insideawoodenbox

[insideawoodenbox]

Maybe that was a reasonable argument. Logical, even, the only item in which he placed his trust. And yet, some part of him knew the world was punishing him, felt it in his gut, as if his instinct made it a fact. This was only one more nail in the coffin, a coffin which would soon be sealed for good. Why aren't I inside it? A box couldn't have seemed more comfortable... not in a thousand, million years of floating through time.

A second chance! The words which any other might have jumped at seemed like a sourly placed joke to him, unfair and mocking. As if he could ever have something like that--as if anything could ever go right for him. No, no, there was no second chance. There never had been and there never would be. His life had gone sour the moment he was born without his twin, and it would continue being rotten for as long as he existed. A narrow minded, paranoid, self-defeating way of thinking, but--

Oblivion.

His entire demeanour changes. In a quick blink and a straightening, despairing turns into desperation, leaping at the option that he'd believed he'd already used up. God, how he wanted oblivion, the blackness that the him taken away in the van had. A non-existent heart seeming to pound, he opens his mouth, fist clenching and tensing as if to physically grab it. "That's it! That's... that's the one thing I want!" Why did she think he'd jumped in the first place? For a second chance? No, it was for the destruction of all chances.

Without him noticing, he finds himself shaking violently, not with fear, but a strange surge of adrenaline, need, end it, end me! End this godforsaken existence! Swallowing slightly, trying to straighten, to look reasonable and rational, believing himself to be at least right, he asks in a more level tone, collecting his words more carefully. "Gumi-san, I... I would like the third option, please. If that would be possible..."

If it wasn't, he wouldn't forgive her.

The reaper winced at Kagamine-san’s conclusion, though her expression turned wry. Ω―”That depends on what you want to believe. But in my opinion… no, it’s not. If a person is murdered, it’s hardly fair to punish them by making them a ghost bound to their place of death. It’s a principle of existence, like the laws of physics.” She omitted the fact that often it was their own anger at their fate that made freeing themselves difficult; there was a good reason for tales of vengeful ghosts moving on once they’d managed to avenge themselves. It was the ones who would never achieve satisfaction who became a problem for the psychopomps.

She frowned for a moment, crossing her legs as she looked at him. Ω―”There is something else you should know. Given what I’ve seen in your past, I’m of the opinion that you deserve a second chance… and more importantly, a little bit of relief from your pain. The first option would give you both of those… the second, only the second chance. There… IS a third option, but oblivion gives you neither. You would cease to exist… and all that you would have EVER experienced would be pain and suffering.”

Gumi hadn’t wanted to admit the option, but she could feel the desperation and pain rolling off the young ghost, like waves of dense fog. Granting him oblivion might well be a mercy… but it felt wrong to her still. Some older reapers had no compunction about destroying an otherwise intact soul, figuring that the penalty was more than offset by not needing to deal with a difficult case… but she was still too young to feel anything but horror at the notion.

To completely cease to exist - to have no consciousness at all - frightened even her.

[insideawoodenbox]

By : ☄

[insideawoodenbox]

Whatever irritation Len might have felt at the rude response was overshadowed by the presence of a response in itself--he's slightly startled, but not much shows on his face, only a faint widening of the eyes that quickly softens, narrowing into blankness. Any intense emotion had long since been diluted by the emptiness of this afterlife--any that showed on the outside, at least.

"No? I guess it isn't." He watches the other carefully, drifting a little. "You tend to start talking to yourself after a while, though. I didn't think you'd hear it." Or anyone, for that matter. The ghost hovers a little closer to the ground, wincing slightly as he passes through a couple of people--one of them shivering. He looks back at the boy, still wondering if he'd really seen him after all. "Seeing is even stranger."

He glances down--it was strange that he could see right through himself, but even he wouldn't be spared from seeing his translucency, how separate he really was. Of course he wouldn't be relieved of anything--he was sure he was only here because he'd ruined his waking moments, because he'd made all the wrong choices, been hated, had hated back, and ultimately surrendered to that hatred. Prisoners were only as such because of the things they had done. He sighs slightly. "It isn't as if it matters. I don't need to know." He just needed to think of such trivial things, like where people were going... to stop himself from going insane.

♔♛~ Humans were interesting creatures for Rinto. Being a part of them, and daily living with them as well; amused him quite a lot, the blond could see different personalities, cultures and so on. However, he was never fond of interacting with them. He had tried once, in his childhood; he recalled so many happy faces, and one of those belonged to him. Yet, as soon as he began to grow up, his perspective changed. At a certain point, he wanted to isolate himself; from everyone—people were cruel, just too cruel. Despite all of that, sometimes he enjoyed watching people’s happiness; you could say that it brought color to his life.

