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delicrieux · 5 years

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pairing: kane x f!mc

fandom: playchoices, the elementalists

summary: she joins him.

warnings: uh… age gap i guess??

words: 2.8k (and i oop-)

author’s note: i thanos snapped. so a lot of people wanted to join kane so im giving that chance now with a dash of good old fashioned manipulation and sum romance. is kane still the villain? oh yea. does he actually like the mc?? up to you. i left this on a very pb like dramatic cliffhanger. will most likely not have a continuation unless TE disappoints me again lol ALSO! i recommend reading foreverland first.

tags: @tilliesmarshall - @somegdchoices - @lastfirstcupcake - @peach-space -@magicpijama - @zodiacsign1

feedback is always appreciated xoxo

masterlist | buy me coffee☕

Weeks passed and there was no word of him, not a hushed whisper in the night, or even a gentle caress of spring wind in the morning. He had faded into smoke, melted into the world, into everything and nothing, and she couldn’t feel his presence and it frightened her more than she could admit. Her friends talked and joked and even Atlas came around to the idea of their mother – it is no doubt due to (Name)’s perseverance and exuberant energy – and her grades were up and all was just so swell except that he was missing. She knew she warned him against writing; she knew that showing himself would be terribly stupid. Yet she still expected him to just pop out from a corner one day and swoop her into his arms while they laughed and the whole world was nothing but chaos around them. That didn’t happen.

Nothing happened. She began to wonder was their encounter that night even real.

And then one morning she awoke early, too early, in a perplexed dream state that urged her to leave the dorm. The sun was rising, golden-orange and pretty, and her room was glowing in gentle spring colours, warm, soft, the contours of it blurry, misty even. In clumsy, sleepy steps and rubbing her eyes she stalked to her door, opening it, intending to get a glass of water, though as she stepped through the threshold a deep, inky darkness greeted her, and tiles were replaced by tall tickling grass and the night held two alien moons in it. The air was fresh and a breeze danced around her unruly, playful, familiar, though seemingly ancient. She stood at the foot of a hill, a faraway figure sitting at the very top watching the stars. (Name)’s heart jumped to her throat and she climbed closer, though she was slow and heavy as if someone was forcing her away.

But in the twin moonlight she saw the stranger’s face. Disbelieve washed over her like a freezing wave of seawater. The woman resembled her and Atlas, her eyes, melancholic and dazed, gazed somewhere beyond this world. She did not see (Name) standing just ways below and her lips moved softly, her voice carried by the wind, “You absolute fool, wayward.” Her voice struck cord within (Name), “I cannot believe you would…do such terrible things. I almost do not want to believe them.” Theia tilted her head down to the earth she sat on, her gaze forlorn and her hand moving to touch the grass, “I almost don’t, old friend. “ A ghost of a smile played on her lips for the briefest moment before her face scrunched into worry, “I was going to tell you. Someday. I figured I had all the time in the world to do so, but I suppose that I…” She trailed off, “I saw…I know…I…One day you will meet two very beautiful and capable women. A day far far away from now. I don’t know how, or why, or if my visions are true, but you will. And once you do I want you to remember this. And I want you to promise me that you will do everything in your power to protect them. To never hurt them. And to bring them back to me.”

The wind blew past, ruffling her hair, as if in response to her request. Teary eyed she smiled, and her smile could have rivalled that of the sun, “You are the last person I should trust with this, Hurricane. But you are the only one I do.”

(Name) blinked and she found herself in her dorm, standing still by the couches, the clock ticking in her ears. She looked around, heart hammering in her chest, sweat collecting on her forehead, yet there was nothing that resembled her dream. Her mother’s face lingered in memory before it too became a ghastly blur. Just her voice, bell like and endlessly pleasant, foretold of …what? A prophecy? It was a silly thing to believe, but did she have a choice in the matter? She decided to tell Atlas once the girl awakes.

But something kept her from opening her mouth. At breakfast she stole glances at her sister, and she appeared as indifferent as she always did. And as their group was leaving, the last group to exit, and her friends continued onwards while she glanced back behind her, confusion making her frown. In her seat sat a letter which’s parchment she could not mistake for anyone else’s. She smiled with an exhale of bated breath, quickly exclaiming how she forgot something and rushed back before the doors closed. It sounded fake to her the reasoning. But no one suspected anything. Not now, nor when she came back from foreverland, either.

