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Sinclair woke up. Not unusual in and of itself, as he commonly did go to bed and wake up again in the morning (thankfully). In fact, everything seemed particularly normal.
His room was barren as always, the pristine white walls shining merrily at him from the other side of the room. He always made sure to sleep in the side that was encompassed in shadows, though he didn't exactly know how the shadows got there in the first place. There was just a split of light and shadow down the middle, and after the first few times of seeing it, he learned to stop questioning it.
No one had banged on his door yet, which meant he woke up before Outis got to doing her rounds. That was always a plus. Waking up to the woman pounding on the door, going on about being more punctuated and how sleeping in was disrespectful to the Manager, wasn't very fun. It more often than not left him in a poor mood for the rest of the day.
Which left Sinclair alone beside himself.
And his other selves.
And the E.G.O.s, too.
Yeah.
For some odd and inexplicable reason, he was still able to communicate with his Identities while not wearing them. Constantly. No one else talked about anything like this happening, so Sinclair refrained to do the same. It was harder when The One Who Shall Grip came along, because despite also somehow being Emil Sinclair, he was like a completely different person.
His random commentary throughout the day used to give Sinclair headaches. He managed to wave it off as side effects of obtaining such a wild and violent Identity, especially an N. Corp. one at that, but he could only pretend not to notice Faust's hyper-analytical stares directly at him.
Eventually, The One Who Shall Grip, effectively named "Grip," stopped interrupting Sinclair's day-to-day affairs. He'd go and talk to the other Sinclairs, usually, which often turned into arguments, which turned into... bigger headaches.
Sinclair felt bad for taking so many painkillers from their little storage, especially when it happened so often. And extra especially because no one else seemed to have this problem. But if he wanted to be able to focus on his work, he kind of had to.
It didn't take long for people to notice him always swiping painkillers. He got a few odd glances from Heathcliff, some sharp glares from Outis, and Hong Lu one time directly asked him why he took so many.
His plain answer of "headache" seemed to make his coworkers more suspicious of him, not less.
So, he finally turned to the root of the problem, which was... the other Sinclairs.
At this point in time, back when Grip was still new, there were seven of them, including himself. As the "original" Sinclair, he got to keep the nickname Sin. Other than him and Grip, there was Blade, Jefe, Zwei, Impending Day, and Lifetime Stew. The E.G.O.s got to keep their full names, for whatever reason. But the rest had to have some name other than "Sinclair" so they could all identify each other easier.
It was late one night, back in his room, that he intercepted an altercation between Grip, Impending Day, and Zwei. Apparently, Zwei was too much of a wuss for Grip's liking, and while Impending Day egged on Grip's behavior, Grip didn't like Impending Day all that much, and thus, a fight. Sinclair felt bad for Zwei. The poor guy was sat between Grip and Impending Day, two brutal, burning forces of fury, while all he could do was cower and try not to draw attention to himself.
Unfortunately for Sinclair, neither Grip nor Impending Day really cared to listen to him, even after he explained all the headaches and painkillers and tension between him and his coworkers. They stopped for that evening, but when Sinclair woke up again, they got right back into hammering each other with insults.
Which led to this very moment, with Sinclair waking up in the tranquility of his room to the sounds of arguing that he didn't actually hear.
God, he hoped this was normal.
He slowly got ready for the day, trying hard not to think of anything that would provoke Grip or Impending Day further. Since they appeared to also be in the same mind as him, he found that thinking some things hard enough would share the thought to the other Sinclairs. Unfortunate, but true. Not even his own mind was private anymore.
Sighing, he adjusted his jacket one last time, right before he heard Outis pounding on Rodya's door across the hall. With newfound haste, he grabbed Vogel off the wall it leaned on, watched the mysterious branches unweave from around its hilt, and pushed his door open.
Outis looked about two seconds from knocking on his door, but she nodded approvingly at him as he slipped past her into the main bus. Faust, Ishmael, Gregor, Don, Meursault, Hong Lu, Ryoshu, and Heathcliff were already waiting. Dante walked in a moment after Sinclair, with Rodya, Yi Sang, and Outis appearing later. Vergilius and Charon were, at the moment, nowhere to be seen.
Don, for whatever reason, stood up barely a moment after Sinclair sat down, running up to Rodya with an excited glimmer in her eye. That left him and Yi Sang sat alone in their section. The first Sinner looked as if she were about to fall asleep again, despite probably have woken up mere moments ago. But Sinclair would much rather disturb her than Faust about this subject. Faust was... scary. Hard to talk to. Yi Sang and Sinclair had gotten rather close as of recent, though, so he felt at least a little less awkward about asking her.
Trying really hard to look inconspicuous, Sinclair slowly scooted over to where Yi Sang sat, her arms and legs crossed and her head drooping. When Sinclair was a few inches away, she noted his presence with a slight head turn towards him.
"...and what is the meaning of this interaction, Sinclair?" Her voice was deeper than usual, and a little gritty due to sleep. She still held that poetic rhythm to her words, though, which Sinclair honestly held respect for.
He cleared his throat quietly. "It's, ah... a bit of an odd question, if you don't mind..."
"One may find that my expertise lies within questions of oddity," she responded softly, matching Sinclair's near-whispering tone. "Do ask."
"Ok, so," Sinclair started, clasping his hands together. "Ever since Grip—sorry, I mean The One Who Shall Grip—and Impending Day started interacting, they've been... uh... not very friendly with each other, right? And it's given me a lot of the headaches I've been mentioning... sorry about all the painkillers, by the way... and, ah... Yi Sang, w-why are you looking at me like... that...?" He trailed off as soon as he noticed the face of bewilderment his coworker wore.
