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…There is a blond-haired man who patiently waits by the town square. The children accost him to tell them stories of his homeland.
The man— his features Feysac in origin— enjoys entertaining the kids.
"Mister, what’s your job? Is it cool?" one of the children asks him, and he smiles.
"I'm a psychologist—" he says, and then elaborates, "I help people with their mental issues. Like if they're too sad. I think it’s pretty cool."
The kids make an appropriate 'ooo' in acknowledgement. "Is it fun?"
"It's serious work, but it makes me happy." he answers, and it's true enough. Although the issues of his patients sometimes made him sad, the satisfaction of helping others was more than enough.
He was a very good man.
(He was a very loved man.)
“I think being a warrior is way cooler and funner. You get to kill bad guys.” one of the kids says, to her friend.
“Is that so? Would you be a warrior, then?” he asked, curious.
The girl grinned as she looked at him, her missing front tooth on display, “Yep! What’s your favorite color?”
“Yellow. I’ve always liked how bright it is. It’s a very happy color, I think.” Like the sun.
Another question is asked, "Why are you here?"
"Because I'm waiting for someone— a good friend of mine. He's a bit annoying, but he's not that terrible1—” he admits, and then continues, “Don't tell him that, though." he says, in a conspiratorial tone, like it's a secret he’s letting the kids in on.
"Heyyy, Grisha," another man quickly approaches, speeding up his pace to return to his side. "What kind of things are you telling these poor innocent children?"
"Certainly nothing worse than what they would have been hearing if you were here." he retorts, automatically. "Anyways, this is my friend— we'll have to go now. Adult things to do, you know.”
The kids collectively show expressions of disappointment, and leave them to continue playing— their quick flight of fancy leaving just as quickly as it had arrived.
The other man was elf-like, his features soft and akin to those ancient stories— though his ears weren’t pointed in the slightest.
“So, what kind of things were you saying?” the other man wonders. “Slander upon my good name, perhaps?”
Grisha laughs. “Ruirui2, there’s no way. You’d need to have a good name at all, first.”
Zhou Mingrui acts offended, although he isn’t— not really, anyways. Although his friend was rather annoying, he… still liked him. A terrible decision on his part, he knew.
“You’re an asshole.” the other says— really not intending to be heard by anyone other than his companion.
…He quickly prays that none of the kids hear that over the sound of their playing.
“And you’re a terrible liar, Mingrui. Let’s go home.”
‘Home’, of course, being their shared house. It was cheaper, like that. More practical, too.
…And then they interlock hands, and leave into the sunset. Or something like that, anyways.
I wish—
He holds the other's hand tightly— like he'd disappear if he let go. Like he'd disappear if he closed his eyes for even a second— if he stopped searing this moment into the back of his eyelids for even a moment.
He's not sure why.
(Like Eurydice being led out of the underworld— hold on, don't look away, keep following, tighten your grip—
Whatever you do, just don't falter3.)
[INTERVIEW STARTS]
THE INTERVIEWER:
Alright. So, just for the record, your name is Lianne Basker? Age 24, female?
THE INTERVIEWEE:
Yep— Um. I mean, yes, that’s correct.
THE INTERVIEWER:
I… see. And you claim to have found yourself in a town named ‘Utopia’?
THE INTERVIEWEE:
I was just, wandering— looking for good sights— you know how it is, when, bam, suddenly I’m in this random town? I’d never thought magic or the supernatural was real, but it’s not like there’s another explanation. …Well, I could have just been having a really elaborate fever dream.
THE INTERVIEWER:
…You said it wasn’t like any other place you’d been to before?
THE INTERVIEWEE:
I’m a photographer, you know? I’ll admit I’m terrible with directions, if you give me a map, I’ll somehow start reading it upside-down and get myself lost in a forest— but well, I’m good at recognizing scenery. And Utopia was really like nothing else— the architecture, the clear sky, the atmosphere… I really wish my camera wasn’t broken— I could have taken so many photos… (SIGH)
THE INTERVIEWER:
Ms. Basker, how about we get back to the topic at hand? What was your experience like, there?
THE INTERVIEWEE:
Ah— sorry, sorry. Anyways, so Utopia— um. Okay so I was kind of lost for a while, it was getting dark, when I stumbled across this couple, you know? Um— well, they didn’t say they were a couple, but no two straight men look into eachother's eyes that… fondly…? I don’t know the right word— lovingly?