The problem was that the male judge persons by their looks and manners, which was a very bad habit. He’d only look over the flaws of the person, and categorize them on decent or annoying. That’s why, he wasn’t allowed to get near people, or so he told himself that; preventing discussion and such as that would be good.

  Words are transmitted by the other into his ears. At first he tried not act so rudely, towards the person beside him. However once he opened his mouth, catastrophe was seen. “….Mm Ah..right….That’s none of your frickin’ business.”The words flew out of his mouth without hesitation, as his azure as move position to look at the view. Although, the blond seems pissed at the others presence, he never took a good look on him, so he doesn’t know who he is, or what he might be. 

[insideawoodenbox]

     They put me in a casket right before my eyes.           Will you do the same, Lenka Kagamine?

He didn't travel all too much. Len wandered, of course he wandered. The drifting was all that he had to fill up an empty day--ghosts hardly had much influence on the world, and any means of entertainment were effectively stolen from him. Of course, maybe he deserved it. Maybe he did. But even that kind of not caring didn't stop the yearning, the same yearning that pulled him along in a controlled direction, with a purpose, what is called travelling...

For what? To stare at books that he couldn't read?

The library really had become a sad place.

Hovering between the shelves, he eventually finds himself floating nearer people--he might be able to read over their shoulders. He was a quick reader, so the worst that could happen wasn't a page turning too fast, but long after he'd finished. Eventually he finds a girl, moving close and watching over her shoulder. What kind of book would she take? His translucent body could hardly choose, nor care...

It'd be nice if it was a good one, though.

[insideawoodenbox]

Len had thought he had low self worth--but this seemed unprecedented, ridiculous, only because it was uncalled for. The evidence was right there under her feet, clear to someone who had known her for a mere fragment of his death-time, and she continued to spout reasoning for her irrelevance? Goodness and importance were hardly the same thing--it seemed clear enough, looking at some of the ruthless dictators who had shaped history just as profoundly as more championed figures.

It was a useless argument, though--he thought he lied to himself just as much as she did, just in more logical, more reassuring veins. The awareness of it makes him uneasy, the awareness that he's truly had for a long time--brushing it off, he decides to effectively end the matter. "If that's what you believe, I can hardly stop you," he says dully, glancing back at the ground, somewhat perplexed--no, awed by it, the reality of it, something that seemed so huge and impossible that it shouldn't be solidly in front of his face. Was it ironic that he'd come so close to fiction's likeness, and was then himself unable to touch it? "Your importance isn't equal to your opinion of yourself, though. Nor how 'good' you are. That's all I can say."

He guessed it was strange for him to argue such a thing--humans really were insignificant, weren't they? Of course, but some had more worth than others. He was certainly low, low down, lower than he could even think.

A true story, perhaps... but it sure passed like old stories did, spread by songs and word of mouth. It seemed so fantastical that it seemed like it may have began true, and become embellished--but he only had her word for it. Granted, she didn't seem like the most reliable source. "Eve?" The name sounded familiar, and he quickly realises why. "Like the biblical Eve?" Thinking of it, there was a similarity there, wasn't there? The Eve she was talking of unleashed sin... though the story sounded different. "If you say that... is that sin still out there?" It certainly seemed so to him... but maybe not the type of sin she was talking about.

"Unimportant to myself, unimportant to the world. Least loved by my sisters, a pawn to be moved around but not cared for. But it was better that way, don’t you see? For when I began making my own choices, when I finally had one who was dear to me, I only did what was wrong. How could that kind of person be important? My name is already forgotten, but the scorched earth sings of my betrayal."

Gumillia wasn’t making much sense, but she couldn’t see that. Her mind had lived so long thinking that she was lower than anything; she couldn’t conceive anything else. How could she? “And yet, I affected others. This Me who couldn’t do anything but follow, could you imagine? The pawn who broke the rules and tried to escape the chess board only caused her own capture.”

Slipping into the sweet embrace of her insanity again, she had almost missed his final words. “A novel … Not quite. It’s a true story, whispered along the nerve endings and secreted away deep into the woods. Perhaps it isn’t being told anymore, but I know, I saw the Sin released, I saw it …” Unintelligible mumbling for a moment, only to be picked up into the story, fragmented but there.

