Chapter 1: new pet
Chapter Text
Having just massacred a horde of zombies, Heathcliff stood alone in an abandoned building, wavering, waiting for something that would not come. Someone he imagined standing right before him, a beautiful woman in a flowing dress, stretching her arms out to him. When he tried to examine her face, he felt a sharp pain slicing through his head. His helmet, and the large chainsaw that it held in place, melted to the ground. He couldn’t be sure if the metal he tasted was what remained of it, or the blood of another wound on the side of his head, but he gulped it down. Within seconds, his headache subsided. The figure in front of him changed shape- no, it had always been this way- but Heathcliff still could not understand it. When his legs gave out from under him, he called to what was no longer there, “Hold me.”
He plunged forward into someone’s warm embrace. For a moment he felt comforted, until he realized he was not standing in a distant storm, but here, in front of three strange men in suits. The one who held onto him looked down at him with deep green eyes and blankly said, “You’re human.” Surprised by the unexpected savior, Heathcliff awkwardly pushed himself back, although his body was still too shaky to stand on its own, and the man still held tightly onto his forearms. In a few seconds of silence, Heathcliff analyzed this man’s features: lips shut into neither a smile nor a frown, thick eyebrows in a permanent look of unease, and an intense gaze that looked beyond Heathcliff’s own eyes and directly into his soul. And although their difference in height and muscle wasn’t too extreme, Heathcliff couldn’t help but feel small as he leaned against his body.
In the warm sunlight just a few feet away, the man’s subordinate asked, “Any chance it’s a devil possession?” Still holding Heathcliff, he averted his eyes. “None. You can see possession on their faces.” He lifted Heathcliff out of the shadows, but darkness returned as the man leaned in closely. “This bloodbath… was it your doing?” His stare intimidated Heathcliff, who could only nod his head like an ashamed child caught misbehaving. The man continued, “Just a moment ago, you had a critical head injury too. Not from where that chainsaw of yours came out. It was the deep gash of a blade; it couldn’t have been any of these zombies here. Tell me, what was the cause?”
Heathcliff turned his head away in silence, unable to answer. Despite the bold resistance, it was not an act of defiance; rather, when he tried to recall the events leading up to this moment, he could almost feel the pain of the injury that had already healed itself. The man’s gaze suddenly felt a bit harsher, and finding himself a bit flustered by the situation, Heathcliff felt compelled to remember. He began, “I don’t know. For a long time now, I’ve been doing whatever I can to pay debt collectors. A gang of criminals. Those bastards sent the Zombie Devil after me. But I...” He recalled the revving of the chainsaws, too loud to let him think, yet he got caught up in his thoughts anyway; he recalled how the blades agonizingly split down his arms, and how carelessly he waved them around, hoping to cut down anything in his path. Anything that opposed him, that left him feeling challenged… or scared. He continued, “If I’m being honest, it might’ve been myself.” One of the man’s subordinates asked, “Do you have a home?” Heathcliff thought about the terrible, run-down shed he lived in, one that he technically did not own, and hoped deep down that these people could kindly offer him something better. “No.” But as he thought deeper, there it was again: a mysterious figure calling out to him. A girl whose hair flowed in the tempest, obscuring her face. “As I cut them all down, I saw a strange woman. I think I had lived with her before all of this. I must’ve known her well! But I…”
Heathcliff’s voice slipped into a murmur, and he suddenly lost the memory. The last few bits of aching throughout his body waned, and his expression became empty. However, this explanation must’ve piqued the other man’s interest, because his furrowed brows relaxed slightly, as did his grip on Heathcliff’s arms. He turned away and began muttering, perhaps to the others behind him, but in a manner so quiet and distracted it seemed merely self-indulgent. “A human that is part devil, one that wields chainsaws. An injury to the head, most likely self-inflicted, and now a blurred memory. It’s possible that he’s ripped through his own brain, and even if he could heal it physically, the memories it once contained cannot be fully restored. It is akin to a self-induced lobotomy.” He glanced at his subordinates, who could not come up with any question or answer regarding this theory, and turned back to Heathcliff. “Unless you want to be killed as a devil, you’ll come with me and be imprisoned as a human.”
