Chapter Text
Cervantes: A Limbus Fan Story
Blindness.
That is the true foul stench that pervades the City.
Every Corp. Every Nest. Every individual. All their eyes avert from their reality in the chase of a dream. A star that burns their retinas, their senses, their humanity.
And all I do is add to the symptoms.
I'm asked to write flights of fancies. Victors beyond all odds. Deep loves. Grand tragedies.
I'm praised for my work. I let them turn into words actors say. Props. Paint. Costumes. Applause. Inspiration...
Delusions.
What good does dreaming do?
They built walls so we couldn't see the Backstreets. And wipers to erase corruptions we cannot otherwise cope with.
Every day, everyone claws toward a dream by working harder. And those who can't dream, those who can barely think past the day ahead of them die.
I, too, dream of something.
I dream of a miracle that forces us to gaze at what we want to avoid.
I yearn to write, to criticize, to wake my hands. To make them blink.
But I also know, that in doing so, I'm part of the problem.
What could a playwright like me possibly do?
Ah, if only I could stop dreaming.
But I'm too tired.
I can only sleep a little more.
Chapter 1: La Galatea
Sileria walks the length of a ruined temple wielding nothing but a sword.
Despite the darkness, she traverses the empty halls with ease.
She needs no light to navigate this place. This was, after all, the place where a memory burned itself within her for decades to come.
Eventually, she comes to a rounded room. A dusty stone throne stands at the center and, on it, sits a woman with burning red hair. In her hands is a long and rusted spear.
“Lisandra,” the swordswoman murmurs.
The woman opposite of her smiles. “I never thought you’d come back to this District. Not after my clan put your family to shame.”
Sileria tightens her grip on her sword.
“Do you think shame is enough to send me away?”
“I suppose not. You’re too foolish to let common sense guide you.”
* SCHWING*
Lisandra’s spear barely catches the edge of Sileria’s blade. It was hard to say when exactly Sileria moved forward but it was a good thing she was always ready.
At the moment, Sileria is barely an inch away from cutting her neck. Her orange eyes glow with a steady and focused fury. It should make Lisandra afraid, but all she can do is laugh.
“You’re reckless, as usual,” Lisandra says.
“What was reckless was your choice to kill Leonida!”
Lisandra raises her knee and wedges itself in between Sileria’s rib cage and abdomen. A blunt pain surges through Sileria’s body. It is just enough to make her knees buckle.
Noticing the shift in her balance, Lisandra springs forward. A sharp whistling sound is heard as she spins her spear and hits Siliera with the blunt side of it.
*THUD*
Sileria is knocked back and hits the hard marble ground. She barely has a moment to blink as she hears another sharp whistle.
*CLANG*
Lisandra’s spear shoots forward. Sileria raises her blade, barely catching its sharp point and pushing it away from her chest. Lisandra grins maniacally.
“You’ve lost your touch, Sileria,” she says. “Mustn't have had much time to train when you’re grieving over a dead wife, no?”
Sileria leaps back up and swings her blade. Lisandra effortlessly blocks it. Silieria lunges. She redirects it. She thrusts. She merely sidesteps. No matter what Sileria tries, nothing lands.
Sileria can’t remember when Lisandra became so good at fighting. But it didn’t matter. She needed to hurt her. She needed to kill her!
Sileria’s grip loosened. Her breath drew thin. But she had to keep on trying. As she tried to hit Lisandra yet another time, the latter stretched out her bare hand and grabbed Sileria by the wrist.
Lisandra yanked Silieria forward until their faces were only inches apart. Her murky yellow eyes stare at Sileria firmly.
“You know what’s tragic about all of this, Silieria?” Lisandra says. “I wasn’t even trying to kill Leonida. It was Silva I wanted dead. So why can’t you accept that we both didn’t get what we wanted?”
“Because you took what was dearest to me… ISHMAEL !”
“STOP!”