Anyways, so I asked them where I was, and they said it was Utopia. I really didn’t know where that was, but like I said— I’m terrible with maps. It wasn’t out of question that it was just a normal town.
…And now I’m realizing that that’s kind of dumb. I mean— I literally instantly travelled there. …I’m pretty sure it was the sleep deprivation and my broken camera distracting me, though.
(HESITANTLY) …Ms. Interviewer, you believe me, right?
THE INTERVIEWER:
We regularly deal with extraordinary events. And, besides, lots of other people have also said similar things about Utopia. Ms. Basker, we’ve heard much weirder stories.
THE INTERVIEWEE:
(SIGH OF RELIEF) Oh, okay, okay— good. Where was I, again?
THE INTERVIEWER:
You asked them where you were?
THE INTERVIEWEE:
Right. So I asked them that. And then I asked for directions to the nearest inn, because I really didn’t want to deal with any of this until after I slept. For context, I pulled an all-nighter the day before this all happened, so I was rather exhausted. That’s also how I broke my camera— but that’s not the point. Thankfully, it wasn’t that far from where I ended up.
Um, so I got a room for the night and slept. And then I slept.
When I left the inn, I suddenly found myself back where I was, the night before— that was also when I realized that I didn’t just hallucinate the whole teleportation— and then I went here. And that’s it.
THE INTERVIEWER:
That’s all?
THE INTERVIEWEE:
(NERVOUSLY) Er. Yes?
THE INTERVIEWER:
…Alright. We’ll contact you if there are any further updates on this case that you need to be informed of. Also, you’ll be monitored for a short period of time, just to see if you’ll be further affected by this. Previous ‘Utopia’ cases suggest not, but it never hurts.
THE INTERVIEWEE:
Um. Okay, got it. Thank you for listening to me.
[INTERVIEW ENDS] 4
“Let’s take the scenic route.” Zhou Mingrui says, suddenly, to his companion, halting his steps.
“Hm?” the other stopped humming a tune, a pleasant one5— he… really wouldn’t have hesitated to strangle him otherwise. He’d done it before, after all. They were comfortable around each other, to the point of often getting into fights— …so maybe it was a bit too comfortable between them.
“Let’s take the scenic route,” he repeats.
“Isn’t it getting late? Dusk will be in what, a few minutes?” Grisha asks, puzzled. “Wouldn’t you want to go home so you can start cooking?”
“I love how you acknowledge that you’re unable to cook.” Zhou Mingrui comments, and he smiles, amused. “Anyways, I just feel like watching the sunset today.”
“Ah… In my defense, I do know when to admit defeat— also, I really don’t feel like getting food poisoning.”
Grisha finally decides to confess the real reason why he refused to cook. At some point, he really had to abandon excuses like ‘I don’t want to’ in favor of the truth.
Whilst the philosophy of ‘surrender is another way to win’ may sometimes prove applicable— Zhou Mingrui thought that using it in this case was just kind of pathetic. He, very nicely, didn’t say as much.
“Pfft—” he snorts. “Okay. So, scenic route?”
“Sure.”
The other slips his hand back into his. Not sure when he’d let go— but feeling that much more settled now that it returned6.
Out of some— odd impulse or something along those lines, Zhou Mingrui looked back7 at the other— he was lit up by the last few rays of the sun’s waning light, filtering through his soft hair, bouncing off the curve of his jaw—
“You look stupid.” he says, immediately.
“Wh— What did I do!? Breathe!? Can’t I go a single day without you attacking my looks!?” Grisha sputters.
They meet a tourist on their walk, and give her directions.
And then they go home.
…It’s not a happily ever after— because this isn’t the end for them, at least to me.
But they’re still happy, in this.
…
…
“It’s a nice story,” Adam said, with a gentle smile.
The words lodged in Klein’s throat refused to leave.
‘You’re not dead.’
‘I missed you.’
‘I’m glad you’re still alive.’
“Is it?” he wondered, instead of saying any of that. “I can’t help but think it’s a little pathetic,” he said.
“Well, ‘I’8 used to have similar thoughts,” Adam admitted— continuing to smile, continuing to remain uncannily calm.
Like still water. Like dead air. “Also, it’s a lot better than what ‘I’ could have written, back then.” ‘He’ offered— an olive branch of sorts— and Klein grasped at it like it was a lifeline. Maybe it was.