Heathcliff stepped back and opened his mouth, but found himself stuck between protesting and asking why. Before he could collect his thoughts, the man must’ve noticed his hesitation and proceeded to explain himself. “As a member of Public Safety, I cannot allow such a violent devil like you to run freely. However, do not consider this your capture; I believe that, intentionally or not, you’ve erased the memory of someone very important to you. Since your body no longer functions like that of a normal human, I cannot imagine anyone could help you besides our group, which specializes in many things related to devils. So, if you agree to work for me, I may help you seek the truth behind your lost memories.” Despite his offer of… hospitality? his expression darkened, and his gaze seemed more harsh than a moment ago. Before Heathcliff could even consider saying no, the man continued, “It’s not like you have any other choice, anyhow. I imagine any other devil hunter would kill you in a heartbeat, and no human employer would want you. Besides, you cannot remember where you belong, can you?”
This realization seemed to frighten Heathcliff, but only for a moment. Perhaps, in a memory nestled within the freshly-mended parts of his brain, he had somewhere he belonged. But since then, his life had been under the control of that crime syndicate. His days before this moment were nothing short of mediocre, and he could feel shame and frustration beginning to replace any sense left in him. He gritted his words through his teeth as if they were fangs, a defensive “So what? I can carve out a decent life on my own. I wasn’t free before, but now I can do whatever I want, yeah?” Perhaps this response disappointed his audience, who glanced at each other with uncertainty. But the man looming just in front of Heathcliff softened his stare and said, “Do you think we wish to simply arrest you? It’s true that I will legally own you, and your very life will be mine. But this offer is not one made out of pity; rather, I think your abilities could prove useful to us if you became a devil hunter. I’ll send you on missions to seek out and destroy the devils that haunt this world, and in return, you’ll receive a decent salary, food, housing, and even my company.”
In his broken mind, Heathcliff considered the harshness of the word “destroy.” Just how brutally must he kill these assigned devils? But rather than question that particular choice of words, he instead asked about “Company?” With a blank stare still frozen on his face, the man nodded and said, “Of course. A boss and his employees must have a steady relationship to improve the workflow. Additionally, it would be best to keep you in a favorable mental state for the sake of our missions. As you are now, you seem a bit lonely.” That not-so-subtle jab, or in the man’s mind, “astute observation,” seemed to annoy Heathcliff a bit. Out of habit, his mind struggled to come up with a counterattack to the perceived offense, but only for a moment. His reasoning took over, and taking into account what little money he had, and that he may never get an opportunity like this again, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. After all, this charming man in front of him seemed to captivate, or perhaps control, Heathcliff in such a way that rejecting his “selfless” offer felt like a waste. Perhaps becoming a devil hunter truly was the best option in the moment, although in hindsight, Heathcliff’s smarts had overlapped with his good-hearted gullibility.
“I’ll do it,” he finally said. “I’ll become a devil hunter. But you better keep all your promises! I won’t bust my ass working for nothing.” The corners of the man’s mouth upturned slightly, although he was still just as difficult to read. “Then you’re our property now, though not as a prisoner or slave, but more like a pet that’ll be well taken care of. You should consider yourself very lucky to have an opportunity most devils don’t; now, do you have a name, or shall I give you one myself?”
After some hesitation, perhaps a last-minute spike of regret in his mind over trading away his freedom again, he carefully responded. “Heathcliff.” The other man didn’t wait much, almost as if he had no reason to bother committing the name to memory, before introducing himself as well. “I am Meursault. It’s a privilege to be working together.” Despite being a common formality, those last few words didn’t seem like Meursault’s own feelings, but rather a command on how Heathcliff should perceive their relationship. He continued, “Now, for your first mission, I’ll be taking you to a restaurant. You may no longer experience hunger in the traditional sense, but your body is still overall human, and it's important for you to maintain a balanced diet. You do seem a bit malnourished. I’ll order the first few items for you, and you can pick whatever you’d like for dessert, and I will be watching to make sure you eat all of what’s necessary.”
