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The idea of training Dante in self-defence had come up more than once through Limbus Company's journey towards the Inferno. Sometimes it manifested directly and out loud, an active topic of conversation, while other times it drifted among the Sinners—unspoken but most definitely on their minds. Either way, the concept had most certainly been aired by now.
It wasn't like Dante was opposed to the idea themselves. Fortunate as it was that most opponents Limbus Company came across did not attack them, there had been a fair share of close shaves. Too many.
Calw, the town in K Corp, where Guido had nearly crushed Dante's head with his bare hands. The memory of it still sent shivers down their spine: those enormous palms closed around the clock, impossibly powerful—too powerful to escape or fight—and squeezing inwards with horrifying determination. If not for the interference of Sinclair and Saude, they would have undoubtedly met their end there.
The Gnomes' gift factory in the Outskirts. Sleep gas had knocked Heathcliff and Don Quixote out cold, leaving Dante on their lonesome. Had the other Sinners not realised something to be wrong, they would have been found and killed.
Ricardo.
La Manchaland's Don Quixote. That an individual so powerful had aimed an attack Dante's way after reducing every Sinner, safe for Sancho, to a bloody mist and not killed them felt too good to be true.
There had been the Mao Pack as well—foes not as powerful as some of the others, but so silent recollection took on a different type of horror whenever it crossed Dante's mind. They had Outis and Ryoshu to thank for that one, or otherwise…
"Dante?"
If not for… had the others not… it was a long string of ifs and buts that only seemed to grow with time. The raid on the House of Spiders had gone without a hitch, thankfully, but the attack on the Limbus Company Headquarters had contained its own incident. Regardless, the point was irrefutable at this rate: though most enemies would not target Dante, usually on account of having twelve more-fearsome opponents to contend with, it did not mean that no one ever would.
"Are you listening?"
And, in the event of such a thing happening, they would need to be prepared. Not like knowing how to throw a half-decent punch would do much to deter Ricardo if he ever showed up for round three, but better safe than sorry.
"Dante!"
They jolted back to reality, towards the familiar voice calling for them in tones equally chiding and amused. "Sorry," they clacked. "I must've zoned out."
The training grounds of Yihongyuan faded back into view with their pristine stone floors, shimmering mats and wooden training dummies. Yet nothing in H Corp could have ever been as brilliant as the person standing opposite Dante.
Ishmael folded her arms. The sight provided quite the distraction, especially while she was dressed in no more than a tight dress shirt whose contours did little to hide the definition across her body. Dante found it a challenge and a half to keep their gaze above her neck; fortunately, they rather liked looking there as well.
…they shook their head and focused on the moment, lest they tune out Ishmael's words again..
"Haaah," Ishmael sighed, though even the exasperated lilt it carried failed to chastise as it should have. Dante had become far too fond of the sound by now, after all. "At this rate, I'm starting to think you don't want to learn how to protect yourself."
"I do, I promise," Dante said.
She raised one dubious eyebrow. "Not sure if I buy that from the person who took my harpoon through the shoulder—on purpose."
Embarrassed steam streamed out of Dante's clock, creating a sound akin to the whistle of a train—one of those older, archaic models Outis had once ranted about during her passionate speeches about workshop technologies. "…you're never letting that one go, are you?" they asked.
"Of course not."
Defences rallied in Dante's mind, the same arguments they had cycled through a dozen times by now, but they gave up the fight before it even began. Experience had taught them it would not go anywhere. Instead, they felt a rare streak of mischievousness, the kind that seemed to manifest more and more as time went on, especially around certain Sinners.
"Well, I would do it again," they said. Could the mechanisms of a clock even replicate a cheeky tone? They weren't sure, as was with most things regarding their condition, but they felt like those light ticks and tacks got awfully close. "Intuition, remember?"
Ishmael rolled her eyes before giving a grin which caused wariness to mount in Dante's body—wariness and sprinkles of other emotions they would rather not have named. "Intuit this," she said, and then one of her fists flew their way.
Knowing that the punch was coming made no difference about how fast and overwhelming it felt. Dante tried to raise their hands as they had been taught, to take up one of those many defensive stances, but in the end they managed little more than panicked flailing. Evading the punch could only be attributed to accident, nothing deliberate.
They scrambled toward the line of deactivated training dummies. Ishmael gave chase, although 'chase' implied she was running… which she was not. She caught up, continued throwing blows with calm demeanour. Dante wasn't sure what was more insulting—how they were surviving by the skin of their nonexistent teeth, or how they knew, for a fact, that she was not taking them seriously in the slightest.
Punch—pivot, punch—pivot, such was how their dance went for several seconds before one of Ishmael's knuckles graced Dante's hip and destroyed what little balance they had. Only dignity, what shreds had survived this far into things anyway, and numerous failures at it prior kept them from flopping like a fish. They rolled with the landing instead, spun onto their back and raised their arms.