"It was that woman, you see, the Pretentious Mother, Eve. The one who failed to bring the twin gods into the world stole the forbidden fruit. They were the children, of course, the children she wanted but never had. She killed their rightful mother and raised them for 14 years. But then the flames came, she abandoned them, yet died in flames after all. But her sin remained, split into seven, and to cleanse the earth …" Gumillia shook her head. "Was the job I failed in. I was the apprentice to the one given the task, but I turned my back."

[insideawoodenbox]

The thought of being unable to leave was jarring, alarming--he doesn't particularly want to try it, afraid of making his entrapment feel more real. He'd felt boxed in enough during life, into classrooms and society's expectations, without his escape having done the same thing, but solidly, without an easy runaway.

His hands open and close. "I see." A polite response alone--his thoughts were the things that were running away. Everything in him says that it was their fault. From the moment he was born, wrongly, alone, from the moment no one accepted him into their friendship groups, the moment they'd hit him, the moment they hadn't, the moment the only person who ever understood him the way he wanted a human being to... left--it had all led to that, hadn't it? They took him by the throat and led him to that dark place, where it felt like he might die even without his own feet taking him to the ledge all those feet above, yet there was just enough kindness for him to hang on, desperate, even now, realising he was desperate--

Did he really have enough faith in that world to believe it wouldn't destroy him again?

I really didn't want to give up, did I.

Not a question--a fact, a dull realisation, along with an overwhelming urge to cry. An inability to. He briefly wonders if his current form could, even as he finds his mind restructuring, the real thing he needed to ask becoming clear. If the first option was about getting rid of what kept him here, then it would only be as bad as the reason he stayed. Though events springing to mind scare him--mainly the prominence of a friend, startling him, for he shouldn't be the hurt, though he's known for a long time that he was--the guesswork in her second choice was almost worse. Was he that desperate for escape?

If it comes to it.

He swallows, his mouth feeling too dry, as if he had a tangible one at all. "Then, if you say that, what's keeping me here? My hurt? Do I need to be happy? Or do I need to become a good person?" Questions, guilts, that he didn't realise he had, spill out as if emptying. "That's it, isn't it? This is punishment."

Gumi waited patiently while Len thought his way through the options. She hadn’t been entirely truthful with the spirit, but she felt it would be wiser to keep the last option in reserve.

The only reason she had the option to sever the boy’s connection with his past was that, as a reaper, her tools could cut through spirits if she chose so. It was not something that was often done, but it was entirely possible for a reaper to cleave a soul apart - to rend it to pieces. Depending on how it was done, the remains could be put to other purposes (such as spirits for lesser entities like animals), or simply recycled into raw material… but either way, what made his spirit what it was would be gone forever.

She did not like the idea, though. Even if it was the boy’s preference, soul-death was an ugly thing. Still… she would mention it if need be.

Ω―”By ‘free spirit’, I only mean that you won’t be bound to this place, where you died. Violent death leaves a psychic stain, once that can chain a spirit to its place of creation. That’s true right now; if you tried to wander more than a dozen yards from this building, you’d be unable to walk further away. By freeing you from that chain, you would be able to go anywhere you chose… though you’d still be a spirit until we dealt with what’s left you here.”

Ω―”As for your other question… there’s no guarantee that you would. It depends on how much of what led you to this fate was your own doing or… that of others.”

[insideawoodenbox]

The question seemed strange--as if he expected it to be more obvious, in a house that seemed only silent and abandoned. Feeling awfully like he'd fallen mind-first into a fully engrossing--yet apparently predictable--horror novel, he instinctively guesses likely outcomes, at least in a fictional universe. The house would be full of dead bodies or disfigured teddy bears, with a serial killer or otherworldly beast lurking in the shadows, ready to take the protagonist as their next victim.

Well, he was safe--he was no protagonist. A protagonist needed to be active, likeable, and in pursuit of a goal. He hadn't been any of those things for a long time.

"They're awfully quiet, in that case," he says, a wispy voice that sounds unperturbed, drifting only with the thoughts that were mere fantasy. Unsure whether to proceed, eventually concluding that he would be safe either way, he says dryly--"You seem quite fond of them."

   He processes the words in his head; it surely sounds like the boy was a ghost or a spectral being of some sort. However, he doesn’t bother asking any more questions; there wasn’t much point in doing so. 

   The smile falters and fades after the comment is said.

   ”Oh, does it seem so?” 

