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“They used to be some bigshot, right? Bet the git looks all rugged like Gregor here.”
“Hey! Also, have you seen how fast they can run? Definitely younger than me.”
“But Mr. Gregor… you smoke.”
“R-Ryoshu smokes too!”
“I.A.N.A.O.M.”
“Sinclair! The usual!”
“Yeah, I know, Miss Rodya. ‘I am not an old man’.”
“Wow! Gregor-dear went dead silent! Hmmm, the manager’s got a nice figure. Maybe they’ve got a prettier look?”
“B.F.”
“‘Butter Face’.”
“Oh, that’s true.”
“Hmm~. I agree with Miss Rodya! Dante sounds like they were far more caustic when they had their original head, based on the comments Faust makes sometimes. Someone beautiful in a position of power will need to either use it to their advantage or become hard enough to overcome it as a detriment to their career.”
“Haven’t we seen a ton of good-looking broads in the Wings?”
“Heathcliff, the women here will kill you if you keep talking like that, hehe!”
“A-Alright, alright!”
“Prithee, what is thou’st current heroic circle discussing?!”
“Miss Don, translating the heart’s call into the spoken word, without understanding the culture of the moment, may cause even a solid chain to snap. A weak link suddenly introduced is the effect of hastily spoken words in a quiet discussion.”
“Huh? We’re still missing someone.”
“I’m right behind, you bat-welding ignoramus.”
“... Should we toss you back into the Great Lake?”
“I’ll make sure we both become Mermaid Ice Cream.”
“Hmph!”
As the Sinners present are sitting in their seats, but facing inward towards the middle aisle. Some are resting upon the head of their seat, others leaned over their knees, and some sit straight up. Rodya quickly brings them all up to speed, but one person interjects before the discussion can continue.
“How’d this conversation even come up?” Ishmael asks, while Rodya gasps at the scruffy orange hair, procuring a comb from somewhere to start teasing out the tangles. Her ribbons are still in her room, having woken up from a sleep through the odd connection between all the Sinners.
“W-Well, sometimes Dante is very… They’re trying to be kind, and they definitely care,” Sinclair muses, more to himself than the others. “But other times, don’t you think they’re really strict?”
“Thoust’s countenance may be that of a mother!”
Don’s shout, makes even slumped over Sinners perk up.
“Dante? With some runts?” Heathcliff says. “No way.”
“One does not need to have birthed life in order to have sublimated the habits of maternal instinct into oneself. Though I must add: the allure of motherhood to some does not always appear on the face. It is the way they comport themselves that causes one to assume inborn care from another being.”
“A mother…” Gregor mumbles to himself. “Now that’s a strange thought. But it’d tie into Hong Lu’s theory about the Manager being an absolute asshole due to looks when they still had a regular head. Yi Sang’s also right that someone can be a natural softie.”
“M.I.L.F.E.”
“... Can everyone figure that one out on their own?”
“Hmph.”
“In that case… An older beauty?” Rodya suggests.
“Thy’s body carries the strength of a royal steed when danger finds us!”
“But, it seems we’ve all agreed that Dante must have had rather attractive looks?” Hong Lu asks. Everyone makes some sort of agreeable sound or spoken response.
They all go silent at the sudden creaking of rusting metal.
<Huh? What’s everyone doing here?>
“Speak of the devil,” Gregor mutters.
The flames from Dante’s head cut through the cold moonlight with flickering shards of warmth, and they close the door behind them quietly, even though the others are still inside are safe in their own rooms.
<It’s my turn to do the night shift. It’s not good for all of you to stay up too late, you know?>
“You sound a bit like my previous nanny sometimes, Dante!”
<H-Huh?!> They fold their arms, the ticking almost reminiscent of someone clicking their tongue all of a sudden. <I’m not wrong, though. It’s not healthy, and-! Oh, we did have a large dinner today. Did that wake everyone up? I guess we can always try the warm milk trick in the mess hall…>
A few Sinners glance amongst each other.
“Sure. You want some too, Manager bud?” Gregor asks.
<Oh, thank you for offering, but I don’t like the feeling of not tasting anything, then suddenly feeling warmth.>
“Okay, well, g’night then.”
<Good night, everyone.>
As they file through the door to the back, a few glance back.
Dante stands in the center aisle, facing forward. They illuminate the space around them just barely, yet the red flames and coat are striking against the dull colors surrounding them. The casual pose betrays the awkwardness hiding underneath all those layers and hidden flesh. Is their very core born from the clock, or whatever is left of a soul in the body?
Like a pearl smashed to pieces and then glued back together.
Still luxurious but forever changed.
Yet if the smashed pearl is all they ever knew, then to the Sinners, there was never value lost or gained.
They simply appreciate the gem pretending to be perfect in front of people who’ve never seen the real thing.
And oddly enough…
None of them have any qualms about that.
