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You shift your gaze away from the watch on your lifted hand, that shields you from a weak drizzle of ice. The clouds surrender, parting as if to show veneration for your presence. A nightingale sitting on a tree branch sings a tune you recognize as your morning alarm. The sun’s vermillion orange rays peek from below your vision. The hail is clearing up, and the signs of a cool dawn brew in its stead.
Beside you, a pink-haired Sinner dressed in flashy, bejewelled winter clothing catches a drifting snowflake in her equally pink mittens. It withers right away upon contact with the cotton. She cups several more with a swipe of her hand, all of them melting just the same, but her sparkling smile does not falter.
Chelsea prances past the side-lines of the stone path, where the endless snowfall from the night before created a desert of silver. “Vacation at last!” she cheerfully remarks, “And an ice skating date with my favourite sugar baby at that.” She unsubtly winks at you.
Sugar baby. You are about to instinctively retort the usual “I’m not your sugar baby” until you remember what you agreed to last week. Chelsea was going off on her typical spiels about the benefits of becoming her sugar baby. You cannot fathom whether it was carelessness or exhaustion that drove you to reply “Fine” to Chelsea’s desperate requests, but you did and here you are. On a “date” with “Sugar Mama”. You really don’t understand it, but you don’t regret it (and you don’t understand that either).
You stay silent, deciding not to reply. If allowing her to mistakenly believe that you brought her outside for a romantic excursion (although you corrected her on the way here four times) will make her more zealous in today’s training, you suppose it’s for the best. It couldn’t hurt, Chelsea is a woman who is difficult to upset; she is also a difficult woman in general.
After realising you left her behind, she abandons her half-finished snowball, rushes to you and matches your pace. “Are you excited?” She chortles, sounding a little out of breath. You feel slightly guilty for not waiting, but you were on a tight schedule. You have to teach someone how to ice skate within a day, which seemed easy, if not accounting for the fact you are someone who does not know how to ice skate either.
You review for a second. Today’s primary goal is to adequately prepare for tomorrow’s mission where you both might be engaged in battle on ice. Therefore, there is no reason to be excited, yet your muscles are tense and your pulse is ringing in your ears. “I’m not sure.”
Chelsea scowls and rests her chin on your shoulder, “Aw, why not?” You ignore the puppy eyes she gives you and pretend to study the pine tree.
You search for an acceptable yet truthful excuse that conveniently hides the detail that your ability to ice skate was lost with your memories. “Well…” But you couldn’t find one.
She giggles and pats your other shoulder, then leans in closer to your neck, “Chief, don’t be so coy and admit you’re excited!”
“Maybe a little.” You say this to appease her, but it is not a lie. The thrill of a challenge enlivens you. If you manage to acquire an important skill in less than a day without an instructor, you will sleep peacefully with a sense of accomplishment and warranted pride tonight, even more so if you accompanied another Sinner do the same. You could rest knowing that you and Chelsea’s lack of experience in ice skating won’t hold back Eirene- who had professional hockey lessons as a child- and Pacassi- who is adapted to living in a harsh, chilly climate and snowy terrain.
A small distance later, you two reach the enormous lake outside the Bureau. Chelsea passively comments about how it should be classified as a miniature ocean. It does look immensely vast, especially with the tiny hills of rock surrounding its perimeter. Normally, its waters crudely reflected specks of light in the sky like decalcomania. However, now that the water transformed into dense, solid ice, the lake’s mirror image is a perfect replica of the steel grey stone cliffs around it and the cloudless blue above it.
“It’s beautiful,” Chelsea dedicates a whole minute to appreciating the natural beauty outside her prison cell, then begins putting on her ice skating shoes.
She plops herself on the ground noiselessly, while you let yourself revel in the rejuvenating air and serene atmosphere a little bit longer. It was the end of the year, so for the last couple of weeks, you’ve mostly been holed up in your office, buried in piles of documents and hounded by at least forty callers a day.