   Cocking his head to the side just a tad, he blinks in a way that clearly indicates that he was confused. He was used to his “companions” and how they whispered so he no longer paid any mind to them. Even so, he would assume that any newcomers would notice.  

   Unless he was the only one who heard them…

   Ignoring that thought, he answers the question, another grin making its way onto his features. “No, they’re not out.” 

[insideawoodenbox]

Wasn't the definition of disappointment a missing of expectations? It must be how he was so heavy, even without disappointment. He had no reason to expect anything. "Did you expect something of me?" Probably. Everyone expected things of him, whether he performed well or not--and he never performed well in what they wanted. Maybe they eventually expected failure of him. It was certainly more interesting than success, and wasn't that how it ended? A bit of entertainment. "People always have expectations for others. They never seem to realise it isn't their right." In the end, maybe all he was meant to be was a toy for them. Did it even surprise them when he broke, like a child who treated their favourite toy too roughly?

He shakes the train of thought away, watching the other blankly. The past was irrelevant, and, without letting himself admit it, thoughts of that time unnerved him--not because of what they did, not really, but the turbulent emotions that were always dwelling under the surface. "If there is an afterlife, I think I've been denied it. I don't know why I'm still here." If he did, he would have changed whatever the blockage was, if only that would let him go. If only he would stop being chained here. Ah, I want to sleep. "I can only think it's punishment. Being unable to touch or feel anything, others being unable to sense you, a 'wanderer' apart from life itself, but not permitted to pass to death..." Surprising even him, a small smile surfaces, as if at a joke. "That can only be hell."

He supposed it made sense. Life was a gift, and it was one he rejected. But it was also a gift that had failed him. The whole thing was hilarious in itself--ridiculous, a pathetic story to match a pitiful end. He really was pathetic, but only as they all were. Oh, they all were.

His own mental stability suddenly seeming quite dubious, he continues, almost babbling if not for his usual lack of tone. "I don't know if it's alright or not. It already seems so far away, and yet it also feels like it was just yesterday. Reality could be either. If time heals, how am I to know that it's already done?" Perhaps his existence showed such a thing--someone who is healed, who is pure, does not belong in eternal punishment, but eternal rest. A little thought and it was obvious: he really knows he is not ready. If he was, there would be no cryptic walls, cold airs, illusions that were unneeded in the presence of self confidence. "Telling won't undo anything that happened... and, since your home is a stranger's, I doubt it will be familiar to you. That's your worry, right?" He turns to one side, his eyes fixing dully on the cloth, some part of him slipping, the knowing it scaring him. That was much too dark a place. "There's really no need."

{{ｇｈｏｓｔｉｎｇ〜＊

Tomato stains dry, their seedlings sticking to this wooden surface. In just a simple reminder of their tiny beings time appears to return, ticking away endlessly against a slow pacing clock, recapturing those soft clicks; the gears within this synthetic’s composition are still moving tirelessly. He, himself is a holder of time. At last, scrap metal decides to react, eyes blinking, dry glass sapphires casting small waves of their own sea to revive his visions from a dusty perspective of this soul and the owner’s kitchen around them. His hand clutches what is no longer a damp cloth to rub away at the mess he had been meaning to clean up prior to this conversation between himself and a dream floater of the night’s conjuring.

Perhaps keeping his hands busy will make him appear more lively than his previous state of thought; his mind is perplexed, but somewhat relieved to hear that it is not with an intended purpose that he should meet an obscure reflection of himself in the midst of the moon’s cycle. "No, not disappointing at all." And unexpectedly a shy chuckle would escape, clutching his small train of words at the very end of his sentence. "What would be disappointing is not being able to fulfill someone’s expectations for them." And how shallow did that sound on his lips? So be it. A misleading sentence like that can go in either directions, both wrong, or wronger. An overflow of salted water gathers at his tear ducts because of the desperation his glands call forth to rejuvenate his drying eyes. Why does he remain unblinking for so long? And instinctively he brings the back of his hand to rub away at those tears before they fall. "But anyway, why are you drifting? I mean…isn’t there some sort of afterlife for people— er.." he is not a person in specific anymore, is he? "…wanderers like you? What are you still drifting around for?" A dirtied cloth is brought under a faucet rushing water as he cleans away the residue of his minimal chore. "I mean, I wouldn’t mind listening to this unpleasantness if it is alright with you. As for myself, I would think death had caught me, too, yet here I am standing, more tactile than you, if anything.” He admits this because of what was said earlier. If it is actually Death who owns those cerulean eyes and golden hair then he does not phase the synth one bit for this boy has already faced a state of death and is unafraid to face it once again.

