Chapter Text
“Hey,” Subtly, your coworker nods towards the lobby door. “Who’re those guys?” You follow her line of sight. You don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Outside, the sun had nearly finished setting.
“Who’re who?” You’re curious. A group? Few employees normally remained in the building so late in the day. Anything unusual is of interest to you and your mission. It’s always on your mind, after all. You move a few steps to the left for a better view.
“Them.” Your coworker, however, has little time to clarify before she takes a bat to the skull. Blood spatters your cheek instantly, like a scene from a movie. She doesn’t even have a chance to scream. You don’t, either.
Her assailant turns to you. “Hey, aren’tcha that—”
He’s talking? A brief window to escape; the opportunity provides you with the means to break free from your petrification. You turn on your heel, desperate, and stumble in your rush.
Fuck. Is my cover blown?
You’re trying to head for the panic button, call security, call your boss, call your mom, call somebody , but the handful of security agents already in the lobby are already being well and truly pummeled by some of the most beautiful women you’ve seen in a fair while.
Do they know me?
Behind you, your coworker’s attacker is saying something.
This is hopeless, you think, right before the rest of the round the clock security agents charge in. This is hopeless, you think, your mission territory now a warzone.
You think the agents may have just met their match in these mystery attackers. You’re scared. You’re scared and it really does feel like it hurts, your chest tightening, breathing suddenly becoming difficult. You try to count, but fail—there doesn’t seem to be many of them, but you’re losing, steadily. Just how elite are they?
Fuck, it’s a cacophony. You can hardly breathe, let alone move—how could anyone expect you to? This is the whole reason you went in silent, undercover, without all guns blazing. You’d never get your intel this way. Never.
It’s funny, thinking about it right now. The lost intel. Now, among the carnage. You can’t remember when you stopped crawling away and started standing, but nothing has come your way yet. Whatever. If you can no longer complete your mission, you may as well just stand here. It’s not as though the LCCB can’t send some other schmuck in for it the moment you get offed, efforts be damned, and you know it.
You did not read the LCCB Employee Handbook when you were hired, but you imagine it must say something like “Useless employees may wait patiently for death.”
Really, it’s scary.
“Get me that one!” Neither you nor the security agent embroiled in a duel with the delicate-looking man who’d given the demand answer.
“Right now? Why, seriously?”
A bullet lodges itself in the wall nearby.
“‘Cause that’s the one, I think. I’m sure!”
“Who?”
“The only one standing staring, dumbass!”
Something hard hooks around your waist, pulling you off your feet. Your ass lands (hard) on the linoleum, but your upper half is cushioned by a person shaped object. You haven’t looked.
“You didn’t take cover.”
A voice sounds from behind, quiet.
What looks like the mandible of a beetle is tucked over your waist, pinning you behind an overturned desk. Connected to it is a man. He is vaguely good-looking and a little unkempt. When you turn, he takes the cigarette from his mouth with his free hand to avoid burning the crown of your head.
“Stay here. We’re almost done.” He’s not attacking you.
Before you can think, he leaves your desk sanctuary to clean up the last of the security agents with the rest of the bunch.
You have plenty of puzzling to do while he’s gone. They must know you’re undercover, right? Why else would they have spared you? Saved you? But, if they know, why did they bust the whole operation? Do they need you alive as an enemy, or an ally? Are they here to help or throw you in some dingy cell in hopes you’d cough up all of that insider LCCB knowledge you honestly weren't privy to? Surely, if they’re as professional as their fighting styles suggested, they’d understand that a low ranking agent like yourself would be lucky to glean even a bit of knowledge without proper clearance?
“—really LCCB? Aren’t they supposed to be combat trained?”
“Let me check the file.”
“No, I’m sure. Sorry, I was supposed to take care of her beforehand, but…”
“What? Got distracted chasing a butterfly?”
“Quit squabbling. It’s done—we need to move.”
You can pick a handful of voices out from the group—they’re coming closer. You knew you wouldn’t be let off quite so easily.
The tallest woman addresses you, casual.
“Hey, what are you looking so afraid for? We’re from Limbus, too.”
Still, you don’t budge. Can’t. From Limbus?