The lights flash from above. The hollowed temple halls turn a bright warm yellow. Ruined pillars are revealed to be nothing more than foam and paint. The starry dark sk, a velvet backdrop with sewn sequins and lightbulbs. The marble floor, a wooden stage.
The dead silence is replaced with murmurs and chatter. People sprout from behind scene boards, underneath seats, and emerge onto the stage to talk and reset the props.
“Sileria” covers her face and wails.
“AGH! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” she cries. “I-I got caught in the moment!”
“This is the third time, Miguel,” the voice belongs to the person who shouted earlier, a white-haired woman in a dark cloak. Her pale blue eyes blink nonchalantly. “Kindly remember to call Ishmael by her character name.”
Miguel purses her lips and nods. “Yes, Director Faust. I’m sorry…”
“It’s alright, Miguel,” Ishmael, “Lisandra”, says. She stretches her arms lazily. Her long red braid swings behind her. “We weren’t even that far into that rehearsal.”
“Oi, what do you mean not that far in?!”
This time a shout is coming from up in the rafters. A dark-skinned man with brown hair looms over everyone as he maneuvers a light fixture.
Ishmael frowns. “What are you complaining about now, Heathcliff?”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get all the lighting right during a cutscene?” he says with a grunt. “I’ve been running back and forth like a bloody rabbit during hunting season!”
“D.S.” A second voice from the rafters, this time a woman with straight black hair.
“I think Ryoshu means ‘Damn straight,’” Miguel says.
Ishmael merely rolls her eyes. She tosses her braid back and crosses her arms.
“That’s nowhere near as strenuous as our fight choreography,” she says. “What’s the big deal if you sway a few lights back and forth?”
“Big deal?!” Heathcliff exclaims. “You actors would stumble into each other blind if it weren’t for us!”
“They do that anyway with your incompetent lightwork,” she retorts.
“Oi! You want to say that to my face? “I’ll come down there right now!”
“I bet you’ll be out of breath before that even happens.”
“Why you…!”
Miguel shakes her head and lets out a heavy sigh. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Ishmael and Heathcliff to bicker, especially whenever rehearsal was cut.
“S.B.,” comes from Ryoshu, who descends from the rafters as well. Smoke break, Miguel thinks the abbreviation means.
Miguel can feel her face heat up. She hates it whenever they have to restart because of her. A part of her yearns to go back into her study and just hack away at the computer. She doesn’t even understand why she was playing Sileria, to begin with.
That isn’t exactly true. She knows why. La Galatea only had a handful of cast members and, with the script being done, she was the most expendable for a speaking role.
Miguel tries to adjust her glasses only to remember she had taken them off as part of the costume. She settles for ducking her head.
“L-let’s just start from the top,” Miguel stammers. She struggles to raise her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I-I promise I’ll get it right this time!”
“Actually, I’d like a word with you, Miguel,” Faust interrupts.
Miguel’s heart drops.
“O-oh, OK…”
The young playwright awkwardly climbs down the stage and approaches her. She was always nervous around Faust.
Director Faust was always a patient individual. She didn’t say much unless she felt the crew needed input during the stage play, but her remarks were always insightful. That Miguel constantly disappointed her made her feel horrible.
Miguel scratches her head and bows in apology.
“I know what you’re going to say, Faust,” Miguel says. “You’re going to say I keep losing focus and that I need to get my grip together and–”
“Miguel–”
“That the cast and crew are counting on me and I shouldn’t be making all these slip-ups when we only have so little time and resources and–”
“Miguel–”
“I’m trying my best, I really am! But I shouldn’t be on the stage to begin with! S-so, I’m still struggling but I promise I’ll practice even harder and–”
“Miguel,” Faust repeats. Her voice is louder but remains calm in tone. “I was not going to comment on your inability to remember names.”
“You weren’t…?”
Faust shakes her head. She pulls a few papers from her purple stagebook and hands it to Miguel.
“One of our last viewers wanted me to give this to you,” Faust says.
“What is it?”