“The fact I’m not the worst doesn’t mean anything— not when you and your horrible writing exists.” he retorted— anything other than talking about the distance between them. It felt nostalgic— like he was back to what felt like an eternity ago, soft days of no funerals, bright laughter, and familiar bickering. Ignorant and blindsided in the face of tragedy.
“Fair enough.” Adam conceded— unsatisfying, frustrating. That other person would have argued further— he liked to pretend he was a good writer. There was no catharsis in this.
‘He’ looked down at the story he held. The pages were yellowed and some dog-eared— an old dream.
“A world where neither Grisha Vasileyev Alexandrovich or Zhou Mingrui die, and nobody has to mourn… It must be a wonderful world.” ‘He’ said, softly, then closed the book, and set it aside.
(...He wondered if that was a metaphor for something.)
…What was he even supposed to say when someone he thought was dead was alive? Congratulations? Un-condolences for my own loss?
And then he realized he said that out loud. Or maybe just said it loudly enough in his own brain— really, when one dealt with Spectators, what was the difference?
“Pfft—” Adam laughed, and it sounded like his laugh. Terrible, that is. “‘Un-condolences’. Mysteries, you really don’t change. That makes me glad.”
“Are you?”, the words slipped out before he could stop them. Water slipping through tightly-clasped fingers. …He already said it. What was the harm in going further? If he was already hurtling off the cliff-edge, what difference did it make if he decided to slam on the gas9? “Glad, that is.”
His mouth was dry.
“Not really, but ‘I’ probably would be.” Adam admitted, readily. For a being with solely divinity— Klein concluded that that included a lack of shame, with how easily ‘He’ said that.
“...I see.” he said, slowly— seemingly calm, though in reality— he was anything but that. Various thoughts and feelings he could never ever even dream of putting words to— let alone speak— swirled uneasily in his mind.
“Don’t you have any questions to ask me, whilst we have the time? I’ll answer as well as I can.” Adam queried, tilting ‘His’ head.
“...What was the Second Epoch like?” he asked, his curiosity morbid. Like accidentally running over an animal and then pulling over and getting out of your car just to see what you had done to it.
‘He’ answered.
“Full of abominations and horrors of our own making.”
And then ‘He’ elaborated. Not too much, but still enough to make that gnawing guilt chew at the confines of his ribcage. Not for the first time, Klein wanted to leave. Really, leave10.
When he was telling that story, when he had spilled his guts about his most dearly-held dream, and whilst talking to him— Klein wanted to be anywhere but here.
…He was silent.
He asked a few more questions.
He didn’t need Adam to speak about the First Epoch— he already knew enough about it from living it.
The final one he asked:
“Was he lonely?”
Klein’s voice was…
Well, he hoped ‘it’ wasn’t too obvious. Adam was a top-tier Spectator— it didn’t really matter in the end, but it would still soothe him a little bit to know that he wasn’t so easily read.
Adam closed ‘His’ clear, golden eyes, “Yes. He was. He looked for familiarity in madness and found nothing but ghosts, mourned so terribly he had to cut off the ‘negative’ part of himself, and wandered the world— homeless, for a very long time. In the end, he was unable to ever return to his loved ones. Even though he eventually created a place for himself, he never stopped missing that home of his.”
‘He’ delivered it all in a calm, placid tone.
“...Oh.”
Klein didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t though this answer was unexpected— the opposite, really, and yet some things weren’t meant to be confirmed.
…Bright red blood flowed down his head, and his head cracked apart.
A wry smile played at his lips, and Klein Moretti died again.
And Adam let it happen.
‘He’ was now alone in the Bone Church.
Adam’s gentle yet cold eyes— unfeeling and merely mimicking humanity— stared into nothing, a facsimile of wistfulness in ‘His’ voice.
“...It’s a shame that ‘we’ were a tragedy11.”
EXTRA:
The True Creator’s usually unintelligible and indecipherable ravings were unusually clear that day.
However, all ‘He’ said were the same three syllables, over and over again. Sounds that meant something to very few people, and nonsense to everyone else— a name in a long dead language.
It was one ‘He’ held very dear to ‘Himself’.
“...Zhou… Ming… Rui…"
‘He’ repeated it again and again. Desperately, almost. It wouldn't change anything, either way.