Another blow was coming, they knew from all the one-sided beatdowns they had endured throughout these sessions. And when it did, Dante's hand shot forward to catch it... successfully. Elation and triumph shot through them, but then Ishmael's fingers unwound, slipped past theirs and seized their wrist in an iron-clad grip. Before Dante could process what had happened they had been flipped onto their stomach, arm twisted behind their back.
"Good block," Ishmael said. Her voice was hot across their ear, or where it would have been on an organic, humanoid head. "But what do you do if your opponent is expecting you to block their hit?"
"…curl up and cry?"
"Serious answer."
Dante paused, gave it thought. "…prepare for it?" they guessed. "Expect their expectation, if that makes sense."
A beat, then her grip loosened. "That's right." She grabbed their hand, pulled them up. The firmness of her grip sent shivers down Dante's forearm. "You need to know how to deal with it. That comes through knowledge and experience. And knowledge and experience…"
"…come through fighting," Dante concluded the phrase they knew by heart now. "So if someone uses a move that I don't know, I'm screwed?"
She tilted her head, the pretty hazel of her eyes filling with consideration. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. They could mess something up, you could have some kind of advantage… there's a lot that goes into fights. In my experience, the main thing you need is the ability to think fast on your feet."
It was a lesson she'd learned aboard the Pequod no doubt, Dante thought, and they were proven right as that familiar mist descended over Ishmael's expression for a moment, as if she were somewhere entirely else—entire districts away from District 8, years into the past.
But this wasn't like it had been back then: Ishmael gave a slight shake of her head, shook the phantoms of the sea away. "The problem you have is that you lock up too easily." she said, poking a finger into their chest. "You're not used to fighting, so you don't know what to do and draw a blank. And while you can give up and call quits here, that won't do in the real thing."
"But what if I don't see any way out?" Dante inquired.
"Then you make one." The bluntness in her tone took them aback at first, but it made sense when they stopped to think. Dante doubted that the Great Lake had ever given sailors any quarter. "You use whatever you have on hand to survive."
"…and when I'm pinned to the ground, that is…?" They were hoping that calling back to the spars with Outis would bring those adorable shades of red to her freckled cheeks, but no such luck; maybe it was time to play a different card, as Rodion would've put it.
Another roll of the eyes. "Haaaah. Just won't let that go, huh?"
"Just like you won't let the harpoon incident go."
She swatted them across the head, fingers clanging softly against metal. "Pins and locks are popular for a reason. They're not meant to be easy to get out of. We'll teach you for those too—something Outis will be better at—but in an ideal situation you won't get grabbed at all."
Dante briefly peered across the training grounds to see if Yi Sang would seamlessly manifest. No such luck. Darn.
"That makes sense," they said. "So I try to keep away?"
"Yes," Ishmael said. Of the things Dante loved about her, the way she could get so serious and determined so quickly was one among many. Mostly because her face looked adorable when it scrunched up like that. "You flee, you don't engage. To be completely honest, if we're in a situation where victory depends on if you can take out the enemy, something's gone horribly wrong."
"Ouch."
She was correct, of course: Dante was not a combatant in any sense of the word. They liked to think that their time leading the Sinners had turned them into a half-decent battlefield commander, but fighting was far from their forte. That was why these sessions were happening, why they were trying to learn what they could. They would never be as good as any of the Sinners, not even Yi Sang, and that was fine. Everyone had a different role to play, and the manager was theirs.
They re-emerged from their thoughts to find that Ishmael had fallen silent. "…you're pretty good at turning the clock now, right?" she asked after a slight pause.
Dante shrugged their shoulders. "It is my job and all, so I'd hope so."
The look on her face had them drop the sarcasm. "…okay, yeah," they added. "I've gotten pretty comfortable with it over time. Why?"
"Well, if we're down and you're coming under attack, being able to rewind us under duress would be useful."
"Stall for time until you all can come to help," Dante agreed. "That's a good idea." Rewinding the Sinners back still hurt—everywhere from mild discomfort to absolute and utter agony—but it came to them rather naturally these days. They already rewound while the fight raged on in the background; how much harder could doing that while someone was coming at them be?
…alright, in hindsight, probably very hard. Still, it sounded worth a try.
"I'm known for coming up with those." Seeing Ishmael's face light up with that pleased smile, as it did whenever she wound up being right, still caused their heart to skip a predictable beat. "Anyway, let's go again."
Despite what one might think, clock-modelled heads could actually be surprisingly expressive for all their limitations: for one, they could blow out air in a startlingly good impression of a sigh. As someone who was surrounded by professional sighers on the daily, Dante would know. The most prolific case was standing across from them right now.
"…do we have to?"