“A letter.”
Miguel flips the paper around and notices an odd emblem. It has the symbol of an eye with a single tear drop underneath it.
“Who was it from?”
“The woman did not specify her identity,” Faust explains. “She merely approached me after the show ended. I believe her words were…”
***
‘La Galatea Theatre Troupe… Your name has been getting around in several of the districts. My superiors tell me you have quite the playwright producing your stageplays.’
“Miguel Cervantes is definitely talented in her works. Though, she fears not many are drawn to the idea of “traditional theater” when other performances exist.”
‘You’d be surprised at how much the traditional arts can prevail. That’s what our people are all about, you see? Therefore, I’d appreciate it ever so kindly if you were to forward this letter to her. It may be the opportunity she, and your little theatre troupe, have been waiting for.’
***
“An opportunity we’ve been waiting for?” Miguel muses.
“Even if I’m director, she asked for you to read it personally,” she said. “Therefore, I will leave it to you to peruse first.”
“Thank you, Faust.”
“We can resume rehearsal now,” Faust says. “Unless you want to practice your lines a little more. I am still confused about how you can mistake ‘Ishmael’ with ‘Lisandra’, they are quite different names.”
“I-It’s harder than it looks, okay?” Miguel says sheepishly. “But yeah… We better continue rehearsal before Ishmael and Heathcliff choke each other out.”
Their bickering can still be heard up on the stage.
“I’d like to see you try maneuvering lights!”
“I’m sure I’d do a way better job than you!”
“With those delicate fingers? I doubt it!”
“ Delicate?! ”
***
Rehearsal continues without anything more of a note. Miguel slips her lines several more times but this time it’s because she’s thinking of the letter. Eventually, Faust raises her hand to stop them.
“Let’s end here,” Faust says. “ “Feel free to dress out of your costumes, everyone. Miguel?”
“Y-yes?”
“You should take a brief recess. You definitely seem ill at ease.”
“R-right. Thank you, Director…”
The cast and crew disperse but Miguel sits herself down on one of the benches.
She stares at the paper curiously. She’s not sure where she’s seen the symbol on the front before. However, something about it disturbs her.
“What do you have there?” Ishmael asks.
Miguel yelps. She hadn’t realized Ishmael was hovering just above her with a small smile on her face.
“O-oh, it’s a letter,” Miguel murmurs. She can feel her cheeks slightly flush.
Because the two were often leads, they naturally stuck to one another during breaks. While she couldn’t say that she and Ishmael were “close”, they had at the very least established a form of partnership, if not an uneven one. Unlike Miguel, Ishmael was wonderful at her job as an actress.
Studious, quick to memorize lines, and versatile, there wasn’t much the red-haired woman couldn’t do. It was yet another reason why Miguel couldn’t help but feel flustered when she messed up.
Miguel adjusts her glasses and calms herself down. “Faust said it came from one of the audience members during the last show.”
“Do you think it was a critic?” Ishmael asks in concern. “My last performance wasn’t really up to par. I’d hate for them to remark on that in the papers…”
Miguel can’t fathom what Ishmael could have possibly done wrong. But Ishmael was nitpicky like that.
“They said it was more of an opportunity,” Miguel explains.
“That could mean a project offer! Heavens know we need one.”
“Yeah…”
It was the group’s biggest challenge. While they had done their best to be resourceful with their props, most of their costs stemmed from traveling.
In order to move from district to district without issue, they needed to make sure everyone could make it around safe and sound. That wasn’t exactly easy when you couldn’t just WARP a whole theater troupe and their materials. And even with their theater bus, going through different areas was still risky.
They would often find themselves dealing with the Backstreets and, as was the way of the Backstreets, certain syndicates and organizations would ask for fees for “safe passage”.
“If it was an offer, do you think it’d be enough?” Miguel asks. “Everyone’s been waiting for the troupe to get its ‘big break’. We’ve performed in a dozen areas and we still haven’t done anything worthwhile.”