The sudden rambling came as a surprise, but perhaps health and dieting was something Meursault took very seriously. Not only was it an oddly charming trait, but it made Heathcliff feel comforted in his idea of the future. In those shaky memories, where he had nothing to his name and no real experience with normality, food had been scarce and unimpressive, sometimes even disgusting or poisonous. To have such an opportunity delighted him! Perhaps this Meursault guy was a good man, one that could give Heathcliff everything he had been craving from life. After all, there’s nothing wrong with needing to work hard in return for the luxuries of food and shelter he had been promised. And even if he was nothing more than a pet, it's a much better fate than that of a stray.
Chapter 2: movie date
Summary:
Meursault prepares a surprise for Heathcliff's hard work. Of course, it's self-indulgent.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
While Heathcliff’s chainsaws made the perfect weapon for sweeping large hordes of enemies, they rendered him a total liability in team missions. As Don Quixote came barreling towards one of several larvae produced by the Ant Devil, her torso was torn open with the loud buzz of his saw. Trying not to yelp from the pain, she locked her sharp teeth around the arm of a tiny larva and bit into it. Perhaps blinded by the ecstasy of battle and acting on her instincts as the Blood Devil, she guzzled down her prey’s blood, although it tasted far more disgusting than what she used to hunt on her own. Within seconds, her wound morphed itself shut, and she created a new lance from the remaining blood on the floor. “‘Tis no problem, Heathcliff! A hero like I would never waver at a small scratch!”
However, not everyone could easily adapt to having such destructive teammates. Outis had just barely pulled herself away from the range of Heathcliff’s destruction when another larva jumped onto her back. After wrestling it off of her, she slashed it in half with her katana; it was a controlled and dignified move, slow and steady, as if she was also subtly hoping to show off like Don Quixote. But when she looked up again, the guts of the Ant Devil and its pawns had sprayed out everywhere. In the center of the wriggling insects was Heathcliff, thrashing them around in a heated frenzy. After a few more seconds of chaos, the enemies had stopped moving altogether, and Outis was just about to sheathe her weapon when she heard him stomping toward her. A quick flash of his weapon, the loud rumble of his saw. Outis channeled all her energy into dodging, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, expecting herself to be half-dead and gazing into the light of Heaven, she saw the Ant Devil’s heart being cut in half between her and a panting Heathcliff. No, if she had to work with these devils for another second, then she’d certainly wind up in Hell with them.
She exhaled deeply and surveyed the area one last time, then finally put her weapon away. Heathcliff’s helmet and chainsaws melted away, revealing a look that was somewhat apologetic. Outis did her best attempt at an intimidating glare, hoping to convince Heathcliff she is not to be messed with, but she instead came off as a frustrated, broken woman; she could only gasp for air and give him a look of desperation, like she wanted to say, “Please, don’t do that again.” Instead, she opted for a stern “Show some respect to the humans you serve. I cannot regenerate like you.” She turned her head to a pouting Don Quixote and added, “That goes for both of you.”
Outis shoved her way past Heathcliff, who cursed her under his breath, and pulled a small bullet from the Ant Devil’s remains; she had collected another piece of the Gun Devil. The mission was complete, and Outis led the way home, with Heathcliff dragging his feet and Don Quixote ranting behind them. “Lady Outis, did you see my new technique? I spent a long time perfecting it! Please, don’t look so sullen. I have more to demonstrate, so let’s not quit for the day. There’s a whole swarm of pigeons just over there! And the blood of poultry would get this awful, buggy taste out of my mouth. Nay, I will not eat lunch like this.”
