"Abandon All Hope..."

She turns away from the elevator doors when she hears him coming, his labored breaths deafening in the hallway. As he trudges up to stand next to her she can see steam coming off his ragged grey shirt, and there’s still burn holes and grime caked on his trousers.

The stench clings to his skin.

“You’re late,” she says, accusation in her voice. The man shakes his head and leans against the wall.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“The doors haven’t opened yet. I’m not late.”

“You came after me. You’re late.” He ignores her last words and coughs violently. The woman winces. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks, and there is no empathy in her tone. The man closes his eyes, breathing.

“I’m tired,” he says tonelessly before rubbing a dirty hand over his dirtier face. “What else?”

“You look terrible,” she tells him with deadpan scrutiny, taking a half step away from him. “You couldn’t have cleaned up before you got here?”

“What’s the point?” He slides down the wall and groans at the action. She is annoyed with his weakness. “We clean up, we get filthy. Endless cycle. I should just cut out the middle man.”

“He’s not going to let you up looking like that.”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” the man laughs. Cold. “Who else is going to go with you?” She just sighs and he looks to her, noting the agitation in the stiff way she crosses her arms. “Beatrice.” He says her name and she looks down at him. “I’m sorry. I really am just tired.”

“I know you are,” she snaps. “But so am I, and I at least put some effort into keeping up an appearance.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s our job.”

“And who ever said we had to do this fucking job?” he suddenly explodes, sitting up straight, his fingers curled like claws. His voice is booming, but Beatrice just rolls her eyes. She’s used to his tantrums, his outbursts. “When did we ever sign up for this?”

“I’m not in the mood today,” she tells him, and there is so much weariness in her tone. “Can we just focus on getting into the elevator?”

“I don’t want to get into the elevator.”

“When do we ever want to?”

“I want to stop. I can’t keep going in circles--,”

“Stop whining, you’ve been doing this for years.” She breathes deeply. “It should be second nature.”

“It’s not.”

“It should be.” But she doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s gotten easier.”

“It’s gotten harder,” he insists. Beatrice is about to reply, but then she hesitates as she stares at her garbled reflection in the elevator doors.

Because he’s right. For years, for decades they would venture out into the circles, fighting and scraping along the same path. One would think the way would get worn down over time, become easier and familiar. But every time was like the first: hard and painful and exhausting.

“It has,” she admits, and she unconsciously glances up and behind her, to make sure no one else is there to hear her blasphemy. There are alone in the hallway.

Always alone.

“Have you ever thought about leaving them?” he suddenly asks, and his words pull Beatrice out of her thoughts. She frowns at him, surprised. “I was just…wondering. Each circle is so vast, and they get lost so easily, like dumb little dogs. Sometimes I lose sight of them and I think about turning around and just…walking away.” He looks disgusted with himself even as he speaks, and when he looks back up he sees the same disgust on her face, but there’s something else there, too.

“That’s horrible,” she says. He drops his eyes. “You’re horrible, Virgil.”

He shrugs. “I know.”

More silence passes. The elevator doors are quiet and unmoving.

“I tried to,” she says abruptly, and the air grows thick with her words. He looks up sharply, but she’s not looking at him.

“What?”

“I lost sight of a girl in the fifth circle and I turned around and started to head back. She could have needed me, been caught by the Damned, pulled into temptation, I don’t know.” She sounds regretful, ashamed and repulsed at her own actions. But there is also a nervousness in her tone, and it’s there because they both know that a part of her doesn’t regret her actions at all. And that frightens them.

“What made you turn back?” he asks, struggling to his feet. She looks down and his eyes widen. “He made you?” He’s horrified and scared, but she shakes her head quickly.

“He doesn’t work like that. He doesn’t make the decisions for us.”

“I beg to differ.” Virgil speaks like a man with a grudge and not at all like the level-headed scholar he used to be. “So what happened? You felt guilty?”

“Yes.” Her reply is simple, and they both sit in it for a moment before she says any more. “I didn’t even make it to the edge of the circle. I just felt bad.”

“That you had left her alone?”

“That she couldn’t find the way out.” She stares hard at the elevator, at the distorted reflection that stares back. “Who cares if they are alone or miserable? I don’t. I only care that there would be no end for them. That there’s a way to get out, but they wouldn’t find it because no one can find it. We barely find it every time, and it’s our job.” She looks down at her hands. There are so many scars, old and brand new. A souvenir from every trip. “Why do I feel responsible for these strangers?”

“Because no one else will.”

A quiet sound of displaced air creeps out from the closed elevator doors. Beatrice and Virgil quickly stand to attention. Like soldiers.