“Hey, how do you tie these? I never went ice skating before.” Chelsea points to her jumble of shoelaces. You were watching the tree sway for too long, but her voice snaps you out of your trance and you decide to assist her. You look down at your own pair in your right hand and discover that the skates were unlike the ones you used previously, which used straps instead. You don’t know how to tie these either.
You kneel down, “Um”, and hold on to her aglets, hoping your fingers would know and magically tie them for you. Alas, your only superpower is your shackles. It did not work. “I think like normal?”
“But these are really long?” Chelsea is equally confused.
A vague picture from the past pops into your head at an opportune time. You try to vocalise your thought, but the output makes little sense, “There has to be some X’s, where the shoelaces cross each other.” Unfortunately, as soon as you heard yourself, you lose your train of thought and entirely forget.
“Ah!” Chelsea somehow understands though. She pulls the strings up, loops them on the hook on each side, admittedly you don’t understand what’s happening, and ties them in a neat knot. “Like this?”
“Yep.” You hope so.
Chelsea gets up first. She waits for you to wear your skates too, and neither judges nor asks when you struggle standing up and request her help in tying your own shoelaces. She does so hurriedly, but does not neglect to check if your skates fit tight enough. Afterwards, she takes (yanks) your forearm and drags you to the dock of the frozen lake, beaming.
She sprints like she does not have blades attached to the soles of her feet. Her balance did not fail her. Yours did, though. You are about to plummet unto the wooden platform face first, until Chelsea, with her grip still around your forearm, reels you in.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” She pulls you in for an affectionate embrace, worry having replaced her grin. You nod. You don’t understand why the hug was necessary, but you don’t need to mention that to someone who saved you from a trip to the infirmary and a lecture from Doctor Iron. Also, you liked it, because you were feeling cold. You think, at least.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Chelsea breaks the hug to place both hands on your shoulders. She pushes you slightly and eyes you, visibly trying to get a good look at you.
“Sorry about that, Chief, I thought you could walk in these.” Her sentence is genuinely apologetic and has no trace of malice, yet you compulsively defend yourself.
“I can walk perfectly fine in these.” You swipe her hands off and try to move about on your own, only to stumble again.
Luckily, Chelsea catches you again and laughs, “Come on, Chief! Why, too shy to hold my hand?”
You reluctantly accept her assistance, not ready to become victim to her teasing. She holds you willingly as you attempt to steady yourself. The skates weigh you down like dumbbells on your toes. It will need some getting used to. You take your time lifting your leg, then gingerly placing it. You repeat the same with the other, and then the other again, while Chelsea patiently escorts you to the lake.
With heavy breaths, you reach the end of the dock and Chelsea hops off first. She does not control her strength. A minor crack sprouts in the spot her blades land. She does not notice, however, because all her attention is on you. She stretches her palm out to you, with her classic smirk. “Coming?”
Sighing, you accept her hand and shakily step down, careful to avoid the streaks of breakage Chelsea produced. You still struggle with the weight of the skates; you are sure you would have slipped and toppled over if it weren’t for Chelsea. You suppose this is karmic retribution for sitting back and leaving all the work of physical combat to your Sinners and staff.
You are too cowardly to draw large strokes, but the tiny nudges you crept with on land are too weak to have the same effectiveness on frost. The sharp edges of the blades cut the fresh ice, creating shallow channels to plant itself. With the heaviness of the skates and the carved lines that cage your feet, you feel trapped by the lake. Unlike you, Chelsea does not seem unnerved. She marvels at the clarity and smoothness of the ice, like a true lapidarist.
You both freeze in place for a couple of beats, unsure of what to do next. Chelsea does not let go of you though. She peers at the ground cautiously, finally perceiving the damage she caused earlier. Fortunately, the cracks are not spreading.
“Whoa!” She releases your hand, but then, hugs your arm, her new hostage, “Are you really sure this is safe?”
“Nightingale checked the area yesterday and guaranteed it was completely safe.” Chelsea is not convinced; she does not stop clinging to you. Frankly, you aren’t sure if you could handle the weight of the skates, snow attire and Chelsea leaning on you combined, but you try your best because she truly seems frightened, her tall figure shrinking behind you.