Outis turned to her with a bit of a confused glance and said, “Wouldn’t eating lunch get the taste out of your mouth, too? Don’t just kill any live animal you see; there are laws about that! Anyway, you’d probably prefer human food if you tried it. And I have faith in Meursault’s taste in restaurants. So no more complaining.” They waltzed right into a rather fancy restaurant, despite still being covered in devil blood, as Outis previously insisted, “Punctuality is important! This is the time Meursault gave us, and while I don’t like it either, I’d rather him see proof of our hard work than think we are lazing around to be so late.”
The three were brought to a table, and a server came while they were still waiting for Meursault. As it turned out, he was far more late than they would have been if they had returned to the apartment to clean up first. They all grew impatient, and after a dozen more of Heathcliff’s groans and a hundred more of Don Quixote’s whines, Outis finally threw courtesy out the window and decided to order without their boss present. Heathcliff frowned at the menu and sat in total silence. He clutched the paper tightly in his fingers and kept eyeing his fellow devil, who eventually cried out what he wanted to say. “I cannot read this! After all, learning such a skill is a waste of time for my goals. Do tell us what it all says, Lady Outis.”
Surprisingly, Outis didn’t sigh or scowl before she began to recite the contents of the menu. With each name and ingredient listed, Heathcliff’s mouth watered more and more. It’s true that Heathcliff had tried plenty of amazing foods since moving in with Outis and Don Quixote, but everything at this restaurant was next level! If putting jam and honey on bread gave him such a culture shock before, he might just die of excitement from a single bite of wagyu beef!
Of course, Don Quixote could not stop herself from frequently voicing her opinion. She leaned against Outis and exclaimed, “I refuse! I shall not eat these ‘vegut-abuls’ ever. If I do, I’ll surely get sick, and you’ll have to carry me home, my lady. Or worse, I’ll vomit it all onto your plate!” This whining must’ve finally struck a nerve with her older colleague, who suddenly shoved her away and replied, “Stop it! If anyone carries you home, it’ll be Heathcliff. I’m not your babysitter. And don’t say such crude things!”
“What’s crude?” A stoic voice came from just above where Heathcliff sat. There was Meursault, towering over him in a way that compelled him to nervously gulp. From a low angle, that chiseled jaw and subtle frown looked especially impressive. Heathcliff felt a strange prick of feeling in his heart, which he quickly called envy before anything else. Even after Meursault opened his mouth with a strange explanation. “Vomiting is a natural bodily function. If Don Quixote really does get sick, then we should hope she expels it; otherwise, it could lead to a slew of other health issues if she kept it all inside.”
The irony of this grotesque explanation coming from their boss was not lost on Outis, who winced a little. However, she still greeted Meursault and shook his hand and encouraged her co-workers to do the same. Don Quixote shook it profusely, as if it was her first time meeting a celebrity, even though the two had met a dozen times before. Heathcliff, equally intimidated, held Meursault’s hand still for a few seconds too long. When he eventually pulled away, he couldn’t help but awkwardly glance up at his boss. Despite this, Meursault nodded at him in a friendly manner and suddenly leaned in next to Heathcliff’s ear with a husky whisper. “When lunch is over, stay with me. I have a treat for you.”
The meal was painfully long and drawn out, as Heathcliff found himself oddly excited. The food was delicious beyond all expectations, and he even got to try alcohol for the first time. He heard long ago it was something you drank alongside family as a symbol of adulthood. However, Heathcliff had no family, and he was happy enough to try it in the company of Meursault and his annoying-but-fun colleagues. But as much as he loved the experience, Heathcliff was too distracted to say much. All this time, Meursault had been so good to him, and now he was giving him a prize. Although, he couldn’t help but wonder if a prize was deserved. After all, all he was good for was taking lives; maybe other devils deserved it, yet not him and Don Quixote? And just earlier, he nearly killed Miss Outis! Taking a human life went against his promise—his deal, he should say—with Meursault. This sudden regret for all the work he agreed to made Heathcliff tremble.
