Kai reminds her of a stone, even today. Stoic, but not harsh, not entirely unmoving either, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to move. Not actually as sharp as perceived. He’s known this life longer than she has, in different ways.
“Are you trying to say you want to catch good seats?” Almost matching his same tone, but she’s not nervous because she knows the drawing closer of time isn’t something anyone can control. Because she still thinks goodness will win out, even if she knows the reality, she focuses on a better version of it. “It’s too early for this, it was — yesterday,” she leaves the thought hanging, “We — there needs to be more time.”
Living here as long as she has tends to create odd kinships in more ways than one — when the other cryptids became some of the first constant people in her life, when their own dreams wander into her own. Her mind hasn’t caught glimpses of Aladdin’s for months, or anything of him since then despite all her hopes, but she remembers clearly what he used to dream of, and it wasn’t of the Menagerie. “Same as the rest of us, I guess,” mourning, but her expression in response to Kai now says enough in itself perhaps, that neither of them are the ones in need of direct concern, with his own status as a Stratum One; her own that made her more ghost in terms of rank, and not in a negative sense. But the appreciation of the softness from him shows too, in some brief smile that doesn’t fit here. “Do you know how things like this turn out?” She hasn’t been to many funerals.
Good seats for a good performance, he thinks, sighing.
“Something like that. First in, first out, or so I hope. This is sure to cause a stir — and I’m not sure I want to stick around for the fallout.” He glances up to meet Emme’s eyes at her comment, before looking away. Her smile, however brief, spurs him on.
“There’ll never be enough time for these things. We do what we can, and then we move on.” His voice is neutral, but not unkind.
I know too well how things like this turn out, he thinks, memories rising. If he concentrates, he can still smell the incense rising through the air, fragrance mixing with the dark smoke of the burning 冥币 — two flashes of imagery superimposed atop one another like double vision, two parents cremated and their legacy scattered like ashes in the wind.
“In any case, most funerals are similar. Nothing to worry about — just well-meaning speeches and an abundance of niceties.” This won’t be a traditional funeral, anyway. No open casket for a dead cryptid, not the way most of us go. He shifts, opening the door of the hallway’s exit and gesturing through it.
“Ready to go? We can walk over together.”