“Don’t get me wrong! I don’t mind taking risks with you, Chief,” You can hear Chelsea’s grin, “It’s just that, now that you’re my sugar baby, all you had to do was ask for a proper rink.”
You do not respond to that. Honestly, you haven’t thought about it. You should have. You are reluctant to receive any of your Sinners’ money; it was enough that you stripped them of their freedom, you didn’t need to rob them more. But if Chelsea was going to label you as her sugar baby, the Bureau should reap some financial benefits from your suffering (though it wasn’t that bad, you guess).
Nevertheless, it’s not like you could skate anywhere else with a bunch of Sinners trailing behind you. By extension, this lake is part of the Bureau, and by further extension, this is part of the training grounds. Yes, you almost forgot, you and Chelsea are training.
Chelsea was comfortable enough on the ice to dare take miniscule steps forward and back, but you have not moved a single centimetre since descending on the ice. Calling upon your courage, you mimic your movements on land. You heft one shoe up, set it down, then repeat with the opposite, then the opposite, and then the opposite. You attempt to maintain the utmost focus so you can resist the slipperiness and prevent your legs from drifting away on their own.
While you do this, Chelsea considerately liberates you from her clinch and stretches both her arms out for balance, but soon discovers that she doesn’t need it. She is perfectly stable. She strolls past you as casually as she does in the Bureau. “Where are you going?”
“Just walking.” You answer, but keep your stare glued to the glacial surface, feet mechanically locomoting like clockwork.
Chelsea stands beside you. She tilts her head and her pupils point to upper right. While she thinks, you continue past her. You are only three steps away from her when she catches up to you. “How about we walk together?”
You raise an eyebrow, still bumbling towards an unknown destination. “Like a three-legged race. Maybe we’ll go faster.” She twinkles and marches closer to you. You are certain it is a terrible idea. Even if you two do go faster, it would likely be a minimal difference. Despite that, you are slowly boring yourself with how slowly you are moving. At least Chelsea never fails to make things interesting.
You wordlessly clasp her hand and offer her a look of determination. You furrow your eyebrows and press your lips into a straight line. Considering your usual emotionless expression, you probably look unsettling. Chelsea is not offput though. She imitates your countenance and positions herself beside you, her right foot sticking to your left foot.
This really is a terrible idea.
Chelsea either does not observe or disregards your trembling. Maybe she misinterprets it as anticipation. You are the one who agreed to the ludicrous idea, so might as well see it through and not chicken out. Chelsea wraps her arm around your waist. Following suit, you drape your arm across her shoulders and latch onto her tight. She does not even attempt to hide the blooming pink on her cheeks, you act as if you do not notice. Her open-mouthed grin grows wider, it is rare you return any sign of her affection, even if you are interlocking with her solely for training purposes.
“On your count, Chief.” She nods at you and lets you lead. For your ego’s sake, you tell yourself it is because you are the Chief of Minos Bureau, and not because you have proven yourself to be the clumsier one on ice today.
You nod back at her, “One.”
You step forward with your right foot, and correspondingly, Chelsea does the same with her left. She shuts her mouth, focusing on her movements.
“Two.” You and Chelsea move in unison, your left foot and her right foot jointly rising and falling. “One, two, one, two.” You two reiterate the motion at the same speed twice.
But you wish to pick up the pace. “One, two, one two one two.” You are finally getting somewhere on ice, you feel achieved yet crave to cover more distance. Your shoes are in time with your words, but Chelsea looks a bit troubled by the sudden change in tempo.
“Could you go a bit slower?” She plays it cool, but her trepidation is visible when she faces you, her face quivering. Although the current arrangement suits you, she is having difficulty preserving her balance while attached to another human. Unlike her graceful moments ago, her back is angled like she is expecting collapse.
You apologize and hasten back to your original momentum. With that, Chelsea’s tenseness fades. Your Sinners should never come into danger’s way, especially Chelsea. You don’t pick favourites, but if you did, you know Chelsea is one of them, mainly because she is harmless most of the time (to you, at least).