They don’t wait for you. Your coworker’s assailant (though, you suppose, she wasn’t really your coworker) goes for one of your arms—that gets you moving.
Your escape attempt, however, is woefully short-lived. The bug-arm guy from earlier returns, and, with a nod to the assailant, they hook their arms under each of yours with a strength (and ferocity, as for the one with the bat in his hand) that makes your head spin.
You fully abandon the idea of struggling.
---
When they drop you, you fall to your hands and knees on the gravel. It isn’t until now, after you’ve been dragged into a nearby alley and tossed to the ground, that fury—formerly dampened by fear, bone deep—begins to rise. Like the world’s worst loaf of bread.
“Sorry.” Says the bug-arm guy. He seems sincere—perhaps he expected you to catch yourself? You think back to your training, and wonder if you’ve lost your edge. The one you never really had.
From the ground, you speak. “What the hell?” You can’t help yourself. Dragging yourself off the ground only fuels your anger, and you don’t bother hiding it this time. Finally up, you stare at this stupid man’s stupid bug arm, pointedly. What the hell? “What the hell?” You repeat. “Do you have any idea how long I've been on this case for? Undercover? You guys fucking blew it. There’s just no way. No way this is salvageable, no way at all.” The disbelief is apparent in your voice, in your stomach. You know this blunder, simply, cannot be reversed. In reality, would it be better to just get to it? To accepting the loss?
For a moment nobody responds—you take the moment to lean against the brick wall behind you. Still, only silence follows.
“Well? My only chance at getting that info was inside, and thanks to your great, big, blunder, I've got a snowball's chance, now. I would ask how you’re gonna fix it, but I don’t—”
Weakly, the clock person begins to tick.
“What?” Your response is somewhat incredulous.
The clock person—apparently having just remembered—flashes you an especially official-looking ID with their “face” on it. It’s too quick to read the name, but it does, indeed, match the look of a Limbus ID.
If they’re to be believed, this bunch is, indeed, employed by Limbus, unprofessionalism notwithstanding. What kind of mission would set them on the warpath like that? Talk about a conflict of interest.
You’re silent, processing. More ticking.
“We can’t go out of our way like that—we have a mission, too.” Says the girl with the swath of orange for hair. At her comment, the clock ticks again. It’s brief. After, there’s a pause. More ticking. You’re starting to feel impatient.
Unfortunately, the clock ticks longer yet, so you chance a look at the crowd of people who had just blown your two year-long operation to smithereens. You’re sure to keep the mean look on your face, where it needs to be. Now is the time to keep up appearances, shaken as you are. With any luck, it’ll get you where you need to be.
A quick headcount confirms the suspicion that’d been lurking—it brings up thirteen of various appearances and demeanors, and you wonder if you should start regarding rumors with less flippancy.
Incongruous as they appeared, they appeared not only to be employed by Limbus, but to be the infamous branch of Limbus Company populated with so-called sinners who allegedly destroyed everything they touched. You’d heard whispers at HQ a while back—it’s apparently evidenced by the wake of destruction and casualties they leave wherever they go. Simply put, it’s the dumbest of luck that they chose your delicate, painstaking operation to bust so, so savagely.
To your left, A woman speaks. It’s the stern one with dark hair and a dangerous looking scimitar.
“We’ll depart as soon as possible.” You have no idea what all the tick-tocking means. You’re exhausted.
With one last tick, the stern one, the woman with the katana, and the tallest man get up to leave. Wordlessly.
You breath out, irritated, and turn away from the clock person, having decided it is, indeed, hopeless to attempt parsing. Again, you turn to bug-arm guy to direct your next question:
”Seriously, tell me what’s going on.” If you felt any gratitude towards him for hauling you behind cover during battle, it’s overrun by frustration. Underneath, anxiety. You go to steal another look at his arm, but halfway down, something else catches your eye—his lanyard. Gregor , it reads.
“Gregor,” You hastily append. What the hell? This time, it’s to yourself. You, and the lack of judgment that lives inside your body. Not bug-arm guy. Not Gregor.
He looks taken aback.