“Stageplays aren’t the biggest sell,” Ishmael says flatly. “But everyone knew that coming into this.”
“I just think we could be doing a little better,” Miguel says unsurely. Her grip on the paper tightens.“Maybe I shouldn’t be trying to force these pastoral plays and whatnot…”
“The villagers liked your winter play didn’t they?”
“The crowds in the Backstreets aren’t exactly our target audience. I need something that will interest as many people as possible. Take the Districts by storm…! But all I do is constantly fumble. Maybe Outis was right…”
Outis had been their previous lead actress and one of La Galatea’s earliest members.
Ishmael scoffs. “Outis left because she’s old and has been with the troupe forever. She was just retiring.”
“But still! Her feeling like the troupe’s days are spent means I wasn’t up to par with…”
Miguel can’t finish her words. She still strongly remembers her mentor. They had been a brilliant playwright. They knew how to weave every fiber of narrative and emotion into a tapestry of words she could never live up to.
***
The previous playwright had handed Miguel their quill and manuscripts.
“All you need to do is find your star,” she recalls them saying. “Only then can your work truly shine.”
She recalls the steady ticking of their pocket watch, too. Ah, how it had comforted her back then. Back then, the ticking of time was something she looked forward to. It meant getting closer to a new play, and a new dream.
***
For a moment, Miguel’s eyes water, yet another thing she hates about herself. The tiniest thing tends to set her off into crying. The last thing she wants to do is cry in front of the rest of the troupe.
“Get a hold of yourself.”
The words come from Ishmael. Miguel lifts her eyes to see Ishmael staring at her sternly. As is her wont, she has her arms crossed in disapproval.
“You can’t keep comparing yourself to them,” Ishmael says. “They chose you for this position because they knew you were capable of it! If you keep questioning yourself, you’ll only fail.”
“Ishmael…”
Ishmael sighs. “Don’t even get me started on how your doubts are a subtle jab at us. Are you trying to say we’re not good at any of our jobs?”
“Eh?! No! I–”
“Exactly,” Ishmael says. She places her hand gently on Miguel’s shoulder. “So, I suggest you continue putting your all into this next stage play. The only reason we’re all working hard is because we believe in it. Don’t put everything to waste.”
Miguel feels the burning sensation return to her cheeks. She quickly looks away and swallows.
“Right… Thank you… Ishmael.”
“Now, why don’t you open that letter before you crumple it to death?”
“Ah! Right! Um…”
Miguel unfurls the folded letter and quietly reads it. Ishmael does the same from over her shoulder.
“...”
“...”
“... EH?!”
“What is it, Miguel?”
“I-it’s… it’s an invitation to perform!”
“It is?!”
Ishmael jumps from her seat to take a better look. She starts reading it aloud.
“We cordially invite you to meet with us at the Museo delle Lacrime. We have heard great things about your plays and the troupe’s performance. It would be the kindest honor to work with you for… the play of a lifetime.”
“Museum of Tears?” The person asking is Heathcliff.
Now that he’s up close, Miguel notices just how much dust and oil smears are covering his face. This usually happened when he was fixing up the bus for the next trip.
“You know the place?” Miguel asks.
“Just hearsay and whatnot,” he says. “My fami– former clients would speak about performances there. They’re apparently a big deal. But I also hear they’re into some shady dealings, too.”
“What kind of shady dealings would something like a museum even have?”
“Things like missing people, kidnappings, disappearances…”
“Those all mean the same thing,” Ishmael deadpans.
“I’m just trying to get my point across!”
“Well, your point barely has any backing to it outside of hearsay,” Ishmael says. “I think we should give it a chance. It can’t be any more dangerous than our regular traveling.”
Heathcliff clicks his tongue. “See? This is why prissy actresses like you need to set foot in the real world.”
“Prissy?!”
“The Museum of Tears is no run-of-the-mill establishment,” Heathcliff says. “They have money and they have connections. If they’re doing anything terrible, it will be ten times worse than any Backstreet hooligans we’ve faced before.”