Chelsea relaxes, inhaling a deep breath and positioning herself upright. Both of you adapt to ambling around the ice this unusual way. You have to admit, the landscape around the lake is extremely blank. The only sight worthwhile here was the colourful galaxy that appeared during twilight hours.
Yet somehow, you could descry resplendence amongst the emptiness. It is a place fit for a solivagant soul to discover solitude. Amidst the quiet morning, frigid atmosphere and the handful of trees adorning the cliffsides, you find peace.
You remember that Chelsea is next to you all of a sudden, but your peace is not broken. She is turned away from you, her vibrant hair obscuring her countenance. You guess she is appreciating the beauteous background as well.
She rotates her head towards you without warning and catches you staring. She simpers immediately.
“Oh! Hello there, like what you’re seeing?” she teases. You doubt she is talking about the scenery.
You whisk past her, flustered. Only you forget that you are on an ice skating rink (sort of), and that you and Chelsea cannot ice skate. Meaning, that if you scamper without your wits about, you cannot sustain your balance and you will trip. It also means that if you trip, Chelsea cannot dodge you.
You lose your footing while attempting to terminate the three-legged walk and bypass Chelsea. She is taken by surprise and does not dodge. Instead, she coils her arms around you to protect you. Now enveloped in Chelsea’s warmth but burdened by the force of gravity, you drag her down with you unintentionally.
You both fall. The peace is shattered. So is your dignity.
Midway, you catch a glimpse of Chelsea’s eyes widening in panic. Chelsea’s fingers slip off your body, separating the two of you into different landing fields. You shuffle your feet to anchor yourself, but you merely flail in the air. Until you discern two thuds and a painful impact.
The ice slides you two a short length apart. It spins you around twice, and your legs are unfolded on the ground. You regret not wearing a longer coat as your pants absorb water.
After two and a half circles, friction accumulates and your frame decelerate to a halt. You are unsure whether it is lucky or unlucky that the both of you fall on your rear ends. Sure, hitting yourself on the head after falling face first will endanger your life, but at least it will save you the embarrassment.
You sulk, both your evident ineptness on ice and your self-consciousness discourages you from even thinking about how to get up. Your jeans are already soaked anyway. Meanwhile, Chelsea cannot help but guffaw. You are not sure at what, but you hope it is not directed at yourself.
She doesn’t laugh for long, because she quickly notices your glare. She beams back, unfazed. You internally commend her sunniness, as always. She props herself up, then rises with the elegance of a ballerina. You didn’t know the look of someone simply standing up could enchant you.
She stretches her palm out to you again, and you avert your gaze when taking it and pulling yourself up. You mentally curse your irregular exercise habits when your upper half plunges down, unable to be lifted with your meagre strength.
“Come on, Chief, you can do it.” Chelsea stretches out her other hand as well. You would have been offended if she did not beam so sincerely and her face did not soften so adorably, if she were not Chelsea. You refuse it though, because your unused hand presses against the floor to steady yourself. You feel the cold penetrate your veins and work up its way to freeze your bloodstream, but you force yourself to endure the sting. You’ve been through worse.
You try to regain your bearings. Though slightly dizzy (which could be from a lack of sleep), your clumsy mistake fortuitously did not injure anyone. You brush off any ice shards on your behind, but the water stays there. You’ll just have to ignore the unpleasant, damp sensation near your butt for the rest of the training session.
Who are you kidding? This is not a training session anymore, if it even was a training session to begin with. In any case, you are only holding Chelsea back from adjusting to the icy environment and improving by herself. You are holding her back from having any fun, too.
A billow of remorse laps at your chest. “Sorry, Chelsea,” you break the silence.
Chelsea hurriedly reassures you, “Don’t worry about it, Chief! This is still the best ice skating date I’ve ever had.”
You are completely sure this is the only ice skating date Chelsea has ever had, but you let that unnecessary input die on your tongue. Chelsea clasps both of your hands and lifts them up to shoulder height. Seeing that it fails to flip your frown, like most things do, Chelsea drops them and settles with cupping your face instead.