Throughout the meal, Outis told the stories of the devils they had recently killed, and she looked so serious and reliable as she did. After all, she had some sort of goal she had been working toward all this time. One of revenge, maybe? Heathcliff didn’t care to listen to her mumbling. Even Don Quixote, who was motivated primarily by bloodlust on the battlefield, had been acting in preparation for some “dream” she had been ranting and raving about since they met. Heathcliff hadn’t even paid attention to what she said all this time; even if they’re just co-workers, it felt a bit disingenuous. The conversations at their table and the surrounding tables became deafeningly loud, but when he tried to focus on the silence of his mind, he could hear the echoes of his negative thinking. Criticizing himself over small things that surely wouldn’t matter tomorrow.
Suddenly, a distant voice called out to him. It spoke in a comforting tone, but Heathcliff felt his heart stop. A young girl had been calling his name. When he tried to catch his breath, he heard his name being called out again. But it was a bit more stern, and much deeper. Meursault. “Are you alright? You’ve been mumbling to yourself for some time now. Perhaps you’ve been drinking too much?” An arm had been wrapped around Heathcliff’s shoulder. In the blurry distance, Outis and Don Quixote walked away. His mind cleared, and he heard their conversation: Don Quixote’s invitation to play a war-themed board game, Meursault’s insistence that he will take care of the drunk Heathcliff, and Outis’s muttering about how unrealistic the game must be. “But to exercise my tactical mind, I suppose I’ll accept your challenge,” she enthused, and suddenly Heathcliff was alone with his boss.
Meursault led him a bit further down the street before Heathcliff finally spoke up. “The surprise. What did you want to show me?” His boss looked down at him and asked, “Are you feeling better? If you’re nauseous, confused, or dizzy, then perhaps we cannot go after all.” Despite wearing his usual blank expression, Meursault seemed almost disappointed. That “sad” look must’ve left a crack in Heathcliff’s heart, as he quickly said, “I’m better! Believe me.” Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. Heathcliff’s dizziness had subsided; after all, he didn’t have much alcohol, and his symptoms were likely caused by the sudden frustration.
Meursault seemed relieved at this answer. He walked a bit further before finally explaining, “You and I are going to see a movie marathon. You’ve worked hard on your latest missions, and I could also tell you’re feeling a bit down. If we manage to see a good movie tonight, your mood will likely be lifted.” This shocked Heathcliff a little. Truly, Meursault’s kindness knows no bounds! But part of him still felt a bit of regret; it was the same unworthiness he had been worrying about earlier. So he asked, “Why me? Outis and Don Quixote have done good, too, right?” Suddenly, they both stopped moving and stood in the crowded street. Meursault turned around to lock eyes with Heathcliff, and he replied, “Because you’re the one I’m interested in.”
He resumed walking, and a flustered Heathcliff had to run to meet his side again. He could only look at the ground with a sly smile on his face, perhaps thinking he had proved one of Miss Outis’s many jabs wrong; he thought he must be a good-looking guy and have a charming personality too. Why else would Meursault look at him in such a kind light?. Meursault, on the other hand, was carefully viewing the many movie posters outside of the cinema. They had distracted him immediately, but just a few seconds before, he was probably thinking something about how useful Heathcliff’s chainsaw heart shall be; of course, when compared to that weakling Don Quixote and that nobody Outis, the Chainsaw Man himself is definitely the most interesting tool in his arsenal.
With that, their afternoon movie marathon began! Heathcliff suddenly felt more embarrassed than ever about how he positioned his legs as he sat, as he didn’t want to invade his boss’s space as they sat so close in the theater. But Meursault sat with his arms crossed and legs pushed together, as if he was overly aware of the space he took up. And yet, he looked more at ease than Heathcliff had ever seen him. The first movie came and went, and while its plot was a bit boring, the soundtrack had really wowed Heathcliff. He left that particular theater thinking it’d be stuck in his head for days, until Meursault broke the agonizingly long silence with a harsh review.