“Then maybe you should say that upfront!” Ishmael says with a pout. “And who are you saying needs time in the real world? I’ll have you know I was a boatswain at one point!”
“Boatswain? Ha! I can’t imagine that in the slightest!”
“Then maybe I should use your face to swab the stage floor–”
“G-guys, please!” Miguel exclaims.
Ishmael and Heathcliff quiet down but keep their glares trained on one another.
Miguel bites her thumb thoughtfully. “We need to tell the rest of the troupe about this. I’d like to get Faust and Ryoshu’s input before we rush into things.
“If the Museum of Tears is as big as Heathcliff says it is, it could be the break we need. But can we even do anything good enough?”
Heathcliff scratches his head and smiles. “I think we bloody can,” he says confidently. “Between your writing and Ishmael’s acting, they’re bound to like it.”
“You like my acting?”
Heathcliff clicks his tongue and looks away. His cheeks tinge pink.
“You’re passable,” Heathcliff grunts. “And your voice is grating enough that everyone would be able to hear it in a big amphitheater–”
*THUD*
Heathcliff suppresses a yell as Ishmael kicks him firmly in the shin.
“Bloody hell! What did I do?! I was complimenting you!”
As Heathcliff and Ishmael start drowning each other out with their bickering, Miguel stares curiously at the letter.
“Museum of Tears…” she murmurs
***
Miguel brings the contents of the letter to the rest of the troupe.
“B.I.” Ryoshu says as she lights another cigarette. “Pompous types. Never know what they truly want.”
“Ryoshu is correct in that there is some substantial risk,” Faust says. “There is enough hearsay about the Museum of Tears that negative events may have some correlation to it.”
“Is it any better than the risks we’re going through now?” A cast member chimes in.
“Yeah!” Another says. “We’re barely keeping up with costs as it is. Who’s to say we’ll have enough for safe passage after our next play?”
“I’m in agreement,” Ishmael voices. “We can’t expect bigger changes unless we take bigger risks. Besides, I’m confident Miguel can conjure something up to their expectations.”
“If Ishmael and Miguel are in, I am too,” Heathcliff says. “The closer I can get to the troupe having success, the closer I can get to mine.”
He lightly clenches his fist and lets out a low murmur. “Besides, if there’s a chance she’ll see it… It will be worth it.”
Eyes turn toward Miguel expectantly.
“Miguel,” Faust says. “Since this invitation was specifically for you, and because our last theater manager bequeathed their role to you, I will leave you to the decision.”
Miguel stiffens. The last thing she wants is to put everyone in danger. But others are right that they’re already cutting it close, anyway.
She clenches her fists. Ever since she took on the role as main playwright, the troupe had been turning to her for more decisions. What play should they do? Who should act as what? Where should they perform?
Normally, Miguel would try to pin the responsibility onto Faust after they left. But Miguel could tell Faust wanted her to start doing more. And she was right. Miguel couldn’t keep on being a burden. She needed to step up.
But… why did her words have any merit?
She wasn’t who they wanted her to be. She wasn’t the playwright that made smart choices for the team. How could she possibly do that?
Another memory sparks to mind.
She remembers herself as a young girl sitting in front of the stage. She recalls actors prancing along the stage, exclaiming words of valor and confidence. Back then, she didn’t feel like she was a member of the audience. She felt like she had been teleported to that world. A world that didn’t struggle. A world where the just and the brave shifted the balance of good and evil.
A world that only they could inspire.
If they could trust in her… then she had to be able to trust herself, right?
I need… to find my star.
Miguel clears her throat and looks at everyone around her. They’re all counting on her. And looking to her for direction. She needed to find the courage to guide them.
“We should go,” Miguel says. “We can’t let any open doors close just because we’re a little wary. Besides, it’s on route with our next batch of performances. Even if we decide to decline in the end, we won’t lose much time. Let’s just see what they have to offer.”