“Aw, Chief, you’re so adorable.” Chelsea veers off the topic. Your facial movements are limited by her grasp, but your pupils follow her energetic movements. When she stops moving, you just stare at her, astounded at her liveliness as she squishes your cheeks together. It is a bit embarrassing, but you’ve been through more embarrassing things (Exhibit A, two minutes ago). Anyway, no one is watching, there are no CCTV cameras around.
You observe that her minor but chaotic motions do not affect her at all, and this intrigues you. She told you yesterday that today would be her first time ice skating, but she neither slips nor shakes, like you. Either she is extraordinarily meant for this, or you are extraordinarily unmeant for this. You voice your musings, “You’re very good for a first-timer, Chelsea.”
She flushes at the offhand compliment, “Thank you, Chief! I’m just good in heels.” She retracts her hands from your cheeks to cover her own.
“That explains why I keep falling.” You remark blankly. You mostly wear shoes, because they’re more practical and high heels are only for special occasions. Considering your recent special occasions usually turn into violent ambushes or Mania crises anyway, you make a mental note to wear them more often for balance training.
“I’ll catch you every time,” she winks.
Hearing your pitiful sigh, Chelsea decides to shelve her happy-go-lucky flirtatiousness for a more facilitative approach.
“Have you skated on ice before?” Chelsea asks.
“Yes, before I lost my memory.”
“Hmm,” her eyes narrow, “Why don’t you try speeding up on your own? Muscle memory might kick in.”
You imagine it for a second. Chelsea’s enthusiasm makes it sound effortless, and you believe that everything is worth a shot. You resolve to act according to her suggestion, but you do not know where to begin.
Might as well figure it out along the way. You uncross your arms and plod forward. Like a Sinner, your stubbornness and unwillingness for failure births a unique and invincible species of determination.
You trudge until you are an arm’s length away from Chelsea, for the sake of her safety. You are standing in the centre of the “rink”, with your arms extended to each side. Chelsea cheers you on from afar. You gather your courage and aim your face at the sky, awaiting a miracle to strike and grant you ice skating powers.
You look ridiculous.
Nothing happens. Of course, nothing happens, because you do not have the foggiest clue on how to start, thus you do not move at all. No recollection of ice skating methods awaken in your mind either. You will your brain to do something, like move your right foot to the side, bend your arm or lean your head frontwards, but it all feels incorrect. So your brain automatically rejects any command, and you continue standing like a scarecrow in the cold, like a fool.
Chelsea shouts a random proposition, “Try pushing!”
You don’t comprehend what she means, and suspect her words are only her conjecture. Still, you try. You propel your back ahead. Your feet are fastened to their spot, however, leaving your body to lunge forward and bounce backwards as if bungee jumping. Your arms thresh around like the top of a helicopter as you return to upright position.
You see Chelsea wince, and she is rendered speechless when she tries to propose something else. You are positive you look like a clown, but Chelsea watches you with stars in her eyes, glittering like the gems embedded in her outfit. She still has hope for you.
Not wanting to disappoint your one loyal fan (Sugar Mommy), you devise another means. You push your right foot southeast very gently. Your left foot is planted on the ice, yet it shifts, only slightly but it is enough to motivate you. You do the same with your left, and similarly, your right foot is displaced little by little.
All you can do is repeat that all over again. You pay close attention at first: Left, right, left, right, left, right. Soon, it comes to you as naturally as walking. You become well acquainted with the repetitive process in a short time, and you accelerate without active awareness. Gradually but surely, the floor passes by you, like the view outside a moving car. Your arms are rigid and refuse to budge, while your legs steal all your energy, but shortly, they are no longer burdens, instead they feel like wings.
Only when Chelsea whoops and claps do you realize that she is many metres away, and you are gliding with comfort. That is not to imply you are now a professional, or near to your level of proficiency before your amnesia, but you were soaring through the ice, overtaking the stone hills and frosted trees, as if riding through the city on the roof of a double decker.
You smirk proudly at yourself, then elect to do a U-turn back to Chelsea. Regrettably, natural instinct does not help you this time. You cannot recall how to turn. You twist your body and legs left and right but it is to no avail, because what little power you have is insufficient to slice through the ice. Or perhaps, you are too stupid to figure out the right technique.