“The plot was too slow-moving, and the ending was not worth any of the wait. The middle wasn’t too exciting either, especially not with that awful music repeating over and over.” Heathcliff retorted with, “Are you kidding?! That was the only good part! And, I guess the ending had potential.” He expected some sort of dispute, but Meursault simply led him to the next movie. And then the next. And another. And another after that.
All of Meursault’s opinions were essentially “mediocre, at best.” Of course, that was how simply Heathcliff had remembered it, because he couldn’t bear to recall the harsh words about some of the decently entertaining ones. “The main character’s behavior was completely unrealistic, and it relied on tropes so much that I predicted the ending 30 minutes in.” “This one had decent cinematography, but many of the actors were clearly subpar.” “The color grading in this was so awful, I couldn’t see a thing of what was going on, and I doubt anyone would want to.”
The constant negativity had left Heathcliff exhausted. But surprisingly, the seemingly frustrated Meursault was ready and willing to see yet another. “This will be the last one, as it’s rather dark outside. I do hope it will make it worth the money.” The film ended up being rather slow; it took forever for Heathcliff to begin to understand the motivations of the characters, and some still remained a mystery to him. But somewhere towards the end, a particular scene had finally caught his attention.
A mother saying a solemn goodbye to her son and embracing him one last time as the music swelled. It was so obviously beckoning for tears to spill, and they did! Heathcliff found himself instinctively blinking the tears away, but it was not enough. Suddenly, a familiar embarrassment washed over him. Next to him was his boss, who clearly thought highly of him and lowly of all the movies that came before. Heathcliff knew he was stronger than this, and that if Meursault saw him in his state, perhaps all the respect he had earned would wash away. However, when he carefully glanced at the man at his side, Heathcliff was surprised to see Meursault had also teared up. His expression was even more unreadable than before: empty and solemn.
When the movie concluded, the crowd in the theater dissipated, but Meursault did not budge from his seat. He carefully read through every name in the credits, as if he had been mentally thanking them all for their hard work. And when they left the theater and were headed back to their homes, Heathcliff said, “I don’t think I could ever forget that last movie.” Meursault replied, “Me neither. The experience was worth the ticket money.” They walked silently for a bit longer, and maybe Heathcliff couldn’t handle silence well, as his mind drifted from the good time they had to his earlier worries.
He was disturbed by how violence came so easily for him, how he still felt trapped despite having a good life now. He wondered how any good person could act so brutally or be ungrateful in his position, and then he thought, maybe it was because he’s no longer a person at all. “Meursault, do I have a heart?” The question surprised him, too. When his boss turned around, Heathcliff got the sudden urge to run away in shame. But he was grabbed tightly by the arms, like when they first met. Meursault brought him close and pressed his head against Heathcliff’s chest, listening carefully to his quickening heartbeat.
When Meursault finally pulled away, he didn’t wear the same flustered look on his face as Heathcliff did, and he certainly wasn’t as warm. He simply answered, “You do.” Heathcliff couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure what to do next. But Meursault simply walked away, leaving Heathcliff alone under a streetlight.
Notes:
obviously i intend the "listening to the heartbeat" thing to have similar intentions to makima. but its also funny to imagine meursault (and makima) really did take the question literally
Chapter 3: perfection
Chapter Text
Among the multitude of graves, Meursault held tightly onto Heathcliff’s heart. The two had fought their final battle, a war of dreams that they sought for. Of course, Heathcliff’s ambition and passion were much weaker, and he was easily overpowered by his boss. Meursault squeezed the heart and swiftly ripped it away. He left Heathcliff to slump to the ground, half-dead, and looked down at him. “How can you expect my care if you won’t even follow my command? I own your very life, and by acting against me, you’ve agreed to give it up.”
Some time ago, Don Quixote had used her dying effort to drag a dying Heathcliff away from Meursault’s clutches and into an alleyway. Only then could her friend finally snap out of the empty state he was in. However, that emptiness was quickly replaced with sorrow, and he struggled to open his eyes again. She called out to him, “Look here, Heathcliff! You cannot give up yet, can you?” When he finally met her gaze, he could hardly believe he was seeing Don Quixote’s smile. Surely, Meursault had killed her; Heathcliff saw it for himself and felt complicit in her surprise murder. Yet here she was, staring back at him, beaming brightly.