"Yes," she said, tone brooking no argument. "Who knows when the next crisis is going to land on us? We should use this time while we can."
The one and only downside to being around Ishmael: you were never winning an argument with her. Dante certainly wasn't. The LCB had been the first to move in regards to most of the Golden Boughs, but the House of Spiders had come to them as opposed to the usual. Who knew what Meursault's turn might hold in store?
"Alright, fine."
"Make sure to grab your PDA, too."
"Huh? Why?"
"Why do you think?" Her hands flew to her hips. Once more, it was easier said than done to not let their gaze wander down below. "We've been going at it for a bit now. It's good to alternate."
Dante dug into their pockets in resignation and brought out the device while their other hand began rifling through the Identity Cards. "Did you have anything particular in mind?"
"Not really. You can choose. I can kick your ass in any Mirror World."
"A-alright." Dante tried to ignore the light tingling that her confident grin set about in their belly. Why did she have to look so attractive…?
"…so long as it's not Pequod Captain," Ishmael added, her grin faltering some. She, like most Sinners, preferred not turning into the worst versions of themselves.
"Wasn't thinking of her," Dante said in complete honesty. Pequod Captain Ishmael was a tad too intense for their taste… at least mostly, but they weren't having that conversation anytime soon. "I was expecting you to forbid the Middle Apprentice, honestly."
Ishmael blinked in surprise, as if being reminded of the Identity's existence altogether. "And… why would I do that?" she asked, but the heat crawling up her neck was answer enough.
"Well, you know," Dante went on, emboldened a little by her reaction, "she's so… different to how you usually are."
"Different, huh?" Her eyes narrowed. What confidence Dante had mustered evaporated. "Different how?"
Dante fumbled with the cards in their hand, nearly dropping a few. "…you know, in hindsight, the Middle Apprentice probably isn't a good idea," they said.
"No, no, I think it's an excellent idea." Ishmael shook her head; her grins looked even better when they had that mad, nearly feral aspect to them. Much as she disliked Ahab, those two certainly had some similarities. "In fact, I think you should put her card into the PDA right now."
"The reason I thought you'd rule out the Middle Apprentice is because she's… a bit extreme. Not exactly teaching material, you know?"
That wasn't totally a lie made up to save their (clock)head in the heat of the moment. All identities had various fail-safes and security measures which prevented attacking the Manager, but Dante figured that they weren't being unreasonable in not wanting to spar with the woman who was not only a member of the Middle, but had been raised by Matthias of all people. The Ishmael of this world—their Ishmael—could most definitely be rough, but she also knew where to draw the line.
Ishmael drew closer step by step, and Dante's attempts to widen the gulf between seemed to do nothing about it. "You seemed very happy to tease me with her just a second ago," she said. Her grin had lost its worst edge, but she was still very much on the offensive. "What's wrong, Manager? Afraid to spar with a shut-in Fixer nerd?"
Oh, how tempting it was to say several things in response, like Isn't that calling yourself all of those things? and Well, one of the shut-in Fixer nerds we both know is a Second Kindred, and the other is a member of a Finger. They only barely held their nonexistent tongue, though, and settled for: "She used me as a seat for fifteen minutes the last time we called her for a spar!"
…that came out a lot whinier than they had intended. Should've gone for the plunge instead.
Her amused little laugh did no good to Dante's bruised ego. "And here I thought you'd be all for that," she remarked.
Ouch. That hit a little too close to home, and they had no intention of acknowledging the fluttering it had awakened in their belly. "S-seems a bit below my station, I'd say."
"Nonsense," Ishmael said, then quoted: "A manager serves their subordinates just as much it's the other way around."
The fluttering went from a TETH to a HE. Maybe her promise to consider everything they said wasn't such a good thing after all. Aware that they were very much in danger, Dante made a show of looking over their shoulder. "You know, I think I hear Faust calling for me…"
They made it about a step before her hand was around their wrist again, holding them in place with a grip Rodya would've been proud of. "I'm sure it can wait," she said. "Come on, hit me."
Dante stopped short, looked at her dumbly. "Huh?"
She sighed. "We're meant to be training, aren't we? So hit me. Go on."
If not for the fact that they had already had this conversation several times before—her practically insisting it would be fine—Dante was sure they would've hesitated and blundered a while longer, but now their fist flew out almost too quickly. It was equally unsurprising when Ishmael pivot caused them to miss by about ten whole miles.
"Or try," she added, that attractive grin back on her lips.
Dante most definitely did, feeling the warmth inside them burning hotter and hotter as they punched, jabbed and swung, even took a few feeble kicks. Nothing came even close to landing, of course; with how big the difference in skill was, they might as well have been trying to tag Valencina and her Eye of Odin.
That was fine, though. More than fine.
