animuras:
There’s no reason for him to be out here at all. Nothing about this entire event appeals to him. In fact, it would be hard to put something together more perfectly to keep him away. This entire religion they’d put together for this place is funny, really. A world made from the mouths of two goddesses and they speak of what, Life and Reason? What delusional lives the people who wrote such garbage must have been living. And all the more so for a place like this, a seemingly simulated world, filled with the empty and the dead, and completely and utterly unreasonable in every way. Maybe their captors were jokers themselves after all.
Maybe that unreasonableness is why, despite all that, he hadn’t done the reasonable thing and just stay home, let the stupid people convince themselves that they can sustain themselves on bonds. That the world is more than a pointless and cruel farce. Let them celebrate it all with, of all things, flowers. Always flowers. Anything to keep him from dismissing the notion that this place really is a hell designed just for him.
A celebration of life. It’s hilarious. An entire festival meant to rub everything into his face. They couldn’t even leave commercials for it off of TV or banner ads. These stupid, pointless people celebrating something as stupid and pointless as life. He doesn’t understand. He still doesn’t understand.
Nor does he understand why he’s out here. He’s been trying to figure that out all night. Is it morbid curiosity? Then why sit all the way up here, in this empty amphitheater in the mountain. Surely the show is more exciting in the thick of it. But he doesn’t get closer, just sits here, in these empty stands as the night wears on below. What was a manufactured festival in a manufactured city going to show him that he hadn’t already been able to see. He could hear enough, see enough, smell enough from this far away. For everything they’d taken, they’d left him that. It’s enough to make him feel sick, even up here.
He shivers, slightly, against the cold of the late night, the late season, all of it. It’s just enough to pull his focus from the sights and sounds of the town below. He’s been up here alone for what must have been hours, he hadn’t been paying attention. He isn’t, as it turns out, alone anymore. Not that this man couldn’t have materialized right out of thin air, for all Souta knew.
“One day, Uta,” he says, without turning around, “You’ll have to tell me how you even do these things.”
@indumentums
“Ah, Souta,” a voice sighs from the wind; almost without source, but the form of a man ghoul materializes and stands behind his friend company like a ghost. Where had he come from? Was he here all along? The short answer to that is no, he had not— for a time he had been nowhere and nobody, and now once again given form, decided that he might do what he does best.
Which is, to haunt.
There are many facets to his life that he has not been able to accept. And what a cruelty that is, as he reached the climax of his resolution, only to have it ripped away once, twice, and a third time again, one time of which happened to be with the very man he stands behind now. But, not all is lost. Uta manages to shake out a chuckle at the notion that he might give away his spectral secrets; not even his delicate boss could be privy to something so personal.
Friend or otherwise.
Or maybe, just maybe, he is asking about something deeper.
“Is our special guest that lost? I thought the leader of the Clowns would’ve sprung back into his old self again. But, well... maybe this world is too damaged for that.”
This world, this body, this skin, this psyche.
“And yet, here you are, doing as a Clown does. We’re all just waiting in the rafters,” though this particular setting is not hidden away within an old theater building, Uta does not take back what he said, and instead takes a seat a short distance away.
“Looking... down.”