Miguel waits anxiously for the troupe to react. Eventually, Faust closes her eyes and nods.
“Very well, Miguel,” Faust says. “We can start making preparations for the theater bus.”
“Sweet!” Heathcliff says. “Let’s hope they’ll pay us a nice sum.”
“I knew you’d make the right choice, Miguel,” Ishmael says.
In the distance, Miguel notices Ryoshu light her cigarette and shrug.
“N.C.” Ryoshu says. No choice . Miguel wants to apologize but stops herself.
Others start chiming in with excitement.
“Alright! A new place to go!”
“I wonder if they’ll pay well!”
“They better! I hear that place is extra fancy!”
Everyone started going off in different directions, all the while talking. There was a different energy to the chatter this time around. Almost hopeful.
Miguel smiles softly and holds onto her manuscript tightly.
I hope this is the chance we need. What would you think… Dante?
***
Heavy rain. Lightning. And a torrent of water at the bus’ wheels.
La Galatea’s traveling bus wobbles as it navigates a poorly maintained dirt road. Ropes barely keep props underneath a tarp together. The storage trailer behind them is practically dragging its wheels through the mud.
La Galatea’s departure from the district is ill-timed if anything.
Heathcliff peers through the window, barely able to see anything but the downpour. “Where in bloody hell did all of this rain even come from?”
“Weather tends to vary between Districts,” Faust explains. “We may have simply been protected by the rain by the District’s technology.”
“Ryoshu, can the bus even handle this weather?” Ishmael asks.
Ryoshu replies with a firm thumbs up.
“I hope we’re not going to end up late,” Ishmael says. “The last thing we want is to make a bad first impression.”
“We shouldn’t have any detours if we keep on our current path,” Miguel says. “Though, it would have been better if we could travel through the border area.”
“I’m afraid it would have been impossible,” Faust says.
“Didn’t you say we still had some extra credit to make it through the borders,” Ishmael says.
“Yes, but I have been informed that the next District’s gates have been temporarily closed.”
“What for?”
Faust closes her eyes. “Faust does not have all the information yet. But it appears to be an in-district conflict. It would be best if we avoid it.”
Miguel teeters at the edge of her bus seat. Even if she had been the one to suggest the move, she can’t help but feel her anxiety creep in.
Was this really the right choice? Could she truly rely on her instinct to–
*BANG!*
The interior of the bus shakes violently.
“What’s happening?!” Miguel says.
Before anyone can reply, Ryoshu violently turns the steering wheel. Miguel screams as they tumble and the bus stops on its side.
“Ryoshu, what the hell?!” Ishmael exclaims.
Ryoshu says nothing. She merely picks up a long item wrapped in cloth at the side of the driver’s seat. Her eyes glow red.
“Thugs,” she says flatly. “Off the bus. Now .”
In a normal situation, everyone would panic. However, Ishmael, Heathcliff, and Faust quickly stand up. Each of them pulls out a weapon from under their seats.
Heathcliff, a long and rusted rifle. Faust, a well-maintained spear. Ishmael, a shining silver rapier.
Miguel's blood goes cold.
“Wait! Do you have to?!” she asks. “Can’t we just avoid them this one time?!”
“W.S.” Ryoshu says. Won’t stop.
“Ryoshu’s right,” Heathcliff says. “They’ll just hound our bus down if we ignore them.”
“But–”
“It’s okay, Miguel, we’ll handle it,” Ishmael reassures. “I won’t let anything bad happen to anyone. Besides…”
Ishmael smirks. “It’s part of our contract with the troupe, isn’t it?”
“Right! Let’s bash these bastards in the head!”
Before Miguel can say anything, the four weapon-wielders get off the bus. Miguel rushes to a window as she sees them approach a figure in the distance.
In the rain, the only thing she can make out is several silhouettes. The one in the center wields a large halberd.
END OF CHAPTER 1
TO BE CONTINUED