“Well,” he begins. The word carries with it an air of uncertainty. “Our manager over here is having those three take care of some intel.” My intel. “Last part of our mission got a bit sidelined when we found you. I guess." Since you are not a horrible person, you do not laugh; instead, you begin to ask what you—and you will die on this hill—consider to be a perfectly reasonable question. They may as well have party crashed a funeral in terms of the appropriateness of whatever the hell they did back there.
“Are you guys...competent?” You ask, straightening your back. He seems uncomfortable, and, at that, you feel a little guilty.
“Well, Miss Before Team Lady, that one, it depends on who you ask.” Somebody behind you sneezes.
“And how long does your manager say this will all take? Really, it’s my mission. I should go back in.” Gregor looks to the clock. You imagine words are being exchanged.
“Not long. We've got some real good people on the case. Just sent a few back in there for it, don’t wanna arouse anymore suspicion.” Arouse any more suspicion , he says. “And I don’t think you need to. Go back in.” Fuck . They noticed. You’re still shaking. Yes, you’re trained in combat—you’re just not used to it. Always been like this. “Sorry. I know it got kind of commandeered from you.” He adds
I don't think the clock said that.
“Okay.” you press your back down the wall. Now it’s their mission. Not yours. Apparently. “Okay, okay, Okay.” Take a deep breath. Wait for the anxiety to die down, to be bearable.
A few moments is all you allow yourself to get your bearings—mental fortitude is sought after in LCCB. You must not waver so easily—although steeling yourself has never seemed quite this hard. You breathe.
“I need to write my report. Anyone got a pen?”
“Nah,” says the one holding a baseball bat with REVENGE written goofily up its length.
When the orange haired one speaks again, it’s begrudging.
“Vergilius might.”
The rest of the group seems to regard the suggestion as sound. You follow them—walking, this time, thank you very much—but you know, truly, that you have no other choice.
Stepping onto the bus, you’re impressed at its roominess. Some sort of singularity, for sure, you think. You’re curious. Is it worth investigating, though? Do you not want to simply get the nightmare over with?
The reasoning is solid, you decide, and you wait for the rest of them to fill into their seats before choosing a spot. A tall man dozes in the passenger’s seat. Can I sit anywhere?
Hesitating, you glance back towards the last of the group to get on the bus. The manager—Dante—and Gregor follow behind you. The clock ticks. After a moment, Gregor turns to you.
“They say you can sit there.” With his “regular” arm, he gestures to the seat in the far right corner.
“‘Kay.” You respond, watching Dante approach the sleeping man. “Pen?”
“Oh, yeah. One sec.” After a moment of shuffling, Gregor passes you a clipboard and pen Dante had produced. You nod in thanks, turning to head to your seat.
Within a few minutes of composing your heartfelt apology/resignation/suicide note to your manager, Dante moves to stand near the front of the bus, staring down a pile of paper they’d grabbed from the clipboard before handing it over. They adjust it hastily.
It takes a fair while for you to get comfortable. According to the pair sitting in front of you—Hong Lu and Faust, if you heard them right—the bus isn’t going to move until the three sinners Dante sent out come back, which, supposedly, should be within a relatively short amount of time. We’ll see.
Dante let you take their mission brief to read in the meantime. You’ve finished it a couple of times already, but you flip the first page back anyway. Maybe they think you’ll get a grip if you know the whole story.
Apparently, the organization you had been undercover in was a threat, and it needed to be disposed of. Simple as that. This much you knew—why else would you have been sent to gain insight into their secret affairs?
What doesn’t make quite so much sense to you is why they sent in their biggest, fattest, explosive—Limbus Company Bus—when you were already on the case. Is total destruction just that much more efficient nowadays? You can only guess. Now, you’re sitting in the still-smoldering aftermath of it. Metaphorically.
Although it's technically unnecessary after their spectacular show of meddling, Dante still made sure you’d have something to bring back to your real boss. How charitable…You’re finding it a little hard to be grateful, currently. At least you probably won't lose your job.
---
If you were to guess, the reason behind the astonishing nature of the situation can probably be somewhat chalked up to the Limbus Company enigma, but partially, too, to the eccentricity (irresponsibility?) of the sinners. That’s it, probably. HQ wouldn’t OK something so blisteringly dumb . From what you’ve seen, you wouldn’t put rushing into a fragile situation past a couple of them. Like bulls in a china shop.