It was not enough to get you off your high horse though. You wait until your skates grind to a stop, and then rotate yourself one hundred eighty degrees by pathetically waddling like a penguin. Chelsea giggles at that. You hope it was because she thinks you look cute, and knowing Chelsea, it probably was. You sail back to her with pride.
“Good job, Chief! I was sure that would work.” You weren’t at all. She gestures at her own skates, inquiring you for instructions. “How do I do it?”
You slant your head as she grins at you expectantly, “I’m not sure how I did that earlier.”
“Just tell me what you did.”
“Well,” you do not want to misdirect Chelsea, so you try to be descriptive, “To move forward, push back one foot to the side.”
She does as you tell her, but swings her leg with too much force and height. As a result, she kicks at the air and wobbles without heading anywhere.
“Not like that, just a little bit,” you correct her, and she improves, but the outcome is still the same.
She attempts again, heeding your tip. This time, she adheres to your advice too strictly, and launches herself too feebly. She is displaced by one millimetre or two. She does not progress as fast as you did. “I’ll just watch you. Can I give up now?” she jokes.
You respond to her whining by sliding right behind her and snaking your arms around her waist. You dismiss her creeping blush and sudden shakiness. “Push and move; that’s what I did. I’ll keep you stable so you don’t get hurt.”
“Oh, Chief,” Chelsea tries (and fails) to hide her discomposure through a coquettish tone, “Isn’t this a little close?”
You are unaffected. You feint by freeing her from your grasp, until she grabs your hands and returns them to where they were.
“I wasn’t complaining!” Chelsea exclaims. “Now let me try again.”
She impels herself forward with her foot, which you dodge just in time. You realize that this position is impractical, but you are hesitant to let go, for some inexplicable reason. Maybe it was because Chelsea’s snow clothes have high quality heat insulation. Or you merely like to hang onto Chelsea; you’re sensible and unabashed enough to admit it. Anyway, it won’t be much of an issue if you time your sidesteps well.
After some repeats, Chelsea finds the ideal amount of thrust and slides an acceptable distance forward. She delightfully turns around to face you, “Chief! I did it!”
“Congratulations,” you pat her head casually. Chelsea seems to have enjoyed that a little too much. You skate away from her, “Now try doing that alone.”
“Wait!” Chelsea teeters to you as fast as she can, which is not fast at all. She reaches where you are in fifteen seconds. She swings her arms over your shoulders and pulls you in, pouting, “Don’t leave me.”
“You can’t learn like this.” You say with a straight face. You brush off her arms, not because you mind the touching (you are used to it by now), but because it makes you feel short.
“Do I really have to learn?” Chelsea’s fervour for learning ice skating completely vanishes, “I’m an Endura; I usually stay in one place, Sitri is the one who moves around.”
“That can be said for me too,” you retort.
“Exactly! We can just sit and wave our hands around.” Chelsea gesticulates vaguely to prove her point. She hugs you, “So let’s focus on enjoying ourselves.”
You shake your head and escape her grasp, “It’s still important to know in case of emergencies. Like how to make a quick getaway.”
“Say, Chief,” Chelsea lets her curiosity take over, “How fast can you go? Max speed?”
You consider her question and wonder along with her. As you drift away from her, you bend your back and knees, “Only one way to find out.” You launch yourself forward like before. You alternate between your left and right leg rhythmically and soon, you are floating across the ice like a bird on the breeze. Your body oscillates side to side, like you are dancing. Why are you doing that? It doesn’t particularly help with your balance or posture, but you can’t stop.
You boost yourself forward with each forceful shove, relishing the smooth, satisfying sensation of scraping the icy surface. You are moving at high velocity now, and you whoosh past everything so rapidly the scenery blurs into a blotched painting.
You hear Chelsea cheer again, except this time, it is from even further away. You whirl your head around to look at her, only to see a dot of light pink bobbing up and down and a refined gem of an ice skating rink in front of you. Crystalline, abstract patterns are engraved into the polished frost because of you and Chelsea’s blades, a fine work of lapidary. You wonder if Chelsea is impressed.
