Hoenheim had bid them goodbye, to various responses. Heathcliff had awkwardly hung around the door, drawing out a last word with the idiosyncratic man, until Vergilius not-so-subtly brushed against him as they all headed towards the bus.
The inside of the bus was quiet, and smelled of solvents and bleach. It was likely that it was cleaned between their checkup and their return. Meursault ran his hand over his seat. There was still the thin notch he had scraped into the steel trim when he had pushed Ishmael and Heathcliff apart in one particularly violent fray.
Dante shambled up to the front of the bus, and with an unnecessary flourish, dismissed them. Lately, he had taken to pausing dramatically.
<And thus… the workday is officially closed.>
Yi Sang smiled gently at him. He looked back at him. Ishmael and Heathcliff passed by. He watched their faces pass. Ryoshu and Sinclair. She had her hand on his shoulder. He did not understand her, sometimes. Hong Lu drifted by. Mr. Samsa, and Miss Raskolnikov, too. Vergilius looked him up and down, Charon’s hand in his, and Kkomi’s stuffed paw in hers.
“Goodnight, strange man.”
“Goodnight.”
<Well, I’m headed to bed, Meursault. You don’t have to stay up – you’re off the clock!>
But he did not leave to go to bed. He did not have a particular reason, except that Don Quixote was sitting with her little head pressed against the window. He could tell that she was sad. Nevertheless, she was not crying. He was glad about this. In the past, he had met many people who cried. It was common for people to visit N-Corp to use the suicide machines. He did not understand why, though, because sooner or later, they would be able to experience it. He always had enjoyed experiencing things for the first time. It was not the act itself, that brought him pleasure, but simply the novelty. Many things that he tried, in fact, were rather unpleasant.
“Miss Quixote. The manager dismissed us for the day. It would be optimal for you to sleep. Eight hours a night is ideal for physical health.”
She started, bouncing slightly, and turned towards him. Her eyes were red. They did not shine, like they had in the carnival of blood-fiends; nor did they shine like they had an hour ago; they were red, like Marie’s had been the last time he had seen her.
He realized that she had, in fact, been crying quietly.
“Sir Meursault. Wherefore art thou wakened at this hour…”
“I merely inquired, out of concern for your general well-being.”
She smiled, and half-laughed. “T’would be silly to stay thine tired eyes for me, I… I merely wished… I
would like to be left alone for a bit.”
For once, the childish woman was giving sound advice; befitting of proper fitness. Indeed, his joints were tired from the endless pummeling and fighting. Though Dante turned the clock back, again and again, fatigue still settled in, and he often found himself exhausted.
There were few things in this world that he was interested in. It had taken him a very long time to sort it out. He used to collect colored clippings of magazines, and sort them in a scrapbook. One hue for each page. He would look at that, when the whiteness grew too much to bear. For a while, he had collected wines, and compared the colors, and flavors. He had mulled over how each different hazy drunkenness felt. And there was her, with her face like the sun. Even then, all these things had left him with time and circumstance. Once, he had never particularly considered that things would come to a close. Now, he knew to hold on to what he could, but that eventually, it would leave. And so, he had left all those fascinations and collections behind him.
Still, he was not totally incurious. He knew that, whenever he had acted against his judgement, he had been troubled, and yet, he acted against it once more, for it fascinated him now how the two hands that, just a few hours ago, sprouted claws and tore him into a bleeding, mess of viscera, now sat trembling and pale and wrapped around the handle of her lance.
“Miss Quixote, it appears that you are in a state of emotional distress. While consoling others is not my forte, I recall that when I was younger, Maman would –”
She suddenly turned away from him. He did not understand why.
“I am sorry, Miss Quixote, if I said something to offend you. I merely know that the presence of another can be helpful in processing complex emotions.
If you would prefer, I can leave you be.”
She hesitated for a moment, but spoke.
“Nay. Nay, thine presence is appreciated, young Meursault.” She shifted to the side, so that he could sit next to her. “Prithee, sit. I…”
She sighed, and he sat beside her. The seat was still warm. He did not know what to say, so he said nothing, and stared at the opposite window.
