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The city burns, and Bayonetta runs.
Her memories of this night remain hazy, so she navigates the broken streets like it's the first time, trying to drown out the angelic trumpets and the far off scream of the Umbra. A death knell. The sound mixes with her heels on cobblestones, Love Is Blue now the color of rust and regret from the blood of far too many Laguna to count. All 4 One is spotless, held by limp wrists.
Somewhere, Balder's voice echoes, commanding his armies to the slaughter. It doesn't matter. She's lost Rosa, and the boy. That doesn't matter either, though it should. She flips over a burning barricade, a last ditch effort from some Umbra whose faces she does not stop to look at, their charred bodies just another obstacle.
She runs. She leaps. She dodges. She stumbles — then collides, with a body still solid and alive. The scent of lilies wraps around her. Even in this chaos, some realities eschew change.
"Jeanne!"
"C-cereza?"
It's funny, how time wears down the edges of a person. She'd forgotten just how sharp Jeanne used to be, the solid line of her back and the solid line of her mouth. More often than not these days she is curved over their kitchen counter, a smile on her face as she writes in looping cursive on her student's essays.
Was, wrote. The past collides with the present, and she swallows down a scream.
The gun pointed at her face is as antiquated as the woman holding it. All 4 One is cold in her palms, unable to recognize its master out of time. Cereza takes in her hair falling from the golden netting she meticulously arranged that evening. Hazy images of a vanity come to mind, a brush with pearl inlay and their eyes meeting in reflection. Now, dried blood and ash mars her cheek.
"Yes. It's, I'm—" The words get caught somewhere between tongue and teeth. Jeanne's eyes are so bright, even narrowed as they are in fear. She doesn't want to forget that. What if she forgets that?
Jeanne cocks the barrel. No adornments. No ridiculous feathers, like the ones that used to get in her mouth when they sparred. No plush musketeers, like the ones that Bayonetta had sewn and stuffed by hand.
She had laughed when Bayonetta gifted them too her, shaking their little paws with mock seriousness and attaching them to her guns with care. They've fallen off now, lost somewhere between here and Inferno.
"A Joy who can speak? Poorly, that is. Tell me where you've taken Cereza, and perhaps I'll let you live."
Bayonetta chuckles, despite it all. Jeanne, so young and so confident that she can take on the world. For what? A crybaby with glasses and a fondness for hot baths? She pushes her frames back up her nose, and Jeanne follows the motion with her gun.
"As if you'd ever let a Laguna live."
The gun on her left heel cracks against Bayonetta's cheekbone and sends her stumbling back with a surprised grunt. Jeanne never needed Witch Time to be fast, but it has been a long time since they fought in a way that wasn't foreplay.
"That wasn't very polite," she mutters, holding back traitorous tears. Her fingers twitch toward the triggers of All 4 One on instinct. She looks at the long line of her beloved, the long, alive line, and vanishes the guns to the void. "Open your eyes, Jeanne—"
Jeanne does not. A hail of bullets rains down on her head, and it is all Bayonetta can do to dodge them in the cramped alley. The smell of gunsmoke and crumbling plaster is thick in her nose, blocking out Jeanne's perfume. It makes her sick, bile coating her tongue as magic metal grazes her ear, then her shin. She can't bring herself to fight, blood dripping into roses as Jeanne backs her into a corner, another kick to her jaw sending her to her knees.
The last time in this position, Christmas Eve, Jeanne's hair iridescent with the backdrop of multi-colored string lights. A warm palm on her cheek, a thumb sliding suggestively across her lips.
Now, the hot muzzle of Jeanne's gun slips right under her chin. The scar it will leave is more personal than a lipstick print, and more permanent than the bruises hidden beneath her clothes, in the shape of Jeanne's mouth and fingertips.
She leans into the burn, watching the rise and fall of Jeanne's chest, imagining she can hear her heartbeat in her ears. Three days ago, her cheek against Jeanne's sternum, arguing about caviar and holiday cards. Now —
Bayonetta!
No. No! Let me go to her!
You saw what she did to that Alarune chick. You wanna be her next meal?
Wouldn't be the first time. Rodin—
You still got a job to do, Bayonetta. That kid needs a hand. Or are you gonna leave him for the wolves?
Goddamnit!
Go. I'll keep her distracted.
Don't hurt her. Please.
Yeah, yeah. Consider it a favor, since she's the only one who ever paid her tab.
Jeanne hesitates, finger twitching against the trigger.
Bayonetta laughs.
"Are you insane?"
