Work Hard Play Harder

“Are you ready?” Rosary asks, kneeling over Mist, who lies facedown in the grass beside the road.

“I still don’t understand why this is necessary,” Mist says, elegantly twirling a stick with fingers still bloody from carving.

“My guardian says it’ll help somehow, isn’t that right?” Rosary asks, looking up. Hovering above her is a spectral figure clad in full samurai attire. White, glowing eyes peer through his ressei-style mask, matched by the glowing crucifix upon his chest. His armor is worn and chipped in places, bearing the marks of many battles, while faded Genji crests rest upon both shoulders.

“Indeed, it’s critical to realign the spine after such a fall, lest she suffer lasting damage. In fact, I remember one time when—” he continues, prattling on in a voice Mist can’t hear. Instead, Mist focuses on the small winged cloud unseen by Rosary.

“Can’t you just fix my spine on your own? Why do I have to lie on the grass?” Mist asks, staring at the cloud. The guardian remains silent as Rosary looks down with a mild scowl.

“Don’t get mad at him for your choices,” she scolds. “I always tell you not to climb trees, but you never listen. I don’t know what ‘aura farming’ is, but it’s not worth you getting hurt. Honestly, it’s a miracle it takes this long for something like this to happen.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Let’s get this over with,” Mist says, lying face down in the grass.

“Okay… dang it, I lost my place,” Rosary says, looking up to her guardian. The samurai, in turn, looks down at the cloud, who wordlessly reaches a foggy tendril, placing it on Mist’s back.

“The heel of your palm on T11,” the samurai instructs, pointing a finger that partially shifts through Mist’s back, emphasizing his incorporeal nature.

“And he’s sure she needs this?” Rosary asks, placing her hands above the spot but not touching Mist.

“Absolutely,” the samurai says as the cloud shifts.

“And it won’t hurt her?” she says, finally placing a hand down on Mist’s back.

“She wouldn’t require this if she’d repent of her sins and restrengthen our bond,” the cloud hisses, his white form darkening into a rumbling storm cloud.

“There’s no need to get angry with me, Shachakiel,” the samurai says, communicating by means his charge can neither perceive nor understand. “Not a day goes by that I don’t use all my ability and then some to persuade my charge to inspire change in yours, lest she bring both of them down.” He turns away from the cloud and back to his charge, whose face grows more worried with each passing second. “With both God and me as witnesses, no harm shall come to her,” he says, switching to a voice Rosary can hear.

“Okay, I’m trusting you,” Rosary says, finally placing her other hand on Mist’s back.

“Not very reassuring if I can’t hear it myself,” Mist thinks, only able to hear Rosary’s words. Due to the nature of spiritual connection, a person can only ever perceive their own guardian, despite a guardian’s ability to perceive all physical beings. This often leads to games of telephone, such as this one. Mist wonders whether all guardians are as mute as hers, completely disregarding the sin that deteriorates her bond.

“Alright, Mist, take a deep breath,” Rosary instructs, pressing down with all her might as soon as she feels Mist’s back rise.

*Crunch*

The vibration of vertebrae realigning themselves travels up Rosary’s fingers and into her arms. The feeling is worse than nails on a chalkboard, and the sound echoes in her mind. “You said it wouldn’t hurt!” she screams, staring up at her guardian.

“Does she appear hurt?” the samurai says, looking down at Mist. For a moment, Mist is silent, her body still as stone. Then, ever so slowly, her whole body starts to shake as her fingers dig into the soil, clutching handfuls of grass.

“AAAHHHHH!” Mist’s wails, her exaggerated display tearing at her vocal cords. The show rattles Rosary to her core in a way the demons could never dream of as Mist’s screams turn to moans and her limbs flail.

“Bah… Umm,” Rosary mumbles in a panic.

“Should I grab her? Or keep her still?” she thinks, watching as Mist rolls onto her back and pulls her limbs in.