“Yo, be careful!” you hear Chelsea’s panicked warning, and whip your head back to the front to see an enlarging wooden dock. You are near the lake’s edge already, but you are at a meteoric speed.
You realize late you should have learnt how to turn or brake before testing your speed limits. The dock is still relatively far, but precautions are important. Confusion, bewilderment and puzzlement surge back, and you feel the same as you did at the start of the hour. You bend your knees, hoping it would do something, but the deceleration it causes is minimal. Too minimal. You stand back up and wave your arms around like a swimmer, but that too results into nothing.
You lean backwards, but you feel like a sail on a sailboat, curved by the wind. Still, you exert some force and keep leaning. You keep leaning and you feel as if you are moving slower, though it could simply be an illusion of the mind. Nevertheless, you have no other ideas, so you lean back, and lean back, and lean back.
And your feet no longer distinguish ice from air. For a second, you feel like you are in a dream, falling endlessly through the boundless sky, your back providing the only wind resistance and your limbs fluttering above you. It happens so fast.
You tip over and crash. Your ankle twists while you do so and aches. You fall on your back, so your brain is undamaged, but you have to resist the urge to slam your head into the ice to erase your memory.
You settle for lying down on the ice, defeated. You take a cat nap right there and then, because goodness knows you need one right away. As you close your eyes, you see the dock was not that near to have warranted such a reaction from you. It’s too late for that now.
The cold numbs and soothes your sore parts, and you are refreshed. Your vessel sticks to the ground as it freezes and unites with it. Peace at last.
Until you are jiggled violently by a pair of powerful hands. Damn, these jewelers.
“Chief?! Wake up! You’re not dead, are you?” You open your eyes to Chelsea shaking you.
“I’m fine, I only sprained my right ankle.” You wave your hand dismissively to emphasize your words, but you end up looking very frail.
“What?” Her mouth gapes and her hands shake you more vigorously. Chelsea looks distraught, as if you really did die. She speaks so hastily that her words mix together, “I failed to protect the Chief again, and on our date, I’m so sorry, I’ll get you back to the Bureau. You should rest, sweetheart. Aw, what a pity, I wanted to spend more time with you. Oh! And what are you going to do about tomorrow’s mission now? Ah, but you just rest! Me, Eirene and Pacassi will take care of it perfectly! You stay at home and recover!”
You shrug in response to the one question buried in her lengthy monologue. Chelsea doesn’t see because she is preoccupied with checking your ankle and massaging it. You really don’t know what to do about tomorrow’s mission. All the other Sinners are busy and it is too urgent to postpone. Also, you do not want to be pampered. “I’ll still go tomorrow. Like you said, I mostly stand still.”
“But Chief-”
“I’ll be fine,” you state firmly while pushing yourself into sitting position, “You need me.”
Chelsea blushes, a mischievous smile sneaking onto her face. She ducks but keeps her eyes fixated on yours. You cough and decide to clarify, in case she misinterprets, “All of you,” and change the topic for good measure, “I will call Nightingale for back up.”
You reach for your communication device in your back pocket, but Chelsea seizes your hand, “No need for that, did you know I can carry half a dozen cats at once?” Chelsea demonstrates this by slinking her arms under your knees and back. Once she lifts you a foot off the ground and your feet cannot detect the safety of land anymore, you start to panic, realizing she is a hundred percent serious.
“Chelsea! I’m not a cat!” You protest violently. After all, your life is in danger. “Put me down!” Amidst your thrashing and whining, Chelsea wobbles, fighting to raise you up another foot. The tremors propagate from her to you. You feel like you are stuck in an earthquake, or a Black Ring, or a Black Ring during an earthquake. Whatever it is, you sense that Chelsea’s physical endurance cannot support your weight for much longer.
“Oh, shit,” Chelsea mutters under her breath. She proves your speculation right; her arms give in to the instability and you are dropped to the floor once more. This is precisely what you predicted in your mind, so you do not even bother screaming. On the other hand, Chelsea apologizes profusely, so profusely you tune her out.