She hid the letter in her room and hid it well and continued her day as if nothing happened.

All went wrong in evening.

(Name) pales at the sight – Shreya stands tall and angry, her hands grasping Kane’s letter, eyes set ablaze from hate. She holds the letter up and (Name)’s eyes follow it, “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.” Her voice is of contained anger, hot and harsh. (Name)’s expression must betray her because Shreya drops the letter onto the coffee table bitterly, crosses her arms over her chest, “I knew it.” She states, “I knew there was something wrong. I knew it since you came back from ‘clearing your head’. I knew you were hiding something, but this…” She shakes her head, momentarily struck by sadness, “I thought we’re friends. I thought you trust us…Clearly, I was wrong.”

“Shreya—“

“I get it. You know, I get it. He’s charming. And powerful. And yeah, he could use a makeover or ten, but I get the appeal.” She continues as if not hearing her name being called, “But he’s dangerous. And he’s vile and wicked and he is using you.”

(Name) holds her hands up in defence, successfully shushing her worried friend, “It looks really bad, I’m aware. But please listen to me. He’s really…not what you think he is.” Her eyes travel to the letter, a small, fond smile slipping on her lips as she takes a seat on the couch. Shreya continues to watch her, “He’s silly. And he likes to laugh. And he tells me the truth. He is the only one that tells me the truth.”

“He is manipulating you, you absolute dumbass.” Shreya cries in frustration, plopping down next to her, grabbing the letter and waving it in front of her eyes, “He is trying to turn you against us. Did you forget that he invaded the school? Nearly choked our professors? Hurt Atlas? Did he magickally forget to explain himself for all of that, or did you wilfully chose to ignore it?”

“He made a mistake. I know. But it’s different for him. Shreya he is…not of this world. Alma isn’t, either. You think she would think twice about enabling someone if they got in her way? They are something different all together. They see the world differently. They see the bigger picture.”

“Then don’t involve yourself with them. Either of them. They both give me the creeps.” She adds, more to herself.

“All Alma has done is frighten us. She forbade me to learn illusionary magick and she made me practice Blood magick in order to save Atlas because she almost killed her.” (Name) catches Shreya’s gaze, locks it fiercely.

“But Kane isn’t a valid option.” Shreya’s hands land on (Name)’s, squeezing softly, her eyes struck with worry, “I’ve seen that look before. You used to look at…” She whispers a name, near breathless, glancing away, “…the same way. And I’m not stupid. I know this runs deeper than friendship.”

“I…” (Name)’s voice dies in her throat, her odd dream resurfacing, “I think we…I think we were meant to meet.”

She tells Shreya of the morning she awoke to find herself trapped within a memory. Of how she saw her mother perched atop of the hill, telling stories of times that were and times that will be. All the while Shreya listened saying nothing. Her eyes were guarded and anxious and she had trouble believing it was not just another trick meant to weaken (Name). Alas, she caved in with a sigh and shoved the letter into (Name)’s hands.

“Open it.” She mutters and notes how (Name) smiles gratefully at her, fingers working quickly to peel off the wax. Shreya watches over the girl’s shoulder before she falls back into the couch, disappointed. (Name) glances at her, “Can’t read it. The letters swim.” She comments bitterly.

“Oh…” is all (Name) utters dumbly, “Guess he was serious when he said he doesn’t like sharing.”

“What?!”

-*-

The game of Thief was going great, as great as it can go faced with such a competent albeit pompous foe. One second the world was ablaze and she was having trouble breathing, ash dyeing her skin grey, as Griffin shouted commands, Zeph laughed somewhere hidden, the enemy team’s flag safe in her grasp. But then the scenery morphed and momentarily she was short of breath; the fire and the scorching air turned damp and cool and gravel stuck to her skin.

The sky is dark here, where ever this is, and she quickly jumps on her feet, on guard, ready to defend or attack – depends on what kind of game the Frost King deems necessary to play. But something is…off. She turns around and the fields sway from wind like sea at midnight. The road to nowhere continues onward into ambiguity, swallowed by fog. Though in her line of vision she sees a silhouette, one that approaches in a lazy step and she already knows who it is. Kane emerges from the mist like a wayward God, powerful and breath-taking. For a heartbeat she thinks it is an illusion; twisted, sinister, made to confuse her and she tightens her hold on the flags. But then an idea dawns onto her: she knows of no one perfect at illusionary magick from the Gildegraive’s team, nor should they know of who Kane is. She exhales unevenly, her heart jumping to her throat from excitement.