"I love you," Bayonetta says, because she doesn't want to die without telling her, even if it is both too early and too late. "I've loved you our whole lives, ever since you sewed up that awful gash in Cheshire's arm and walked me back home even though you were terrified of the prison."
It's funny, how the memories come back only now that she is set to lose them again. Jeanne pulls the gun away, and Bayonetta rocks on her heels to chase it. She wants it to end, and wants it to end like this. At Jeanne's mercy. It's only fair.
She doesn't bother dodging the next blow. Metal cracks against her jaw and she tastes copper. She lets it slip past her teeth and over her chin, words running along with it to pool between them.
"I love the freckle next to your left breast, and how much you loathe sugar in your tea, and that you never managed to become a morning person. I love your terrible handwriting and your snoring and how you refused to shut up even when Mistress Endora beat you senseless for defending me."
All the words she's kept locked behind her teeth for the sake of saving face. What good had it done her? What good would it do her now? This Jeanne doesn't know Bayonetta. She hasn't yet learned who she's been forced to become, hasn't yet forgiven her for the endless walls she puts up and the masks she won't take off.
Jeanne's shaking, and Bayonetta is smiling, laughing, unspooling before her, the final stitch coming undone. Her gaze flicks down to the dirty puddle by her knees. The Eye is glowing. Useless. She never wanted to be a god.
For this Jeanne, she lets herself truly be Cereza, one last time.
"I'm sorry I slipped out this morning. Before you woke up. I knew how important today was, and I was scared I'd ruin it for you. I tucked Charles in my place so you wouldn't wake up alone. I never wanted to leave you alone, Jeanne."
"Shut up! Shut up, shut the fuck up! A dirty Lumen trick, cruel, stupid, fucking — I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!"
"I've ruined it all anyway, haven't I? Balder is here for me, the 'treasured Left Eye,'" she mocks, voice reedy with bitter tears, "And I can't stop him. I can't stop any of it. I'm sorry Jeanne. I've caused you so much trouble."
I'm sorry, I've caused you so much trouble. I got mud on your dress, and bothered you, I'm sorry—
Shut up. Do you have to apologize so much?
No. Sorry. Wait, no! I'll — I'll stop talking now.
You can talk. It will be weird if you don't talk.
You stood up to those girls even though they were really mean and scary.
Scary? They were weaklings. You could have chased them off yourself. You didn't need me.
Yes I did! You are so brave, Jeanne. I'm nothing like that.
You sleep in that nasty prison every night, and you've been sneaking into magic lessons. I'd say that's pretty brave.
How did you know? I tried really hard to be careful and keep quiet! I'm sorry, please don't tell—
What did I say about that?
S-stop.
You're braver than you think, Cereza. I wouldn't be your friend if I thought you were some stupid busybody like those other girls.
You're my…friend?
Duh. Do you think I'm hanging out with you for my health?
Maybe?
You're ridiculous. Come on. We need to clean your knees, and there is a spell I want to show you. Sneaking into lessons is brave, but reckless. I'll just have to start teaching you on my own.
Hey, Jeanne?
What is it?
Thank you. I'm glad we're friends.
Me too. But hurry up! You're so slow sometimes.
Sorry!
And stop saying sorry!
Sorry! I mean, okay! And thank you!
"I'm sorry, my friend. My Jeanne. Thank you—"
"Enough—"
Hot gun to her temple, hotter hand at her nape. Jeanne fists the short locks to yank her head up, and Bayonetta whimpers.
Jeanne's grip doesn't loosen, but the gun falls to her side. She's flush with anger, and Bayonetta is flush with shame, and desire, red creeping up her neck to the tips of her ears. Her face is tacky with sweat and ash and tears, but she doesn't want to risk wiping it away and having Jeanne let go of her.
"You—" Jeanne chokes out, incredulous, and Bayonetta chuckles weakly.
"Don't act so surprised. You know I have a masochistic streak, darling. You gave it to me during all those sparring matches in the western forest."
"Cereza?" Her voice is quiet, questioning.
"Yes." Then, because she can't help herself, "I've been trying to tell you. I can't believe this is what got you to listen. But then again, you've always been a bit of a lech."
"Me!? You're the one who—" She catches herself, as the weight of realization crushes the breath from her lungs. "How?"
"It's a long story."
"Make it short." She reaches out a hand and brusquely yanks Bayonetta to her feet, looking over her injuries. Always looking after her, even now. Before she can attempt to heal them, Bayonetta steps back.
"Don't bother. You'll need to save your energy."