[insideawoodenbox]

That was true enough. Even if people appeared to make achievements, small ones like passing exams, or monumental ones like eliminating poverty, none of that would matter in a thousand years, or even a hundred. Times change fast, and no matter the struggle, a human life would always fade into irrelevance...

"I knew that all along. Even a superficial gain that would last a moment doesn't apply, though." As if he would attempt to search for relief any more. He would find none. There was no relief in this world, not for him, and not for anyone. Watching his surroundings with a dullness shadowed by a strange sadness he couldn't pin down, he glances back at the grave. What had he been expecting to find? Even as he asks the question, he knows the answer.

"Maybe I am grieving, but not for myself." He was finished with grieving her, wasn't he? If he wasn't, perhaps his life was made of grieving, from the moment he was born without her. It seemed unfair, didn't it? His life was born wrong from the very beginning. "Of course, being here hasn't changed a thing. Like that, though, I wasn't expecting much..."

☯ insideawoodenbox

Such strange words from an even stranger voice. It seemed incomprehensible, but the samurai was slowly coming to a conclusion. Maybe she was so lonely, that she was hearing voices. Yes, that was her excuse. Hell, she might even be dreaming. It seemed plausible…

Keeping her thoughts to herself, she began to look around a bit more slowly. The grave sites didn’t need tending to, she thought. There was no need. A sigh escaped her lips, as she focused her attention to the rather faint voice once more.

"…No one has anything to gain in this world. Not the dead nor the living." Stating with a sense of boredom in her tone. It seemed too obvious to be ingenious, but it was the cold truth. "But nonetheless, what were you expecting to find in an area of withered and dried up stones? Are you grieving, for being a resident of your own?"

[insideawoodenbox]

Len blinks, looking up at the girl, a little more closely. Had she really sensed something? Times like this meant he maybe should pay more attention to where he was going, or he might scare someone. Of course, as if something like that mattered... as if anyone had ever paid attention to his own space.

With that much said, he didn't mean any harm--not that he could cause any, stripped of the sense of touch and all its solid benefits. Only boredom and the off chance she knew he was there makes him reply. "No one... I would suppose. No one important, anyway." The girl's face seemed strangely familiar, in an intangible way. He looks back at the lyrics, hovering a little closer despite himself. "Perhaps no one is here, after all. I hardly count."

He was being roundabout. If she probably wouldn't hear, why would being straightforward be an issue? Bad habits, all of them... though he didn't care to correct himself. No, he only didn't care.

╰♪╮Perhaps she should give up on figuring out the song and pretend to understand. That would be lying to herself and to her fans, not to mention everyone else being included in this project. A song is meant to be sung by true emotions, never empty or pretended. 

╰♪╮A silent beep in her ears, a silent detection, warning signs popped out in her mind and all processes were halted until the cancel button was pressed. Paper lowered, sapphire hues scanned the premises, not a single being was in the room. Gah! Overload and overriding most sensory applications, everything became full of nonsense.

╰♪╮”Who’s there?” The one phrase that slipped out of her mouth…

[insideawoodenbox]

[[whispers i'm here i'll churn out some drafts in a second wheeze]]

[insideawoodenbox]

That... wasn't a real answer, at least not as far as Len understood. He thought that a universe of sin could just as easily be the world he was familiar with, and yet her description of the events of her world seemed so far off that it could easily be fiction. Just what was the reason, the meaning to such a strangeness? Maybe it was best not to ask questions.

Even aware that she has fallen into her own distant rambling again, her description seems familiar. It was how he was, wasn't it? He never did anything that he wanted to do--he gave up on everything. And, even if he thought out of the box, felt as if his views were right and important, it meant little when he didn't act on it. That kind of person, himself, was the worst. He really was the worst.

"You may only have been unimportant to yourself." No, she really didn't strike him as that kind of person. He wasn't imagining whatever spark he saw, however deeply buried it might be. It's not to comfort that he glances back at the scorched ground, but simply to state the facts. "Since, wasn't the fight that did this... over you?" Not bothering to look up, he stares blankly at a particular patch. "Even if you did things like that, that's just being human. Though, maybe not the best kind..."

Not the best, but not the worst. No, he couldn't.