But, really, you don’t know. And, at the moment, you do not want to. Want to know why you were not informed that all-out conventional warfare was going to be taking place on the ground floor, because, really looking at them, it might be something stupid. And that would destroy you.
Funny. And here you thought they were undoubtedly elite, laying the security agents to waste like that. Well, they definitely are. They just don’t act it.
You hand back the file to Dante, defeated. Somehow, it makes sense that further questions were raised. It makes really FUCKED UP sense.
Voices from the front of the bus catch your attention—it seems Vergilius, the one napping in the passenger’s seat, has re-entered the bus. You hadn’t noticed he left. You’re no good at reconnaissance, actually.
He says something to Dante, who beckons you with a gloved hand. You hurriedly tuck the file under your forearm and make your way to the front. Faust is standing nearby.
“You.” Vergilius addresses as you hand the file back to Dante, regarding you with the look of a man who’d just encountered a particularly irritating problem. Completely undisguised. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to meet his gaze.
You don’t.
“I contacted HQ, and they hardly had anything to say about you. Now, I’m not sure if you’re lying or they just don’t care, but I’ll figure it out.” He points at you lazily. Faust and Dante remain silent. “Is it true that you’re a Limbus employee?”
You nod rigorously, fumbling for your employee ID—it’s hidden, stuck to your fake one. If he is satisfied with its legitimacy, he does not show it.
Vergilius continues, monotonous. “Is it true that you’d been assigned to an undercover operation?”
You start to nod again, but catch yourself. Does he want a verbal answer? He seems like the kind of person to ask for something like that. Like, a “Speak up,” maybe.
“Yes.” You say.
“Is it true that you’ve had no communication with HQ since your mission started?”
“Well, yes.” You hesitate. Why does he make it sound like I’m doing something wrong? The urge to justify yourself creeps up. You’re sweating the same way you did when Gregor and his pal started dragging you by the wrists.
“They told me not to,” You explain. It’s feeble, honestly. “They said not to contact them until I’d secured the intel. I didn’t. It was too dangerous. Even if it wasn’t, I never got a chance.”
You have not forgotten what happened to the last traitor they found out.
“‘Never got a chance?’” Although his expression does not change, the words drip with incredulousness. Judgment from this man in particular makes your skin crawl with shame, even though you don’t know him.
“You were undercover for almost two whole years and weren’t able to secure a single piece of information to send back?” He does not wait for a response. “I see.”
“I was working on it, I just had to make sure—it was absolutely essential to, well,” He waves a hand to cut you off, sighing. God.
You know you would've been tarred and feathered and hung upside down by your toes if you’d gotten caught. You had seen first hand while undercover that your “boss” was a real, live, monster, but you weren’t going to let it stop you from getting your intel. You simply needed to do so in a savvy way. It was the only way you would have achieved your goal. It was the only way you would have made it out alive. Wasn’t such a choice a good thing? Shrewdness in an extraordinarily volatile atmosphere? You were going to wait for the commotion to die down, go in unnoticed like you had originally planned…This, he doesn’t seem to be putting much effort into understanding.
“I don’t care. I mean that, so listen. The bottom line is that you were presumed dead after an extended period of silence. HQ sent us for the same result, faster, after you failed. Thanks to your meddling, though, we didn’t finish quite as smoothly as predicted.”
“I didn’t fail. And I didn’t meddle.” You respond. It’s difficult not to focus on such an offhand slight. “I was working on it, like I said.” Plus—YOU’RE the fucking meddlers.
“Well, you failed in the eyes of the higher ups. They thought you were dead.” His brows are furrowed. “I hate repeating myself.” He remarks. You’re being difficult.
“Okay. Sorry.”
“In any case, we have to bring you to a drop off point. HQ wants you. Don’t know why it has to be us…” He turns away from you. Looks like he’s going to leave.
“Um,” You start. “Wait. Can I ask you something?”
Unfortunately, you get ignored. Whatever. It was a likely outcome in the first place.