At this point, you think your hindquarters are thoroughly bruised, and you’ll just have to live with it. But Chelsea only elevated you a foot and a half at most; the fall was inconsequential. Hence, you worry more about Chelsea, because a recent incident taught you that you’ll only harm yourself if you overconfidently venture past your boundaries. You also know this from many past personal experiences. One example is when you dropped a barbell on each foot when you tried to copy Zoya’s work out in the training room.
Chelsea is still apologizing when you peer at her. “Sorry! I’ll make it up to you! I’ll buy you anything you want for your forgiveness. You can even pick me up and throw me if it makes you feel better!” Despite the ridiculousness of her promises, her expression is so passionate and unfeigned. You don’t doubt the plausibility; Chelsea definitely can buy you anything. You definitely cannot hurl her though.
“It’s alright, I’m fine. What about you?”
“Uhm,” Chelsea hesitates, “I think I sprained my ankle too.”
Facepalming crosses your mind, but you actually don’t blame Chelsea. The ice skating rink is a brutal arena. Your concern outweighs your frustration, so you save that energy and use it to reach into your back pocket and call your adjutant. “Nightingale, please pick us up. We are, uh, injured.”
Chelsea does not interrupt. Once you hang up, she lightens up instantly, “I still want to carry you back though, Chief. A bridal carry. Wouldn’t that be so romantic?”
“If you hadn’t dropped me.” You’re not usually snarky, but you just want this to end.
Chelsea shrinks back down again, “Oof, good point.” She recovers in a second and summons her ruby cat, “Sitri, escort us back.”
“Can’t you wait for five m- AH!” The lioness tosses you onto her back without hesitancy, “Get me down!” Sitri (Chelsea) does not listen to you.
Your way back by cat is surprisingly without incident. You would argue it was even tranquil, like a cruise; you rock back and forth at times, but it is soothing instead of alarming. You remove your skates and they fall off Sitri. All you can do is hope someone from the Bureau comes by them. Nightingale fetches Chelsea, she walks back on her own after taking off the skates. You two reconvene in the medical room.
Fifteen minutes and two examinations later, Doctor Iron plops some documents on the desk, “Your diagnosis is correct, you do have a sprained ankle.” She taps your file, the only one on the table. “But not Chelsea, she’s just dramatic.”
“Iron, that wasn’t necessary…” The other pink-haired Sinner in the room defends Chelsea. As soon as the woman in question finds out she is unharmed, she springs up on the table, lounging on it, like it is made of velvet and not oak.
The doctor and the nurse brief you on treatment, which basically is only rest, before they exit the room and leave you alone with Chelsea.
“So how was our first date? Did you have fun today?” You are seated on a chair, so Chelsea inclines herself to establish eye contact.
“Yes,” you tell the honest truth. It was indeed quite an experience, but you like adventures. Chelsea never fails to make life interesting; every day is a vacation with her. “I should recheck the budget and hire an instructor next time though.”
“Ah, I thought of that, but I wanted to be alone with you, Chief.” Chelsea confesses. You did, too, but you withhold the whole truth. Chelsea doesn’t have to know; she is already smug enough with you being her newest sugar baby.
You smile at her, then check the time on the wall clock. “Excuse me, Chelsea, I should go prepare for tomorrow’s mission.” You stand up, but Chelsea dips down and encases you in a warm hug.
“Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow,” she whispers in your ear, sparking a flame somewhere in your chest, “I ordered some snowmobiles so we can still move around!”
There it is. To others, Chelsea is making a conceited, ostentatious display of her wealth. However, you understand that her eagerness to gift is a display of love. And you accept it.
Tempted by the proximity, you peck her on the cheek and depart swiftly. You don’t have to look back to know that heat and crimson gushes on the spot where you kissed. You also don’t have to look back to hear Chelsea’s “Love you too, baby!”
Thankfully, no one else is in earshot. But you don’t care about that at the moment. You thumb your lips, savouring the lingering tingle. It tastes like ice melting.