"There's a difference, like that...?" Still gazing into empty space, he thinks of all she was saying. It really was hard to believe. Blinking, he slowly comes out of it, glancing vaguely at her. "It sounds like a novel. That, or a religion. Is it something like that?" Thinking of it, a kind of cult didn't sound too far off--if it wasn't for the real ground that was here. Perhaps he was only looking like a fool by asking.

"I live in a universe of Sin, of course. A universe of our own making." She paused, blinking. Was he really so unfamiliar with the story of the immortal sorceress? She had been rather well known in her own time. That begged the question of just how long she had been dead … And, for that matter, how long he had been. Or if they even came from the same place. Back when she was alive, she had always been travelling to other dimensions by accident. Could the dead do the same?

Ah, but it was irrelevant, wasn’t it? He was here now, and asking over her significance. “No, I was unimportant. Even to myself. In the end, I gave up my hopes and desires. Always following, never thinking for myself … I pretended to be so bold in my opinions, flimsy things that they were. But when did I ever act on them? I followed Elluka-sama, and when I broke from her, I simply latched onto the next authority figure … Did all she asked, killed for her. Killed for both of them. Even though I preached the sanctity of human life, I …”

Eyes widening, Gumillia found herself separating from that event she had replayed, remembering the drop of each body that had ever hit the cement by her hands. Silent moments went by as she shuddered, remembering the countless men and women, killed for the “greater good” of her alibi, caught in the glare of her gun’s muzzle.

But, still his words reached her in a subconscious way, and she mumbled in a daze. “Not sin, but Sin.” An emphasis, the capitalization clear in her voice. “Not the sin we are born into, but the Sin made by the Pretentious Mother, the Sin that was offensive to the very earth that it sullied. The Sin that caused atrocities that otherwise would have never been.”

[insideawoodenbox]

He nods, as if he really needed to confirm that he was right. Of course he would expect him to be dead. No, there was nothing to hide or cover up, in this kind of situation.

"It would be good if you would share it." Good was perhaps not the term, but proceeding on civilities, it was the only one he had. He was speaking strangely--trying not to trip over it too much, it sounded awfully like 'Len' was meant to be plural. Was this one remaining not enough? How many alternate universes had he not put an end to? It at least seemed that this person wasn't him in the real sense of the word. He was assuming that his life was different, wasn't he? Along with that, he maybe felt the discrepancy, something in those unblinking eyes.

"I don't think my life was particularly notable," he says, and truthfully. Since, what impact did he make on the world? Nothing, a blank space, a vague memory in his parents' older years, that was all. "More so, I don't think you would like to know it. If not for unpleasantness, it was simply dull..." No, dull wasn't the right word, but he didn't really feel like talking about it. Life might have been a gift, in some way the phrase intended, but it wasn't when you felt dead for the majority of it.

Len stares blankly back at those eyes, blinking slowly. He seemed to think a lot, didn't he? Well, perhaps they had some things in common. "Why?" Perhaps he also wanted the world to mean something. Hadn't he given up in linking plot threads together yet? Those things, he'd long since recognised didn't exist in the real world, even if he needed them to. "No reason. I drifted here, like I drift everywhere... that's all."

A small tilting of the head. "Is that disappointing?"

{{ｇｈｏｓｔｉｎｇ〜＊

"…I am still here." Is a phrase he may have finished instead, rather than the passing ellipses at the end of the ghost’s first sentence.

Perhaps everything is a test, and that at last Len must challenge himself to face all that he has disregarded in such an irresponsible manner. "I may know something, and yet it may have nothing to do with you." Traces of bafflement confuses his mind, contrasting against whatever solid data is stored within the tables of his memory. "To what Len have you spawned from?" Is an odd question in itself. If he truly did contain a soul— would it be the boy standing before him? Then to his reboot, is this a new soul that simply borrows another one’s memories? "To what life did you belong to?" That is highly not probable, and yet the idea— the very thought of it showing a sliver of a chance at existing horrifies the android. Then it is truly the haunting ghost of his past that presents itself to him. But that is only a given thought in itself. There is utterly no way that this ghastly figure would have any resemblance to his own well being. The boy is etched in blood, blood that Len had never bled himself in a lifetime.

"I suppose my real question should be, why me? Why are you here, with me?” For surely any other Len should suffice the other, right? "Real or not, we may dream or live together, temporarily, then. It may benefit the both of us, somehow." Since dreams or mutual feelings have a way of curing the sickened man at their deathbed in slumber’s wonderland. The synth’s sapphire eyes remain unblinking as if he were nothing but a porcelain doll, sitting on a shelf nearby. How disgusting. He cannot take his eyes off of the other.