“Babysitting a fool is troublesome, but going out of our way for one instead of heading to our next destination is worse.” He speaks without looking at you. Even from the back, his mannerisms have not changed at all. “In case you don’t get that, it means you're stuck with us for the time being. If your presence causes our mission to deviate from its course, I’m confident HQ would give me permission to dispose of you.”
I guess deadpan must be popular in comedy nowadays.
But really, do you have to be wherever they’re going? Being the peanut gallery to their second bloodbath today sounds like a shitty time, obviously. Vergilius, though, doesn’t seem like the type to take no for an answer. Guess sitting this one out is off the table. As for the “course deviation” bit, though, it’s an easy decision. You will not try your luck today.
In his seat again, Vergilius appears to have dismissed you. It’s probably safe to stop staring now.
With the advent of a Vergilius-free environment, Dante begins to speak. Tick. Whatever. Unlike you, Faust continues to wait patiently. God. You’re still miffed.
“Our mission has been completed. Our manager would like you to know that we will be departing shortly.” She seems to have no further intention of speaking to you.
These two must have awesome powers of precognition, because the three sinners who broke off from the group earlier make their way onto the bus in silence. They look a little different.
Each one of them, paying it little to no mind, is covered in a ridiculously unreasonable amount of fresh blood. Plastered. Drenched, head to toe. With the whites of their eyes showing, they each find their seats. The woman with the katana—Ryoshu, apparently—takes the seat that is actually yours. And here you’d thought this bunch, the handful of quieter ones, might be a tad more dignified than the rest—Silly me. So silly. What is poise, really, in your line of work?
You wonder, briefly, if there’s anyone on the bus who cares that sitting on the floor would be a total OSHA violation.
When the bus starts, everyone is settled in their seats, save for you. You look to Dante, who is sitting backwards in their seat. As far as you can tell, they look uncomfortable. You try catching their gaze.
“Uh, should I sit?”
Perhaps in a weak attempt to be funny, you gesture to the floor. They shake their head. Oh. Not that, then.
They turn away from you to address the rest of the bus. The waiting is feeling less bothersome, surprisingly. You’re still absolutely mad at them, though.
Not a second after Dante finishes, someone objects.
“I am NOT sitting next to her! She fucking smells!” God. God. GOD. GOD. Of course it’s the guy who killed your favorite “coworker” and dragged you out by the foot. The shocked rage fills and drains from your body in such quick succession that you feel weak in the knees. You do not smell. You do NOT smell. You don’t fucking smell!
“I’ll sit on the floor. He’s making that up, though.” Again, Dante shakes their head. No I shouldn’t sit on the floor or “No, you do smell.”? Instead of providing clarification, they motion for Gregor to come closer. Now that you think about it, he does sit right behind Dante. After a moment of the sinners murmuring amongst themselves, he nods.
“Heathcliff, get up.” So that’s his name. You hadn’t planned on learning it. “Take your bat off its seat. I’ll switch with you. Miss Before Team Lady needs a seat.”
Heathcliff takes a moment to consider his options before standing. He takes his REVENGE bat off the seat next to him.
“You’re going in time-out.” Hong Lu remarks—the comment appears to be somewhat absentminded. Heathcliff, walking up the aisle, casually punches him in the back of the head. Gregor, now standing, regards them cautiously. Heathcliff, upon passing you and Gregor, pays no further mind to any of you. When he leans back in Gregor’s seat, he rests the bat between his legs, which is not where you would have guessed a guy like him would put it.
At Heathcliff’s double seater, Gregor stops. “You can have the window seat, if you want?” He says. The offer is so feeble that you can’t help but nod. At the very least, he seems quite sincere. “On second thought, the view isn’t all that nice. You sure you want it?”
“Yeah.” Your eyes fall to the cigarette in his mouth.
With a start, the bus begins to move. With some difficulty, you steady yourself. Hurriedly, you take your seat. Gregor takes the other.
Looking to your right, through the window, you see rotted corpses and garbage cans and starving stray cats. A horrible situation. Looking to your left, you see a bus full of blood-covered lunatics and heretics and barbarians. And roaches. And failed missions. It’s shaping up to be another horrible situation, which you appreciated that you’d been seeing less of lately. Oh well.