She is, despite the misconception, not an idiot. He would not pluck her from a game, even if he desired to see her so desperately, and the look in his eyes – violet, gem-esque, so pretty – betrays of something, though what she only has a hunch of. She knows why she is here and strangely enough she does not mind, “You need it.” She says before he can open his mouth. “The Sun Crystal.”

Normally he is easier to read, or perhaps he built that image for her, though now she is unable to know what he is thinking. Perhaps it is her new found taste for the finer, grander things, or the ever present want for a bit of mischief, or maybe she finally realises just how powerful she is, but she gives him a smile, feathery and genuine, “I’ll get it.” She says in a sing like tone, making him freeze, “I’ll get the Sun Crystal for you. That’s why I’m here, aren’t I? You didn’t even send an invitation.” She wags her finger at him, “Tsk-tsk-tsk. Naughty.”

To her relief he laughs, “You are too clever for your own good, (Name).” When he composes himself, a proud smile curls on his lips and he motions for her to approach him, which in a spring, quick step she does, “Though I must admit, I figured we are past proper invitations.” She falls into his embrace, and he hugs her tightly, “That would be…entirely too predictable, no?”

She tilts her head upwards, locks his gaze with her own, “If you think I will ask you to take me out to the movies, you are entirely mistaken.” She leans in, captures his lips in a teasing kiss, “That would be no fun.”

“No, no fun at all.”

“They will know I disappeared, though.” She lectures as they break apart, which she is not entirely fond of, “You picked a terrible time.”

He hooks a loose strand of hair over her ear, pinching her chin playfully, “You are the master of illusions now. Or have you not been practicing? Tsk-tsk-tsk. Naughty.” Her cheeks flare up with heat, and her throat shakes, mind drawing blank. She glares at him and he laughs again, with his arm motioning to the vast fields, “All yours, my dear.”

She has doubted herself many times. She has questioned her choices, though all of that seemed to change quite a while ago. While she can’t pin point when did this confidence started to grow within her, she feels none of her previous dark thoughts clouding her mind. With a steady breath she locates her magick – the sun, so foreign in this bleak, eerie place – and it glows within her, seeps through her skin, smells like flowers and pollen mixing with light summer breeze. Her eyes close and she concentrates, imagines herself, her every quirk, every awkward smile, every languid movement. And when she opens her eyes again, a mirror image of her stands just ways away, the resemblance uncanny and if not for the blank look trapped within her eyes (Name) would think that Atlas jumped into this world wearing a different hairdo.

(Name) looks at Kane, who regards her clone mildly impressed, seizes her up and down for any errors. (Name) smacks his chest; he raises a brow, “…Jealous?” He asks amused.

“In your dreams, Hurricane.” She misses the slight narrow of his eyes at the nickname, now focusing back on the illusion, “Can you…send her-me-…it back?” Her simulacrum is gone with a snap of his fingers. She turns to him, frowning as he watches her with an inquisitive gaze, “What?”

“Why did you call me that?”

All the tension in the air seems to dissipate and she feels a bit like her old self again, energetic and giddy, “Oh! Well, about that, I actually had this really weird dream about my mom and stuff and she was calling you all sorts of names like Wayward and Hurricane and I guess it just slipped my mind is all.” She explains in one breath making him snort. She stops to catch her breath, now thoughtful, “She also mentioned that…she knew you were going to meet me. And Atlas. Us both.”

“Ah.” He nods in agreement, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her closer, “I do recall Theia and her prophecies. Most of them were laughably untrue. Though…This one…Always had the feeling it was destined to happen.” He finishes in a lower, honey-coated tone.

“Then…does that mean--?”

“Yes. We are unavoidable.”

This time he kisses her and her eyes shut obediently, overtaken by his raw desire and the scorching heat of his touch. The world goes in vertigo; the air contorts from cold to warm and fragrant; instead of harsh gravel she feels feather-soft sheets tickle her skin pleasantly, his weight resting atop her. Her hands run in his hair and his hat yet again helplessly falls off, forgotten somewhere by the foot of the bed in this unfamiliar, dream-esque place. His lips roam to the side of her jaw, then her neck, and her eyes snap open as her whole body tingles. The ceiling spins and bites her tongue when he finds a particularly sensitive spot. She can feel him smile, enjoying this perhaps too much. Her fingers tug on his locks and he releases a sound that is low and dangerous and boundlessly delicious.