Looking around a bit more, he noticed Outis and Rodya giving him the same look. And Gregor, too... even Dante? All of them. All of them were staring at him as if he'd just told them he worked as an agent for A. Corp. Literally everyone. Even Vergilius, who had just walked in, was staring at the group, absolutely baffled.
From within his mind, Jefe muttered to him, That was a good shot. Don't feel bad. And it took all his energy to not bury his now very red face in his hands.
"Prithee, my good comrade Sinclair! What dost thou mean by 'arguing'?" Don shouted at him. Sinclair looked towards his other coworkers, but their faces all seemed to agree with Don.
Uh.
"W- uh- wait, wait—" And with that very graceful exit, he momentarily turned towards Jefe, who in his mind's eye, was right next to him.
Jefe! He mentally shouted, somehow grabbing the maraca-wielding man's shoulders and shaking them around. Jefe, what do I do? What do I do!? I didn't- I thought this was normal, why are they all looking at me like that-
Amigo, Jefe said, interrupting Sinclair's rather ugly rambling with a shake of his maraca. It's okay. If they know, they know. If they don't explain it. No one's gonna kill you for this. Besides, he said with a light grin, even if they do, you'll get revived again.
And with that, Jefe bonked him lightly on the head with a maraca, snapping Sinclair back into reality.
During Sinclair's mini-discussion with Jefe, Dante had made their way over to Sinclair and was sitting in the empty seat next to him. A reassuring hand was laid on his shoulder, and the slow ticking of their clock helped Sinclair recenter himself. On his right, Yi Sang had leaned forward to get a better look at his face. A quick glance discerned that Vergilius had moved closer, but the rest of the Sinners hadn't moved all that much.
"Uh, okay, yeah. Um." He reclasped his hands—when had they become unclasped?—and stared down at his lap. "You guys can't, like, t-talk... to them..."
<You mean your other Identities?> Dante asked, speaking slowly and with an air of calmness. <You talk to them?>
Sinclair nodded tentatively back at Dante and tried not to cringe at the collective gasps of the group. Vergilius muttered to Faust about a translation, which she gave him, and he only responded with narrowed eyes.
"Since when?" Heathcliff spoke up, looking suspicious. One hand was rested on the handle of his bat in a way that was probably normal for him, but felt somehow more intimidating than usual.
"Uh, gosh..." Sinclair collected himself for a moment. "S-since... Probably since T-The One Who Shall Grip became useable..." He received more mutters, more prying eyes, more gasps. It was almost as bad as the shitty, useless argument that Grip and Impending Day were going on about in the background of his mind.
Before he could even notice it, Faust was towering in front of him, eyes piercing into his skull. He suppressed a shiver, and unfolded his hands to crack his knuckles nervously.
"Can you currently communicate with your other Identities?" She asked, voice cold and monotone.
He nodded.
"Can any of them speak instead of you, in this exact moment?"
He... didn't know how to answer that.
In he went.
Jefe was still there, by his side, also looking out of Sinclair's eyes. Somehow. It didn't make that much sense, but here he was anyways.
So... are you able to talk in this Identity? Sinclair asked uncertainly, wringing his mental hands together more than he was doing outwardly.
Jefe shrugged. I can try.
When Sinclair refocused on the outside world, he shrugged.
Faust blinked at him. "Do make an attempt. If now is not the best time, indicate when it will be likely to happen again."
"No, I-I'll try," Sinclair stammered, and for the next few seconds, he worked on controlling his breathing.
Jefe was still sitting there when he retreated inwards again, and Sinclair gestured vaguely to the...
Where even was he?
While confusion set in for him, Jefe seemed to understand enough, so he stood and... he didn't disappear, really, but he kind of blurred out a bit. As if he was only partially there. It was a white room, similar to his own in the rear of the bus. But there were no mysterious branches, or half-encompassing shadow, or window up into a life he could no longer have. Instead, one wall held the view of his eyes, and the other had a door embedded in it.
He watched as Jefe's—Sinclair's? Jefe's? Both of theirs?—eyes moved, how he wasn't afraid to look Faust in the eye or take survey of the other Sinners. He couldn't hear what anyone was saying very well, it was muffled, like he was underwater. But Faust looked approving enough, and no one appeared horrified, so he counted that as a win.
After a while, Jefe refocused, form coming back to life. His maracas shook in a practiced pattern that he often made. A rather slow one, and it felt fairly relaxing. He nodded to Sinclair, who walked back over to him.
How was it? What did Faust say? Sinclair looked worriedly between the window and Jefe, but his maraca-carrying companion only smiled.
You should take a look for yourself, Sin, he said, voice as smooth as always. They'll help you. As for now, I should go handle... He pointed a maraca towards the door, and Sinclair followed his gaze there. You'll go down that hall when it's time, don't worry. You're needed elsewhere.
And with that, Jefe left the room, and Sinclair focused hard on re-possessing his body.
It was weird, for a second, when he actually felt the seat beneath him again. He blinked a few times, took a few deep breaths, and tugged at the ends of his gloves.
Faust hummed above him, and he tried his hardest not to jump. "Very interesting, Sinclair."
He didn't want to know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Dante was still to his left, Yi Sang to his right, and Vergilius was between Faust and Dante now. Some of the others (notably Don, Rodya, and Hong Lu) had crept even closer. Sinclair put all his energy into trying not to fidget under the imposing gazes of literally everyone on the damn bus.
Vergilius sighed moments later, and with that, everyone thankfully retreated to their seats. Sinclair scooted back over so Don could have her normal spot, and Yi Sang sat back up and closed her eyes.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the arguing stopped.
Don tried to pester him about it, but she got told off from it and eventually gave up when Sinclair supplied no answers.
Mephistopheles roared to life, and thus, for once in a long while, Sinclair's day sank into something reminiscent to peace.