[insideawoodenbox]

Staring blankly at the cube, part of him questioning its very existence, the rest of him only adding it to the growing list of strange occurrences, some part of Len's stomach churns uneasily. Don't look. Please, don't look. Even knowing that it must be part of his one way ticket away from here, his mouth feels dry and he needs to swallow, quick, try to fight it away. He needed this, right? No matter how pitiful he'd been all that time, no matter how much it felt like an invasion of his privacy, the things he'd kept closed and hidden all ringing in his head, if she needed to know, he couldn't... no, he couldn't stop it. Things would never be as easy as he'd hoped they'd be.

A sinking feeling rises in his chest as he watches her flick it away. So, he was a lost cause? Was that what she was saying? Even someone with that strange kind of power couldn't simply fix him and send him off. Maybe it shouldn't come as a surprise.

The feeling doesn't even rise as she speaks, only truly sinking, pulling him with it. What a horrible selection--but perhaps it was one that he'd given himself. Clenching and unclenching his hands, he tries to weigh them evenly, think rationally, but such a conclusion was proving hard to find. Where had his objective reasoning gone? Shattered on the ground and rushing away in a truck, he supposed. The only thought he seems able to form is a loop, I want to leave, as if it were a song trapped in his head. Why wasn't that an option?

Tightly rubbing trembling fingers together, he forces himself to think of the benefits of each. He did want to end completely, that was all, and that was the first option, wasn't it? But he wanted it quick, and he wanted it painless. Even though he was unsure which moments he would need to revisit, he still felt ill. There were no times that he could see neutrally--at least on anywhere but the outside. But did he really want to start over? Where would he end up? How much would he remember? Will I feel the same? What answer he wants, he doesn't know. Could he get an even worse life?

More importantly, did he want a second chance?

"I don't think that I could... ever become 'free'." Only one flicker of a thought makes him sway one way. It couldn't be a plan, shouldn't after ending up in this state, but it's the clearest way to quickly escape. "If I... if I was born again, and then died, would... would I only end up like this? Here, again."

No, redemption wasn't what he was looking for.

In spite of her lack of emotion, Gumi was not uncompassionate; she could hear the fear and hesitation in his voice, and she did her best to temper her expression upon seeing it.

Ω―”Alright, then, Kagamine-san,” she said, keeping things at a slight distance as he’d wanted. Ω―”Let’s see what brought you to this pass…”

With that, Gumi reached forward and twisted her wrist slightly; immediately, a glimmering golden cube formed above her palm. She peered at the cube carefully for a few moments, her expression slowly falling. By the time she seemed to be done what she was doing, her expression was flatly neutral… but when she spoke, there was a slight hoarseness to her voice, on top of the hollow timbre of her speech.

Ω―”Damn. This… is probably going to take a while. And I don’t think I can just leave you here while we work this out, either.”

Frowning, she seemed to toss the cube away from herself; it flickered out of sight before it touched the ground.

Ω―”Kagamine-san… I’m going to offer you a choice, but it’s something of a poor one. For you to go to the rest you want, we need to resolve all that has bound you here to earth. That is going to take some time, and in the meantime we’ll have to make you a free spirit. It’s also going to be very rough on you, since you’ll need to revisit parts of your past.”

Gumi sat down on a nearby bench - a strange act given that she’d just passed through a truck not so long ago. Somehow, though, she didn’t plummet through it.

Ω―”The alternative is… well, somewhat of a cheat. I can sever your connection to your past… but a soul without a past cannot be correctly judged. Your spirit won’t go to its rest; instead, you’ll be reincarnated almost immediately. What happens then… well, it depends on where you end up, or as whom. It will spare you some pain, but not all of it, and what remains will carry over into your next life.”

Ω―”The choice is yours in the end… but one way or another, you’ll need to face that which brought you this pain.”

[insideawoodenbox]

"That's true. Apologies are really just a courtesy... and if genuine, maybe not worth anything after all." He knew an apology changed nothing, of course--however much he hoped everyone who had hurt him had realised now what they had done, however much he hoped they were sorry, he knew that it didn't make a difference whether they laughed about it or not. A brief thought was likely all he got, a hint of shame at the first moment, quickly forgotten as the world kept turning. How forgotten was he, now? How much time really had passed?