“It’s okay,” Rosary consoles, grabbing hold of Mist’s hand, desperate to do something. “You’re fine, I’ll— Ah!” Rosary yips, losing her balance as Mist suddenly yanks her arm.

“Have to get off!” she thinks, pushing up, only to have Mist cling to her with both arms and interlock her legs around her waist. “Wait a second,” Rosary thinks, as Mist pulls her lips a hair’s breadth away from Rosary’s ear.

“Gotcha,” Mist whispers, lips curling into a gleeful smile.

“Why, you little!” Rosary hisses; panic turning to indignation as she moves to peel Mist off herself. Shrieks and giggles erupt as the two wrestle on the grass in a scene familiar to both. “Come on, let me go,” Rosary grunts, peeling Mist’s arms off her back. “We do not have time for this.”

“You know the win conditions,” Mist says, redoubling her leg hold.

“We have to collect the pearls before she gets here.”

“Can’t our guardians do it for once? Not like they have much else to do.”

“They already have their hands full mitigating our pain and injuries,” Rosary says, managing a joint lock. The lock would make any normal girl squeal, but with her pain suppressed, Mist only winces at the mild discomfort. Despite her deception granting her an advantageous start, Mist is no match forRosary. Within a minute, Rosary’s superior strength, endurance, and wrestling prowess turn the tide. Hands pinned above her head, Mist is left panting as Rosary’s piercing blue eyes stare down at her, twinkling brighter than any star in the Tokyo sky. Rosary adjusts her grip, holding both Mist’s wrists in one hand and bringing the free one to Mist’s face. As her fingers gently rub across Mist’s cheek, she closes her eyes and pushes up her chin, eager for the next stage of her fantasy.

“Ahahaha!” Mist laughs as the tingling in her armpits sends her crashing back down to reality.

“Now repent, sinner,” Rosary chastises, tickling Mist’s defenseless armpits to her heart’s content.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Mist cries, kicking her legs in a futile attempt to beat Rosary’s pin.

“For?” Rosary inquires, pulling her hand away.

“Getting caught!”

“Ah!” Rosary gasps, irritated but not surprised. “Cheeky today, aren’t we?” Rosary chastises, pinching Mist’s red cheek as a feigned smile appears under her mask. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Pray for me and my salvation,” Mist murmurs through molded cheeks.

“That might just be the first smart thing you’ve said all night,” Rosary replies. Satisfied, she releases her friend and rises to her feet, dusting off the grass clippings and dirt. “Now come on and help me gather the pearls,” she instructs, looking down at Mist, who remains flat on her back.

“Sorry, but that is all the exertion my gamer muscles are capable of. Gotta rest at a save point before the next boss appears.”

“You won’t have to fight this boss if we have the pearls ready when she arrives,” Rosary huffs. “At least lift the fog so I can look for them. Better yet, give me some… what did you call them?… quest signs?”

“You mean quest markers?” Mist asks, leaning her head to look under her visor. “Such a normie,” she murmurs, waving her arms to mold the fog into convenient arrows above the scattered pearls. Rosary makes her way around the street, gathering the pearls. The colors and sizes vary, but even in the dim streetlight, each shines like the finest pearl. She picks them up with tweezers and drops them in a small glass vial filled with holy water. Each pearl violently hisses in the water. By the time she’s collected them all, the vial looks like it’s boiling despite no heat radiating from the pearls.

“Remember, O Lord, thy tender mercies and thy lovingkindnesses; for they have been ever of old,” Rosary prays, readying a cork with a cross sealed on top. “Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions: according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness’ sake, O Lord.” As she seals the vial with the cork, the violent boil tapers to a low simmer as the pearls lose their color, fading to a glossy black.

“And not a moment too soon,” Mist calls, finally rising to her feet and pointing down the road. “The tax collector arrives,” she says, scorn clearly visible as the road, now free of fog, reveals a massive whirlwind engulfing the entire street.