve and glove, her fingers sliding under white fabric to feel the heat of Ryoshu’s skin and the fervent pulse on her veins.

"Please," she begs in a whisper.

Ryoshu isn't cruel. Not to Don Quixote. At least, not in that way.

They leave the Bistro in a desperate but awkward hurry, stumbling on every step, nearing every wall. Don Quixote is incapable of keeping her hands off of Ryoshu – her whole and real self. Each touch meant as proof of her presence overriding the sensation of her skinless and cold stagnant flesh that the agent so badly wanted to wash off.

It complicates the journey but Ryoshu is nothing if not persistent.

With a direct goal in mind they shuffle back into her bedroom, where she finally allows Don Quixote to run wild.

If she’s confused with Don Quixote's sudden eagerness, she doesn’t say anything as she allows the agent to bask in Ryoshu warmth and grab, bite, and touch her everywhere until there’s countless bruises blooming across her chest. She seems to be in a frenzy, desperately trying to get rid of the memory of Ryoshu's motionless flesh. Her body, so warm and soft now, was addicting after knowing that it could be taken away and reduced to nothing.

Ryoshu loses her patience and rolls Don Quixote over, pressing her desperately twitching wrists over her head. Her crimsson gaze gleams in the dark and for a second, the agents starts to panic before soft lingering touches lure her back into present.

For a few hours in Don Quixote's head, there is a blissful nothingness.

When the sky is pitch black and they lie there, both naked and exhausted, Don Quixote presses her forehead against Ryoshu's chest, her hands clenching her breasts, the memory of the heart hidden behind them that was once completely revealed for her eyes to see. The gentle pulse of her chest was so satisfying.

From the gruesome and deadly secrets of her work to the place that was her hope and prison.

From the cold apathy she felt at their first meeting at the Bistro, to the feeling of her heart shattering when Ryoshu did not recognize her on the cart.

From the starving insanity of her existence to the most brutal thoughts that her mind comes up with if left unchecked.

All of her. She gives all of her in the only way she has left.

Ryoshu is a good listener, so Don Quixote talks and talks until she finally feels her mind empty, gutted with truth and thought.

When she ends, she feels hollow, the vulnerability weighing a dooming weight in the bottom of her stomach. Don Quixote waits for a reaction. Any reaction. She isn't even surprised when a soft hand falls on her neck and drags her up until Ryoshu can press her mouth against her ear and start to whisper.

She whispers because the City is always listening for them, and her secrets match Don Quixote's in their disgustingness. Her past tastes like blood and fire with hints of deep-seething anger that Don Quixote easily accepts, but Ryoshu doesn't need anyone to be angry on her behalf.

She needs someone to listen, so Don Quixote gives her silence and attention.

Ryoshu's voice is quiet and calm when she finishes, as if she were speaking about someone else's story. As if she keeps this pain on a distance, something that Don Quixote recognize with ugly satisfaction.

None of them cry, perhaps no longer capable of crying after experiencing and becoming a part of the City. They don't even say anything about each other's confessions, just hugging each other tighter, Don Quixote’s head presses against th chest that she pried open and Ryoshu's hand caresses the throat that she had almost cut. A clean perfect slice that almost fooled her into thinking that Ryoshu was still herself.

“I want to fight with you,” Don Quixote finallt starts as she counts Ryoshu's heartbeats. Strong, but relaxed.

She's seen Ryoshu hunting, but having this masterful deadliness targeted at her would be different.

“Are we back to being suicidal?” her question is jokingly lazy. “Want us to do it before the company will come after our heads?”

“Not to the death of course. Just to see the actual you in a battle.” Don Quixote sighs, raising her head away from Ryoshu’s chest.

Not a senseless husk of your body, the words stay unsaid, but with the way Ryoshu’s thumb presses on her throat she must understand.

“I wouldn’t mind see you putting these daggers to use either.” Ryoshu murmurs thoughtfully after a few seconds of consideration. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you this time.”

Don Quixote doesn’t. She wants to know how Ryoshu fights and learn how she would properly press that knife against her jugular. . She wants to experience Ryoshu fully, leaving nothing on the plate.

She wants to see Ryoshu with that sword bared, ready to attack.

Don Quixote wonders how they will feel tomorrow when full weight of their sincerity finally hits them.

This familiar anxiety flares on the back of her mind, but Don Quixote pushes it away as she concentrates on how light and safe she feels in this embrace. She can only hope that for Ryoshu, it’s the same.