“The game will end soon.” She reminds, breathless, alluring, arching into his touch like a helpless flower. He merely hums against her skin, not too interested, “Do you want the crystal or not?” She wonders aloud, if only to tease him.

“I want you.”

He halts his movements suddenly, and fear stills her beating heart: had he taken her taunting seriously? She almost wants to whine, but when he finds her gaze his eyes twinkle with mirth, “Alas, you are a terrible tease.” He whispers, his lips grazing the side of her cheek, “Don’t take too long.”

She is plunged yet again as if into water, and her body goes in shivers once she finds herself back at Perderghast, terribly confused and undeniably hot. Irritation picks at the back of her throat in bitterness, yet time is of the essence, and he always was impulsive. She falls into step, at first somewhat slow and then picks up pace, lastly rushing to the Sun-Att classroom with a wicked grin. She wonders if her friends had figured out that the one occupying her spot is nothing but an illusion, or had it already melted? Will they be angry? Will they laugh? She would laugh. Then again, she had acquired a bizarre sense of humour recently.

She reaches the classroom and throws the door open, stumbling in and shielding her eyes from the blinding light. Her smile is immediately wiped from her face.

“Alma?” She questions, uncertain at first, her eyes narrowing with suspicion at the looming figure of the Blood Source watching (Name) with a displeased, ruthless look, “What are you doing here?”

thank you for reading! xx

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1-800-444-tune · 6 years

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Demonology + Witchcraft🀄♠

Introduction

Part 1 or I , and the other volumes will be posted at a later date, each separately. (Enjoy)😆

To find my copy of Demonology......

so you are going to want to search tags that I use if you're looking for it. Or just follow me, that's easier.

Letters written in the 1800's have resurfaced and are being preserved by some very highly spiritually invested peoples; I own a copy and the rights to distribute this material as long as I am within the very strict guidelines agreement I signed with this website that is helping to distribute and preserve older historical witchcraft or paranormal and spiritual writings that are not related to The Holy Bible. At all! Lol. Anyways, I have been wondering for quite some time how to approach the problem of having a very looooong post; so this will be the introduction and partial of...

Letter 1: by Sir Walter Scott

With an Introduction, By: Henry Morely

Professor of Literature @ London University College ; London, UK.

demonstrates to all men, except the few who are hardened to the celestial voice, that there is within us a portion of the divine substance, which is not subject to the law of death and dissolution, but which, when the body is no longer fit for its abode, shall seek its own place, as a sentinel dismissed from his post. Unaided by revelation, it cannot be hoped that mere earthly reason should be able to form any rational or precise conjecture concerning the destination of the soul when parted from the body; but the conviction that such an indestructible essence exists, the belief expressed by the poet in a different sense, Non omnis moriar must infer the existence of many millions of spirits who have not been annihilated, though they have become invisible to mortals who still see, hear, and perceive, only by means of the imperfect organs of humanity. Probability may lead some of the most reflecting to anticipate a state of future rewards and punishments; as those experienced in the education of the deaf and dumb find that their pupils, even while cut off from all instruction by ordinary means, have been able to form, out of their own unassisted conjectures, some ideas of the existence of a Deity, and of the distinction between the soul and body—a circumstance which proves how naturally these truths arise in the human mind. The principle that they do so arise, being taught or communicated, leads to further conclusions.

These spirits, in a state of separate existence, being admitted to exist, are not, it may be supposed, indifferent to the affairs of mortality, perhaps not incapable of influencing them. It is true that, in a more advanced state of society, the philosopher may challenge the possibility of a separate appearance of a disembodied spirit, unless in the case of a direct miracle, to which, being a suspension of the laws of nature, directly wrought by the Maker of these laws, for some express purpose, no bound or restraint can possibly be assigned. But under this necessary limitation and exception, philosophers might plausibly argue that, when the soul is divorced from the body, it loses all those qualities which made it, when clothed with a mortal shape, obvious to the organs of its fellow-men. The abstract idea of a spirit certainly implies that it has neither substance, form, shape, voice, or anything which can render its presence visible or sensible to human faculties. But these sceptic doubts of philosophers on the possibility of the appearance of such separated spirits, do not arise till a certain degree of information has dawned upon a country, and even then only reach a very small proportion of reflecting and better-informed members of society. To the multitude, the indubitable fact, that so many millions of spirits exist around and even amongst us, seems sufficient to support the belief that they are, in certain instances at least, by some means or other, able to communicate with the world of humanity. The more numerous part of mankind cannot form in their mind the idea of the spirit of the deceased existing, without possessing or having the power to assume the appearance which their acquaintance bore during his life, and do not push their researches beyond this point.

