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There is more than one Heathcliff.
Wait, that sounds wrong. Fuck, Heathcliff’s already fucked up this whole “notetaking” thing. (It is NOT a journal OR a diary, he’s not some bloody child- he needs to write things out, that’s all. Can’t keep his head on straight, or something.)
Gripping his pen tightly enough that his knuckles have gone paler, he crosses the line out with sharp, angry strokes. He’s never been more glad that nobody pays attention to the back of the bus.
The IDs. Identity…things. Theyre talking.
Okay, well, that wasn’t much better, but Heathcliff thinks it’s progress. A brief glance at everyone else – yep, they’re still too busy chatting at each other. Gits are always so bloody loud, it’s a miracle they can hear each other talking.
IDs = mirror world selves? Maybe this is normal?
No, that’s…stupid. That’s fucking stupid. Heathcliff knows that if this was meant to happen, then Faust would’ve already talked everyone’s ears off about it ages ago. He wonders, briefly, if it’s just that no one’s brought it up, and he missed some kind of memo or speech at some point, but that seems silly, too – he’s usually one of the first ones up in the morning, and lord knows he doesn’t head back to bed first.
Not normal = somethings wrong with the cards? Isnt the mirror something the Sang guy worked on? Ask him?
Wait. No. Bloody hell, he can’t go over and ask the bloke whether this is supposed to happen. If it isn’t supposed to happen, Heathcliff would be revealing a weakness – proper daft, if he did say so himself. If it is normal, though, then he’ll be making a right fool of himself. No, he can’t do that. He scribbles out the sentence, pondering.
Dont trust others with this.
Yeah. That.
Related to company? dont remember it happening before joining up with LC
Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember it happening period before Dante joined. That was when they started properly using the mirror. Heathcliff writes that down, too.
Started with mirror & ID extraction. no discussion of things like this? no weird behavior? except maybe don changes sometimes but shes always like that
Hm. Don Quixote was another conundrum to add to this. With her rapid mood changes and seemingly boundless enthusiasm, she certainly seemed like nothing more than somebody with a bit too much optimism and a Grade 9 Fixer license – but something’s off about her, and Heathcliff doesn’t know what, and it’s bothering him.
Still, her general behavior’s stayed pretty consistent, so he doubts anything similar is happening with her. Or if it is, it’s just impossible to tell because she acts like that anyway. As long as Heathcliff has known her, she’s always been prone to talking constantly, regardless of if anyone’s listening, and sometimes just…holding full conversations. With herself. He really doesn’t know what to make of it, but eh, who’s he to judge.
…Besides the fact that it’s proper loud and he’s tired of it. That’s a different issue, though.
“Have you considered just asking us?”
The new voice startles Heathcliff, even though it’s in no way audible to anyone else – just inside his head, right – and he stiffens. “Sod off, wouldya?” he mutters, quiet enough that nobody else will hear. Heathcliff never thought he’d say this, but he’s bloody relieved that they’re being so loud. They probably couldn’t hear him even if he spoke at a normal volume.
“I live here too, you prat.” There’s a bit of annoyance in the…other-him’s tone. Heathcliff isn’t really sure what to call him, honestly. He’s one of those Seven Association blokes – pretty good one, as far as Heathcliff can tell, anyway – and he’s…just sort of there, most of the time. Heathcliff’s contemplated giving him some sort of nickname, but that feels like admitting defeat, for reasons he can’t quite explain.
“Are you bonkers? I was here first. I call the shots.” Heathcliff grits his teeth, trying to focus on the notebook again. No dice, unfortunately – vision’s weird again, he should really look into getting glasses – wait, where did that thought come from?
“Ah. My bad?”
Right. The uninvited bastard. Of course.
“Would you just fuck off already?!” Heathcliff hisses, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. God, he hates feeling out of control. Been feeling like that a lot recently, unfortunately. Especially with the…weird bouts. Losing control of his own body, and all that. He had been getting to that part in the notebook, but someone just had to butt his head in.
“...Ah. That. The…body thing.” Can this bastard read minds or something? Heathcliff didn’t say any of that shit. “We share the same brain, you twat. ‘Course I can read your bloody mind.”
“Would you get to the point already?” Heathcliff can feel himself getting more stressed by the second. Any moment now, they’re going to turn around and see him talking to his own bloody self and then what? They’ll have an opening. He can’t give them a fucking opening.
“They’re not going to think anything of it, calm down.” Heathcliff gets the distinct impression that the asparagus-looking bastard is crossing his arms. “Wh- I’m not asparagus, you cunt! It’s emerald!”
“Looks close enough t’me.” Heathcliff scribbles something else on the paper.
Asparagus guy hates that name so im gonna keep calling him that forever. Sometimes the ids…take over?
Heathcliff pauses. Wait. Nickname. He just gave the fuckin’ plant-colored sod a nickname. Fuck. He resists the urge to punch the seat in front of him. That would draw attention, specifically Ishmael’s attention, and he doesn’t feel like arguing with her right now.
“Ah, right, I had a thing I wanted to say-” Great, the vegetable boy is back at it. “...Better than asparagus, I guess. Anyways, the, ah…body swapping thing? Not the right word, bloody hell, whatever – you get what I mean…”
Briefly, Heathcliff wonders if it’s possible to bludgeon a man who doesn’t physically exist. “Get to the point.”
“Right. It’s not always our choice, yanno?” Heathcliff does not, in fact, know. “Like- okay. Nail guy, the Kleinhammer, I don’t think he means to do it. Ever, honestly.”
Right. The Kleinhammer identity. Heathcliff kind of forgot that one existed. The Kleinhammer one barely ever speaks, and his only real contribution is trying and failing to pretend he’s Heathcliff for a few hours whenever he takes over, and then disappearing again. God only knows where he legs it off to.
“...I mean, most of the time he’s just not talking. It’s just us three, it’s not like the lad has anywhere to go.” The vague irritation coming off of the cactus boy – ooh, that was a fun one, he’d have to save that one – the irritation coming off of him is enough that Heathcliff almost shudders. It’s a heavy, dark feeling, not unlike his own emotions.
“Right. Didn’t know that.”
“Maybe you would if you talked to us.”
Heathcliff decides to ignore that comment. Instead, he turns his attention back to the notepad.
Not always a choice to “take control”?
“I like to call it stealing the controller.” Heathcliff wants to punch that smug green bastard in the face so, so badly. “Call it what you want, though, as long as it gets the point across.”
“Shut the hell up.”
To his relief, greenboy does shut up this time. Unfortunately, it’s because the bus pulls to such an abrupt stop that Heathcliff nearly slams face-first into the seat in front of him. The rest of the sinners are scattered around the bus in various positions of dishevel, just like they always are when the bus stops.
Well, not all of them. Hong Lu is, as always, unphased, and Don Quixote seems completely fine and not tossed about at all. Heathcliff can’t help but be a bit jealous.
“Everyone off the bus.” Vergilius is just as monotone as always. Heathcliff sometimes wonders if the bloke can even feel emotions beyond annoyance. He’s never going to voice that thought, of course, because that would be bloody fucking stupid. “Refueling.”
Refueling. Great. Heathcliff needs to calm his nerves after whatever that conversation was. He grabs his bat and meanders to the back of the line – fuck, he hates being in the back of the bus, he’s always at the end of the line to get off – and waits.
Distantly, behind him, the bus shifts. Grumbles. Reshapes. Heathcliff has no way of knowing this, of course. But it happens all the same.