Making Up

(Ishmael/Outis: Limbus Company)

-

Another morning came for Dante, with arms stretched out wide, struck by the realization that...did they truly stretch their arms out of necessity? Or was this out of habit? It could be argued that it wasn’t tied to sleep, but rest, which Dante somewhat partook in—until, suddenly, a loud crash came from the front of Mephistopheles.

As Dante rushed out, expecting to call the sinners out to defend...but came across Outis and Ishmael, the latter shaking her fist, seemingly from the sore feeling of punching the railing on one of the bus’s seats.

“You...you can’t possibly dare say that again.” Ishmael snarked, attempting to goad Outis to repeat herself.

A few ticks and tocks escaped the clock’s head.

(Say WHAT again? It’s only been 3 minutes since wakeup call…)

Outis turned to her leader with an unmistakable grin, truly believing she was in the right.

“Ah! Your excellence, dear manager. I was merely correcting her improper attitude in believing she has experience. She conducts herself as if her time on a vessel is anything on the same paper as serving on a battlefield. Clearly, she should be exiled from this company.”

A few slow ticks replied, tired of this conflict already.

(Outis...apologize to Ishmael.)

“I am sorry your feelings were hurt by my accurate assessment and attempts to conform to proper campaign strategy.”

(Outis...apologize the best you can. Not like that.)

“Tch...the best I can isn’t possible without at least three days of preparation. The second best...according to the consensus of battlefield manuals, in showing deference...whether undue or not…”

With honed haste, Outis dropped to the floor...surely, this was a dogeza, even Dante’s heard of—

A small clatter rung out, as Ishmael’s boot rattled against the floor, and, after the slimmest of delays...the other.

Even more speechless than usual...Dante stared in silence.

Outis pressed her face into the space left below Ishmael’s feet, her nose firmly between her toes, as she inhaled, the look on her face impossible to read, either from being smothered in a sole...or from “apologizing” to someone she intentionally disrespected mere moments ago.

And...as if she had replaced all the air in her lungs with what scent clung to Ishmael’s toes...her tongue lolled out, pressing between them, as if the apology was to replace all of her senses with...Ishmael’s feet.

As Dante glanced away...Ishmael was grinning. Not at all like the scowl many were used to.

Well...at least it worked?