🔮🕯🕯🕯🕎

Enthusiastic feelings of an impressive and solemn nature occur both in private and public life, which seem to add ocular testimony to an intercourse betwixt earth and the world beyond it. For example, the son who has been lately deprived of his father feels a sudden crisis approach, in which he is anxious to have recourse to his sagacious advice—or a bereaved husband earnestly desires again to behold the form of which the grave has deprived him for ever—or, to use a darker yet very common instance, the wretched man who has dipped his hand in his fellow-creature's blood, is haunted by the apprehension that the phantom of the slain stands by the bedside of his murderer. In all or any of these cases, who shall doubt that imagination, favoured by circumstances, has power to summon up to the organ of sight, spectres which only exist in the mind of those by whom their apparition seems to be witnessed?

If we add, that such a vision may take place in the course of one of those lively dreams in which the patient, except in respect to the single subject of one strong impression, is, or seems, sensible of the real particulars of the scene around him, a state of slumber which often occurs; if he is so far conscious, for example, as to know that he is lying on his own bed, and surrounded by his own familiar furniture at the time when the supposed apparition is manifested, it becomes almost in vain to argue with the visionary against the reality of his dream, since the spectre, though itself purely fanciful, is inserted amidst so many circumstances which he feels must be true beyond the reach of doubt or question. That which is undeniably certain becomes, in a manner, a warrant for the reality of the appearance to which doubt would have been otherwise attached. And if any event, such as the death of the person dreamt of, chances to take place, so as to correspond with the nature and the time of the apparition, the coincidence, though one which must be frequent, since our dreams usually refer to the accomplishment of that which haunts our minds when awake, and often presage the most probable events, seems perfect, and the chain of circumstances touching the evidence may not unreasonably be considered as complete. Such a concatenation, we repeat, must frequently take place, when it is considered of what stuff dreams are made—how naturally they turn upon those who occupy our mind while awake, and, when a soldier is exposed to death in battle, when a sailor is incurring the dangers of the sea, when a beloved wife or relative is attacked by disease, how readily our sleeping imagination rushes to the very point of alarm, which when waking it had shuddered to anticipate. The number of instances in which such lively dreams have been quoted, and both asserted and received as spiritual communications, is very great at all periods; in ignorant times, where the natural cause of dreaming is misapprehended and confused with an idea of mysticism, it is much greater. Yet, perhaps, considering the many thousands of dreams which must, night after night, pass through the imagination of individuals, the number of coincidences between the vision and real event are fewer and less remarkable than a fair calculation of chances would warrant us to expect. But in countries where such presaging dreams are subjects of attention, the number of those which seemed to be coupled with the corresponding issue, is large enough to spread a very general belief of a positive communication betwixt the living and the dead.

Somnambulism and other nocturnal deceptions frequently lend their aid to the formation of such phantasmata as are formed in this middle state, betwixt sleeping and waking. A most respectable person, whose active life had been spent as master and part owner of a large merchant vessel in the Lisbon trade, gave the writer an account of such an instance which came under his observation. He was lying in the Tagus, when he was put to great anxiety and alarm by the following incident and its consequences. One of his crew was murdered by a Portuguese assassin, and a report arose that the ghost of the slain man haunted the vessel. Sailors are generally superstitious, and those of my friend's vessel became unwilling to remain on board the ship; and it was probable they might desert rather then return to England with the ghost for a passenger. To prevent so great a calamity, the captain determined to examine the story to the bottom. He soon found that, though all pretended to have seen lights and heard noises, and so forth, the weight of the evidence lay upon the statement of one of his own mates, an Irishman and a Catholic, which might increase his tendency to superstition, but in other respects a veracious, honest, and sensible person, whom Captain ——had no reason to suspect would wilfully deceive him. He affirmed to Captain S—— with the deepest obtestations, that the spectre of the murdered man appeared to him almost nightly, took him from his place in the vessel, and, according to his own expression, worried his life out. He made these communications with a degree of horror which intimated the reality of his distress and apprehensions. The captain, without any argument at the time, privately resolved to watch the motions of the ghost-seer in the night; whether alone, or with a witness, I have forgotten. As the ship bell struck twelve, the sleeper started up, with a ghastly and disturbed countenance, and lighting a candle, proceeded to the galley or cook-room of the vessel. He sate down with his eyes open, staring before him as on some terrible object which he beheld with horror, yet from which he could not withhold his eyes. After a short space he arose, took up a tin can or decanter, filled it with water, muttering to himself all the while—mixed salt in the water, and sprinkled it about the galley. Finally, he sighed deeply, like one relieved from a heavy burden, and, returning to his hammock, slept soundly. In the next morning the haunted man told the usual precise story of his apparition, with the additional circumstances, that the ghost had led him to the galley, but that he had fortunately, he knew not how, obtained possession of some holy water, and succeeded in getting rid of his unwelcome visitor. The visionary was then informed of the real transactions of the night, with so many particulars as to satisfy him he had been the dupe of his imagination; he acquiesced in his commander's reasoning, and the dream, as often happens in these cases, returned no more after its imposture had been detected. In this case, we find the excited imagination acting upon the half-waking senses, which were intelligent enough for the purpose of making him sensible where he was, but not sufficiently so to judge truly of the objects before him.