“Don Quixote, you should just stay dead. What’s the point of struggling anymore?” His words sounded especially cruel, but they were all he could bring himself to say. If he had any hope that things could turn out better for her, he’d cling to it. He didn’t want to be responsible for the erasure of another dream. But her spirit wasn’t crushed. She replied with a smile, “Fool! You can still overthrow that wretched Meursault. Only the Chainsaw Devil in all of its glory could have the chance. Have you forgotten your quest to find your lost memories?”
Seeing Heathcliff’s weary expression, Don Quixote knew he was slipping from reality. He was going to give up and let himself be Meursault’s pawn. The fiery friend she once knew was no longer. But she continued, “I have not forgotten mine own dream. To become the very best of heroes, and create a world where humans and devils live in peace! Just as you and I lived alongside Lady Outis! Do you seriously not want to live in this world alongside me?” Heathcliff groaned and lightly shoved her, but Don Quixote did not budge. For a moment, her face flashed a serious frown, and Heathcliff felt like he had rejected a puppy’s beg for a treat. But if he did agree to continue her dream, it would be much more effort than it’s worth. That is, if it fails.
Heathcliff shifted away somewhat and glumly asked, "What's with you? Your dream has nothing to do with mine. And even if it did, I can’t help you. I can’t fix any of this now.” Don Quixote leaned back and stared at him, her mouth somewhat agape. Heathcliff knew his rejection had hurt her; he could no longer keep eye contact with her, and he felt for sure that their final meeting would end in heartache. However, he could not lament for long, as Don Quixote grabbed his hands and held onto them tightly, saying, “This dream shall not end! Even if I must die now, you can still bring me back.” She placed his hands around one of her own. “Take my blood. You’ll make Meursault pay, I know you can, and you’ll find the next Blood Devil. It won’t be anything like me, and perhaps it could even be your enemy. But make friends with it, and give it this blood. Then I, Don Quixote, will rise again! With you by my side.”
Heathcliff’s eyes widened. This girl, in all of her desperation and insanity, has placed her very life in his hands. How could he ever fulfill her wishes? How could he fight for her dream when he barely had a dream of his own? He gripped her hand tighter, winced at it, and asked, “Why’re you so insistent on helping me?” Don Quixote didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re my friend!” She must’ve noticed the light returning to Heathcliff’s eyes, because she suddenly pushed him down and hugged him. He couldn’t see the expression on her face, but figured it must’ve been that stupid grin she wore all too often. Part of him wanted to smile, but he couldn’t revel in the joy when he could feel her embrace fading away. “Come find me, Heathcliff.”
He could feel something spark in his brain, like he had almost remembered something. That stormy land. Perhaps his old home. And a girl there, embracing him much like this. Heathcliff had yearned for this memory to return in full; it was his only motivation for joining Meursault in the first place. But the affection his boss gave him, the care and attention, had replaced this memory long ago. Maybe he really was living a simple life with no particular goals or fears. It was nice, and he wanted to go back to it. With or without Meursault’s help. It couldn’t possibly be too late. He felt his heart pumping again, like Don Quixote’s very spirit was in his veins, and he threw himself out of the alley.
In the present, Heathcliff’s heart pumped wildly in Meursault’s lap. Such a silly goal, with no real substance or reason, was doomed to fail. Don Quixote’s blood grew cold within the heart. Her killer calmly lit a cigarette, took one long drag, and watched the cloud of smoke mix in with the gray fog that stretched for miles. Meursault crushed the end of the cigarette into the ground and picked up the heart, holding it close to his face. “How would you like to help me achieve my dream, Heathcliff? I will make the world a better place. Humans would live safe lives, free of the pain that devils bring them. As you were, you wouldn’t fit there. But now that you’re finally mine, I can train you to perfection.”