Len had noticed the place changing, but thought little of it--it wasn't as if his surroundings mattered any more. Even like that, he finds this place... disorienting. Uncomfortable. It was a lifelessness so consuming that he'd never witnessed it before, even while feeling that people only  filled their homes and cities with movement to cover up the gaping holes of emptiness within them. This was real destruction, was it? He'd only seen these things through the TV screen, newspaper articles, and the stories which he treasured so much.

"Centuries?" The detail doesn't pass by him unnoticed, nor the fantastical nature of all she was describing. It really did seem like fiction after all, but, in such a supernatural form as this, did he even have the right to think of that? Watching her in growing bewilderment, he tries to get past those details. "What kind of... universe did you live in?" Clicking of storybook characters in his mind, it makes him stir.

There was nothing he could say to make her forgive herself, was there? No, she'd already outlined such a thing. Apologies really were unnecessary--besides, she seemed able enough to defend herself, even if racked with guilt. She had some life in her, he thought. She wasn't quite as he was. "Maybe you were only more significant than you ever realised. Even a supporting character is more than background props." What a terrible metaphor--why was he spouting it? "I don't understand what you were doing, or how, but... isn't removing sin itself too ambitious?" He stares blankly at the burnt ground. "People are inseparable from it." Even him, in the end. Even him, all along.

The boy’s apology was sincere enough, but to Gumillia his words were empty and meaningless. “So was I. So am I. But that doesn’t change anything.” She had said sorry at the last moment, but that didn’t stop her from pulling the trigger on her beloved, had it? His hand had been on the barrel of the gun, a gentle smile had been on his lips, and she had pulled the trigger anyways, had watched as snowflakes stopped melting on his cold skin. In her mind’s eye, she saw each individual flake land on his eyes, his nose, and his lips that would never smile gently again.

So lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize that they were at Marigold Plateau until the scorched earth was right under her unfeeling feet. She stood there for a moment, taking it all in, before turning back to the boy. “On this earth, a great woman died. She had lived for centuries, and she died here. A horrible woman also died here, someone who had also lived for centuries. The two became one, but never went back to themselves.”

Gumillia turned away, staring at the ground. “Did they die because of what I did? One came to take revenge for me, the other came to gloat over my death. Or did I die because of what they did? One became too unhinged for me to follow, the other handed me the revolver. Either way, this place will never be the same. And, because that great woman is dead … Because she has forgotten her original mission … Because she came here to take revenge for me …”

Gumillia shuddered, thinking of Held’s mission. “The world will never be cleansed from Sin. The quest she had sought for centuries will forever go uncompleted. Because I … Because I … I failed … In everything … As a lover, as an apprentice … This scorched earth, this sinful earth, is all of my own creation …” The guilt sat like a weight on her chest, hitching her breath even if she lacked the lungs to properly breathe it in. “If that is the effect that my lowly life can have, then aren’t we all equally as significant?”

[insideawoodenbox]

     They put me in a casket right before my eyes.           Will you do the same, Miku Hatsune?

Len must have reached a low if he no longer wanted to look. The world's buzz meant little to him, and the vision across transparent lids meant even less. What a pitiful afterlife this was. He thought even burning for punishment might have been better.

Something makes him open his eyes, looking through a narrow, reluctant gaze at an apartment that he'd apparently drifted to. How pointless these walls seemed now--how pointless everything seemed now, the clock's numbers and furnishings that made a place seem like home. Yes, home could feel empty anyway. And, yes, it wasn't objects that made it. It was both the living who walked in it, and the stale presence of the dead.

A girl. Crossing his field of vision. That's right--her singing had made him open his eyes. Strange. It didn't mean anything, but he hums along. An instinct, perhaps it wasn't something he could explain. But, floating in a stranger's living room, it didn't really matter.

[insideawoodenbox]

This drifting was getting out of hand, no? He found himself in other people's rooms far too often, without any valid reason to either be there or leave. Being a ghost meant a few things, but it especially meant that nothing mattered any more. Living, he had reached such a point, but it was really true now. There was nothing he could do to even create an illusion to other people, of things mattering. Of course, there was nothing he could do for other people at all.

It seemed the girl who's residence he'd floated into was struggling with some music. Finding a vague will of curiosity, he drifts over, his eyes scanning the page. He couldn't read notes, no, but the lyrics felt fairly self explanatory.

He hums his own imagined rhythm to them, as in stanzas he'd written from time to time. "Poetic," he says to himself. "But not nonsensical."

To find a flower in the desert

It's rather a challenge, is it not?

Patience is a virtue. So search and see!

You'll find the flower in your life.