But it is not only private life alone, or that tenor of thought which has been depressed into melancholy by gloomy anticipations respecting the future, which disposes the mind to mid-day fantasies, or to nightly apparitions—a state of eager anxiety, or excited exertion, is equally favourable to the indulgence of such supernatural communications. The anticipation of a dubious battle, with all the doubt and uncertainty of its event, and the conviction that it must involve his own fate and that of his country, was powerful enough to conjure up to the anxious eye of Brutus the spectre of his murdered friend Cæsar, respecting whose death he perhaps thought himself less justified than at the Ides of March, since, instead of having achieved the freedom of Rome, the event had only been the renewal of civil wars, and the issue might appear most likely to conclude in the total subjection of liberty. It is not miraculous that the masculine spirit of Marcus Brutus, surrounded by darkness and solitude, distracted probably by recollection of the kindness and favour of the great individual whom he had put to death to avenge the wrongs of his country, though by the slaughter of his own friend, should at length place before his eyes in person the appearance which termed itself his evil genius, and promised again to meet him at Philippi. Brutus' own intentions, and his knowledge of the military art, had probably long since assured him that the decision of the civil war must take place at or near that place; and, allowing that his own imagination supplied that part of his dialogue with the spectre, there is nothing else which might not be fashioned in a vivid dream or a waking reverie, approaching, in absorbing and engrossing character, the usual matter of which dreams consist. That Brutus, well acquainted with the opinions of the Platonists, should be disposed to receive without doubt the idea that he had seen a real apparition, and was not likely to scrutinize very minutely the supposed vision, may be naturally conceived; and it is also natural to think, that although no one saw the figure but himself, his contemporaries were little disposed to examine the testimony of a man so eminent, by the strict rules of cross-examination and conflicting evidence, which they might have thought applicable to another person, and a less dignified occasion.

Even in the field of death, and amid the mortal tug of combat itself, strong belief has wrought the same wonder, which we have hitherto mentioned as occurring in solitude and amid darkness; and those who were themselves on the verge of the world of spirits, or employed in dispatching others to these gloomy regions, conceived they beheld the apparitions of those beings whom their national mythology associated with such scenes. In such moments of undecided battle, amid the violence, hurry, and confusion of ideas incident to the situation, the ancients supposed that they saw their deities, Castor and Pollux, fighting in the van for their encouragement; the heathen Scandinavian beheld the Choosers of the slain; and the Catholics were no less easily led to recognize the warlike Saint George or Saint James in the very front of the strife, showing them the way to conquest. Such apparitions being generally visible to a multitude, have in all times been supported by the greatest strength of testimony. When the common feeling of danger, and the animating burst of enthusiasm, act on the feelings of many men at once, their minds hold a natural correspondence with each other, as it is said is the case with stringed instruments tuned to the same pitch, of which, when one is played, the chords of the others are supposed to vibrate in unison with the tones produced. If an artful or enthusiastic individual exclaims, in the heat of action, that he perceives an apparition of the romantic kind which has been intimated, his companions catch at the idea with emulation, and most are willing to sacrifice the conviction of their own senses, rather than allow that they did not witness the same favourable emblem, from which all draw confidence and hope. One warrior catches the idea from another; all are alike eager to acknowledge the present miracle, and the battle is won before the mistake is discovered. In such cases, the number of persons present, which would otherwise lead to detection of the fallacy, becomes the means of strengthening it.