"And you know this because you're from the future." Not a question, just an obvious deduction, stated aloud so Jeanne can adjust to it. Bayonetta looks older, and feels it too. While Jeanne, even caked in dirt and blood, still has an air of youth about her. Very soon it will be destroyed. It's hard to look at her this close. It's impossible to look away. "You're here for a reason. What do you need me to do?"
Bayonetta tries to laugh, but sobs instead. Her throat spasms, and she leans into the brick, trembling. Jeanne's hands are quick to her shoulders.
"Cereza!"
"What do I need you to do?"
Stop risking life and limb for me, she doesn't say. Stop sacrificing your future for mine. I wasn't supposed to have one. I wasn't supposed to live at all.
It would be a waste of breath. Jeanne is too stubborn to listen to reason, and too devout to accept a fundamental Truth: Cereza was born weak, and she will die that way too. The Umbra couldn't beat it out of her despite their best efforts. Whatever Jeanne convinced herself she saw in Cereza doesn't exist. And without her by her side, it never will.
Her Jeanne was used to her tears, her crybaby ways returning after their reunion over Jubileus' corpse. Her Jeanne had no pity when she would take Bayonetta in her arms, asked no questions and showed no fear; she would cradle her head over her heart, letting Bayonetta ruin yet another silk blouse while she pressed delicate lips to her cheek, her temple. They had never talked about it.
This Jeanne — hers, yes, but not the same, not yet, not ever, really, because this meeting is surely altering the future in ways Bayonetta is certain she will pay for later — does not know what do to with these tears. Is scared of them. Her Cereza stopped crying in front of her after Avalon.
"Stop! Stop that." Her nails dig in, and Bayonetta sags against the wall, taking Jeanne with her. "Speak plain. Tell me what to do!"
"You never needed me to tell you anything, Jeanne. You're the teacher, not me."
"Dammit, Cereza!" Bayonetta touches her cheek and Jeanne lets her, despite her fear. She strokes longing fingers over her jaw, her bottom lip, the strained tendon of her neck.
Stubborn, lovely girl. One of a kind.
"I can't," she says, letting the disappoint on Jeanne's face settle in the marrow of her bones.
"Can't, or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
Angelic screeches in the distance, getting closer. Time marches on. Bayonetta shakes her head.
"You'll know what to do when the time comes, Jeanne. Trust yourself — Cereza does. I did. Do."
Jeanne's eyes widen.
"I'm gone, aren't I?" She asks, though it isn't a real question, any more than Bayonetta's laugh is a real answer. Too perceptive for her own good. Isn't that what led to all this trouble in the first place, a silver haired Heiress sneaking out past her bedtime because she deduced that it was wrong for another young girl to live in a prison? Jeanne could never let sleeping dogs lie. "But you're still here."
"Unfortunately."
"Don't say that," she snaps, with the exact intonation of the teacher she is not, yet. All she needs are some red winged frames to push up her nose. Last she checked they were resting on their coffee table, on top of whatever boring novel Jeanne started but will never finish. "Do not ever say that."
Now it's Jeanne's turn to touch her. A gloved palm to her cheek, right over the bruise she put there. Bayonetta leans into the pain, a comfort she doesn't deserve.
"It doesn't matter. As long as you're still alive, I can — I must." The resolve Cereza never could find, Jeanne has always had in spades. "Cereza, whatever it is you're here to do…you have to see it through."
"Why do you always ask the impossible of me?" She mutters, more tears falling. She couldn't care less about that boy, or the masked Lumen, or the fate of the world. Let the whole bloody mountain crumble into the sea. What does it matter? Why should she care? She left her world behind in Inferno.
Another round, Cereza. Any Umbra worth their salt can go much longer than this in the training dens.
I know the water is scary, but so is drowning because you're too much of a baby to learn to swim. Get in, or I'll throw you in.
Stay, please. I'll take the punishment if anyone sees. I want you here with me tonight.
Do not fear your fate. Stand, Cereza. Stand, and open your eyes.
"Because you have a knack for making the impossible, possible. You're one of a kind."
"We're both one of a kind, Jeanne," she whispers. "Please."
Jeanne's lips are soft, and taste of ash. Their cheeks are both wet. She closes her eyes.
"One of a kind," Jeanne repeats. "Do not fear your fate. You've always been the best of us, Cereza. I have no regrets. I'm sure I — she — didn't either."
Then she's gone, into the smoke and gunfire, beyond where Bayonetta can follow. Again.
Vigrid burns. Laughter rings in her ears. Her own, but very far away. Love is Blue is hot on her heels. All 4 One materializes, cold in her hands.
She opens her eyes. Goes on.