Regardless of what she was thinking, the world outside continued. A woman walked by, wearing a red hat, and carrying a parasol. A man, with a dog passed. Quixote continued to sit, and then turned to him.
“Young Meursault… wert thou knit close with thine mother?”
He was surprised by her question. Even now, he did not understand the world’s fixation on these things. How is one to answer these questions? One always would, in one way or another, be close to one that they had spent their childhood around, and who had, in their own way, demonstrated to them how the world should work, even if they did not understand it.
“I suppose.” He said, pausing before appending to his statement: “I do not see why I would not have been.”
He noticed that there was a clock, hanging in the window of the shop across the street, and that it was growing rather cold inside the cabin of the bus. He could not make out the precise time indicated by the hands, but it was surely almost 21:00. He would have to wake up in a mere nine hours, more likely much less, if this were to go on.
“She graces your tongue more oft than anyone else, I have noticed. Where is she?”
“She is dead.”
Her whole body began to tremble.
“Young Meursault.” She said it so quietly, he did not register it. She tugged on his sleeve, and he turned to face her.
“Yes.”
“Art thou even a human?”
“I am as human as you are, Miss Quixote.”
“And yet thine brow was not dampened with sweat upon… when I… oh, I’m so terribly sorry. Sir Meursault, I beg of thee, for my villainous behavior, I cannot forbear my apologies, lest they burst me under their weight. A fool, for thinking that my foul heart could bear such burning passions, even after – I thought –”
“Miss Quixote –”
Her hands tightened around the lance’s shaft, and he could see thin tears beneath her golden eyes.
“No! No! You can’t have understood this; even after – that I feel their thirst, without progeny, I – do you know that, what we, if I am the first, now, do you know what that means… of course you do not. I do not see how…” She did not shout, but her voice was sharp. She abandoned her accent, and now simply was, once more, the heartbroken woman that had stood before him at the edge of the hedge-maze.
For if I am the first, then this." Her voice dropped. “Then it’s really over. I did not believe it, because they took him away. But… but…”
He did not know why he too felt a drawing tight in his chest, for an instant. If he did not know himself, he would have called it the faint ember of passion. He knew that he was not a man to have such things, not often. But it had happened before, and he had acted on it. He acted on it now, as well.
“Don Quixote.” He put his hand over hers. It was warm, and so soft that he would not have believed it had ever touched the lance that sat on the seat beside her. She looked up at him, and he saw her agonized face. He did not like to see it like this.
“The…” He did not know what was supposed to be said, here. It is always better, he knew, to remain silent when one was not certain of what to say. Nevertheless, he spoke.
“It… is a fact of life that people… die. But I also think that the names we are given are what allow us to remember them. You yourself, said this. I thought… highly of that. You are very brave. I do not think that you should feel shame for your nature. You should feel proud that you can go against it. I have met many people who could not do that.
And I… am very certain that I am a human, because I know I was given that name by my Mother, and I am sure that she was a human as well.”
She stared at him, and let go of the lance, letting it roll down her leg onto the ground.
“I don’t understand why these things happen to us. I wish I could see him again.”
“I too, would rather that Maman was not dead.” He said, though nothing could be done about that. “But I can stay with you for now, as long as you wish.”
She suddenly moved close to him and pressed herself into his arm. He did not react, but she dampened his sleeve.
“Well, then… Young Meursault, if you permit, I wish you would not leave for a very long time, so I can stay by your side.”
She suddenly drew close, and pressed her face into his coat. He felt her mouth move as the dampness soaked through his sleeve. Her tiny voice was nice.
“Perhaps you are only half human. "
He almost spoke, and corrected her that, according to his medical records, he was 99.9% certain that his genome was human, with a 0.1% margin of error. But he heard her smile softly as she spoke into his coat, and so, gently, he ran his unrestrained hand through her soft hair. It was not unpleasant, but rather, a quiet sort of enjoyment.
“Perhaps I am.”