Ishmael entertained them for a bit before finally deciding to put a stop to the so-called fight. When her hand shot out and caught Dante's next punch, much like they had caught hers earlier, their body was already overrun with exhaustion.
"…hit you," Dante joked. Their reward for the height of comedy was being introduced to the training ground floor once more; it had started out as a very rocky relationship, that one, but Dante felt like mutual understanding and respect had been attained by now.
A sudden weight came crashing down across their back, very nearly flattening them. It took everything they had to brace their limbs against the ground and to hold still. The clock, ever helpful, spewed out another high-pitched whistle to the air.
"Since you've still got it in you to joke, clearly you're not tired enough," Ishmael's voice called from above. A quick sideways glance at the suit-pants-clad legs dangling from their back proved Dante's racing heart entirely correct. For a second, it felt like the revelation had killed them and sent them on their way to whatever afterlife the City had. Their limbs began to buckle under pressure, the ground growing ever closer…
"No." Her voice wrapped around Dante's neck like a collar, pulled them rail-straight. "Hold."
Dante steadied their aching arms, tried to slow down the crash which felt inevitable. "…isn't this a bit… extreme?" they whined.
She chuckled. "Extreme? You mean doing a plank with a bit of extra weight on? If you can't even manage that, then the City is going to have you for breakfast." Something about the harsh, biting quality of her voice was definitely doing it for them.
"I don't know… if I'd call this… a bit…" Dante retorted.
Her hand landed at the top of their head, right through the flames (which only burnt hotly when Dante was having one of their 'episodes', as they'd found) and dug into the metal hard enough to wrench their prosthetic back in warning.
"That better not have been an insinuation about my weight," she said.
"N-no, no!" Dante would have waved their hands in placation had they not been so occupied. "Not at all. I'm just… a weak little… chickenheart."
That got a laugh out of her—a win as far as Dante's books were concerned. "Good answer," she said. "But don't be harsh on yourself." The second part came out as almost an afterthought, but its insistence was both intimidating and flattering.
"Y-yes, ma'am."
Another laugh, then the hand wrenching the clock back patted it in approval. "Good manager."
Ishmael finally, finally had enough mercy to get off. Dante tried their best not to collapse into the ground the moment her weight lifted and managed it for about two entire seconds. With the noises the clock was outputting, the odds of the self-destruct sequence having activated were not insignificant.
From that miserable little perch on the ground, they could see as Ishmael circled around to their front. Her hand swooped down, as it had before, and Dante took it—let that strong arm pull them to their feet.
"You did good," Ishmael said. The fond smile at her lips suggested it wasn't just an empty platitude.
Dante responded in tired, beaten clicks and clacks. "…at this rate, I'll never beat a Backstreets rat, let alone Ricardo."
"Hey, none of that." Her eyes blazed with the same determination she had shown in the belly of the Pallid Whale, only now it was less manic. Now it was steeped in purpose—grounded. "There's a way to go, that's true, but that doesn't mean you give up. We'll get there, even if it takes a hundred years."
"I hope not," Dante responded, but already the inner machinery to their head was sounding uplifted. "…it'll be a long journey, though."
She laughed. "Like this mess we've gotten ourselves into isn't? Between you and me, we're the two sanest people on this bus. Someone has to look after everyone else, don't you think?"
As they looked at her, stood before H Corp's stunning skyline, Dante could understand Queequeg's comment about Ishmael's hair. She really did look radiant—every bit as brilliant as the sunset they had sailed to after their completed adventure at the Great Lake.
"That's true," they said. Glancing around at the training grounds, they tilted their head. "…go again?"
Ishmael shook her head. "No, I think that's enough for today."
Dante couldn't help the little pang of disappointment in their chest. Demanding as this was, not to mention intense, they truly did enjoy training with Ishmael.
Or perhaps they simply enjoyed spending time with her period.
"Alright. I'll head back to my…" The rest of Dante's words stopped short as they heard the sound of fabric squeaking in strain—more specifically the strain caused by a very, very strong grip. A look down at their tie revealed where its source.
"Actually," Ishmael said, "I was thinking we'd head elsewhere first. If you have the time, of course."
Between the sweet, heartfelt look in her eyes and the hopeful smile at her lips, Dante couldn't imagine a single Mirror World where they said no.
"Of course," they said. Always for you went unsaid—they weren't that brazen—but it seemed to come across all the same.
Ishmael's face lit up. It was the single most beautiful thing in the City.
"Good," she said.
"Good," Dante echoed, feeling no small amounts stupid.
She pulled them along—not too tightly, of course—in the direction of her temporary quarters here in Yihongyuan. They followed with eager steps.
Whatever would their past self think of being in this position? Dante had no clue, but they also found that they didn't care. As far as they were concerned, in that moment and going off what little memories, experiences and intuition they had…
…they were happy just like this.