“Does that make us good people? Taking responsibility only because there’s no one else who will?”

“Why not?”

“Because then we’re not actually good. It’s all fake.”

They look at each other. She sees him in all his grotesque glory, covered in the muck and mold of ages and stinking of a perilous journey that does him no good. He sees her as a scarred monument, something that has withstood the elements of time not because it chooses to, but because someone put it there eons ago and left it to fend for itself.

Virgil gestures to the sadness between them. “Do you think any of this is fake?”

Green light glows from beneath the elevator doors, and when they open the two step into the metal lift in complete silence. There are no buttons on the walls, but the doors slide close and the elevator rises.

And rises.

And rises.

An hour passes. And then two, maybe a few more.

Maybe none at all, because they learned long ago that they’re not relevant to time.

They usually take the journey in silence. Sometimes sitting, sometimes standing.

They sit this time, and Virgil tries to share a memory.

“Do you ever wonder about Dante?” he asks, but Beatrice grips his arm.

“I don’t want to hear that name right now.”

The elevator never slows from its steady pace, there are no other lights save for that one green glow from before, but they always know when it comes close to stopping. Already Virgil is regretting not cleaning up beforehand, and he tries his best to wipe his face on his dirty shirt. Beatrice doesn’t want to help him, but eventually she scoots closer and uses the hem of her dress to clean away most of the ash and blood. He says ‘thank you’ and kisses her hand, and she says ‘whatever’ and helps him to his feet. They hold on to each other, fingers laced together, too loose to tether, too close to be empty. He looks down and his fingertips caress her palm. She looks at him before brushing the hair from his face. They let go. They separate. They don’t touch for the last few minutes before the doors open.

When they step out it’s into the same huge, black room that they always step into. There are no windows, and even though there’s only darkness above they know that there is no ceiling, just a seemingly infinite expanse that goes up and up and up. The floor is made of marble that is dusty and cracked and old, and the walls show the remnants of pillars and alcoves that could have housed something grand at one time in history.

Beatrice and Virgil walk across the room, their footsteps echoing as he says what he says every time they return to this place.

“He still hasn’t put a chair in here.”

She ignores him, as she always does, and before long they reach the opposite side of the room, where a large wooden door stands locked from the other side. Virgil always checks through the eye slit, and when he pulls back the sliding panel he sighs.

“This one’s young,” he says, disappointed. “You might think they’re cute.”

“I don’t care,” she says, but a small part of her does. The responsibility she would inevitably feel was always easier when she liked the person.

She unconsciously messes with her hair as he waits for the lock to sound and he’s allowed to open the door. Sometimes the lock moves right away and other times it would take hours. It was never their call; it was never in their control whether the lock moved or not.

Very few things were.

But within a few seconds there is a click and Virgil is yanking on the iron handle with his bloody, chapped hands. A man walks through with little hesitation but much apprehension, and when he sees Beatrice he frowns.

“Who are you?” he asks, and from the door Virgil sighs.

“Why are they so much calmer when they see you, but if it’s me they always scream?”

“Because you look like that,” she says, eyeing his unpleasant appearance. “And I come off nice.”

“You’re hardly nice,” says Virgil.

“Prettier, then.”

With a grunt Virgil shuts the wooden door and the lock slides back into place on its own. The man’s calm is now waning, and fear is finally starting to settle in. He’s beginning to panic, and the two let him dissolve into hysterics without saying a word. Virgil reiterates that a chair should have been present.

“Just wait in the elevator,” she tells him. “I can take the first four while you clean up.”

Virgil frowns. “So I have to cross five circles?”

“You’re supposed to be the first guide. I’m doing you a favor.” When he grimaces she glares. “Stop complaining and just do your job.”

The job that He had given her.

The job that He had given Virgil.

Since that first moment when Dante had passed through into the realm of the Fallen, and had woven false tales of their righteousness to God.

“Where am I?” the main wails, and Beatrice yanks him to his feet and guides him to the elevator.

“This is Hell,” she says, and the man trips over his feet when the word settles in. Beatrice is not gentle when she tugs him along. “And Virgil and I will lead you through it so you can get out.”

They reach the elevator and the man is wide-eyed with fearful wonder. He looks up at Virgil and Virgil glares down at him. “Why are you helping me?” he asks.

A shared glance. A mutual sigh. The doors slide closed.

“Because honestly, no one else will.”

The man expects more, probably something heartfelt and philosophical. Maybe he expects an explanation for his problems, for their existence, for they what and the why. The way he cowers in the corner and stares at them both says that he wants them to comfort him, to make him feel better than he does.

But they don’t do any of that.