This was - this was a joke, surely. One of Uta’s strange off color jokes where the humor lay more in what wasn’t funny than what was. That’s all this was, right?
He swallowed the laugh in his throat. For once, he didn’t trust it.
He could just go with that, assume this was nothing more than part of the game they were playing. He could do that.
But he’d be lying to himself. Uta’s words had sent a shiver down his back, into his kakuhou, and useless as they were, they seemed to pump that icy cold through his entire body. Or maybe… maybe it was heat. Things at extremes did tend to blur together.
If his mask had been literal, had been the sort Uta crafted, then these temperatures, whatever they were, would have been enough to make it turn brittle and start crack.
Nothing ever came from running from the truth, isn’t that right? Nothing ever came from hoping for the best. Nothing ever came from expecting anything in this world - this world or any other - to be fair.
He slid his one hand off the table, let the one holding the coffee cup fall to his lap. On instinct he hid them, in case they started to shake. Had they already started to shake? Why would they be - be doing that?
This was good news, right? Was he glad? Jealous? Surprised? Angry?
He didn’t - he didn’t know. He’d never been good at that sort of thing. Reading it in others, knowing how to provoke it, how to twist it all - that came naturally. But this?
There were dozens of ways the scientists could have managed something like this. Erasing his memory of the event to keep things interesting, giving memories that weren’t even real to Uta, just to taunt him. Or maybe their entire process of taking people to this city was more a copy than a cut. Each of these scenarios changed things, and yet. And yet he couldn’t seem to care.
He blinked, and it was like he was outside himself, watching himself sit there across from Uta, and then he blinked again and he was back. Only it was as if half the lines out of his brain had been cut. He moved himself like a heavy weighted marionette. It was… hard to control, really, this puppet of his body. He let his head tilt back. Sigh, smile.
Yes, smile. Laugh, he told himself - Laugh - it’s fun. But all he managed was a breathy exhale. The distant cousin of real laughter.
“So,” He managed to say finally, after what felt like hours but probably wasn’t any more than seconds. “They’re all dead?” Saying it out loud, hearing it in his own voice, inexplicably made his smile wider. Made everything lighter.
He lowered his head and looked at Uta. It was all strangely distant. Strangely hollow.
“I suppose,” he said, “that I owe you a thank you, then.” He placed his hands on either side of his coffee cup and began spinning it around slowly. “Or perhaps it should be an apology. I promised you all quite the show, didn’t I? And yet. Here you are.”
Finally, he managed something akin to a real chuckle, looking down into his coffee. The color of dried blood, almost. “But I’m glad you managed to get something out of the opening act, after all.”
Ah, so it would turn out to be one of these times.
Uta had seen it before, in the faces of those who thought themselves to be strong in the face of a greater adversity. Uta, of course, had always been that greater adversity. In one way or another, he had spent his days at the top of it all, listening to weak squeals, and listening to the exhalations of those who thought themselves to be stronger.
That was all Uta could think of to describe the scene in front of him. Even the most physically strong Ghouls were weak against their inner most desires and emotions, and thought it had all passed within the span of a few seconds, it was enough. It was satisfying. Though there was no screaming, or blood, or carnage, Uta felt himself content with the silent cracking in front of him.
If Uta were an enemy of Furuta, he might be scared. Might. But even then, he had to wonder which of them would have ended up the victor of that battle; if he made the effort to push aside the laziness that had slithered its way into his modern life, he didn’t think there were many people who could overcome him, no matter how unstable and upset they were. But, Furuta wasn’t that type, right? He was all about acts, just as all of the Clowns were... wasn’t he?
Ignoring just how little he could concretely say about his ally, Uta continued to survey him with the same gaze, wondering how much energy it took to say the things he was hearing.
“And yet, here I am.” The confirmation was flat and almost indicative of blame, though that certainly wasn’t the case at all. Uta knew better than to blame Furuta for ending up in Hive City, even if it was all thanks to the one sitting across from him that he had built up his hopes of entertainment and enjoyment in Tokyo. No, it was Uta’s own fault for depending on another so heavily to provide him with a worthy show.
“They’re all dead. And once you return, you’ll be able to see it for yourself, so by all means, rest easily. I believe you have a particular childhood friend waiting for you here.”
It could have been easily mistaken for comfort, but just like his previous statement, that wasn’t what he meant by it at all. If Furuta could be overwhelmed and finally let the charade of his fade away, perhaps then Uta could be completely satisfied. A mask in one home was just a weight in another (even if such a sentiment could go both ways, for now Uta would ignore his own fate, and enjoy the downfall of another — what else was there to do here, anyway?).
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