Of this disposition, to see as much of the supernatural as is seen by others around, or, in other words, to trust to the eyes of others rather than to our own, we may take the liberty to quote two remarkable instances.

The first is from the "Historia Verdadera" of Don Bernal Dias del Castillo, one of the companions of the celebrated Cortez in his Mexican conquest. After having given an account of a great victory over extreme odds, he mentions the report inserted in the contemporary Chronicle of Gomara, that Saint Iago had appeared on a white horse in van of the combat, and led on his beloved Spaniards to victory. It is very curious to observe the Castilian cavalier's internal conviction that the rumour arose out of a mistake, the cause of which he explains from his own observation; whilst, at the same time, he does not venture to disown the miracle. The honest Conquestador owns that he himself did not see this animating vision; nay, that he beheld an individual cavalier, named Francisco de Morla, mounted on a chestnut horse, and fighting strenuously in the very place where Saint James is said to have appeared. But instead of proceeding to draw the necessary inference, the devout Conquestador exclaims—"Sinner that I am, what am I that I should have beheld the blessed apostle!"

The other instance of the infectious character of superstition occurs in a Scottish book, and there can be little doubt that it refers, in its first origin, to some uncommon appearance of the aurora borealis, or the northern lights, which do not appear to have been seen in Scotland so frequently as to be accounted a common and familiar atmospherical phenomenon, until the beginning of the eighteenth century. The passage is striking and curious, for the narrator, Peter Walker, though an enthusiast, was a man of credit, and does not even affect to have seen the wonders, the reality of which he unscrupulously adopts on the testimony of others, to whose eyes he trusted rather than to his own. The conversion of the sceptical gentleman of whom he speaks is highly illustrative of popular credulity carried away into enthusiasm, or into imposture, by the evidence of those around, and at once shows the imperfection of such a general testimony, and the ease with which it is procured, since the general excitement of the moment impels even the more cold-blooded and judicious persons present to catch up the ideas and echo the exclamations of the majority, who, from the first, had considered the heavenly phenomenon as a supernatural weapon-schaw, held for the purpose of a sign and warning of civil wars to come.

"In the year 1686, in the months of June and July," says the honest chronicler, "many yet alive can witness that about the Crossford Boat, two miles beneath Lanark, especially at the Mains, on the water of Clyde, many people gathered together for several afternoons, where there were showers of bonnets, hats, guns, and swords, which covered the trees and the ground; companies of men in arms marching in order upon the waterside; companies meeting companies, going all through other, and then all falling to the ground and disappearing; other companies immediately appeared, marching the same way. I went there three afternoons together, and, as I observed, there were two-thirds of the people that were together saw, and a third that saw not; and, though I could see nothing, there was such a fright and trembling on those that did see, that was discernible to all from those that saw not. There was a gentleman standing next to me who spoke as too many gentlemen and others speak, who said, 'A pack of damned witches and warlocks that have the second sight! the devil ha't do I see;' and immediately there was a discernible change in his countenance. With as much fear and trembling as any woman I saw there, he called out, 'All you that do not see, say nothing; for I persuade you it is matter of fact, and discernible to all that is not stone-blind.' And those who did see told what works (i.e., locks) the guns had, and their length and wideness, and what handles the swords had, whether small or three-barr'd, or Highland guards, and the closing knots of the bonnets, black or blue; and those who did see them there, whenever they went abroad, saw a bonnet and a sword drop in the way."[1]

[Footnote 1: Walker's "Lives," Edinburgh, 1827, vol. i. p. xxxvi. It is evident that honest Peter believed in the apparition of this martial gear on the principle of Partridge's terror for the ghost of Hamlet—not that he was afraid himself, but because Garrick showed such evident marks of terror.]

This singular phenomenon, in which a multitude believed, although only two-thirds of them saw what must, if real, have been equally obvious to all, may be compared with the exploit of the humourist, who planted himself in an attitude of astonishment, with his eyes riveted on the well-known bronze lion that graces the front of Northumberland House in the Strand, and having attracted the attention of those who looked at him by muttering, "By heaven it wags! it wags again!" contrived in a few minutes to blockade the whole street with an immense crowd, some conceiving that they had absolutely seen the lion of Percy wag his tail, others expecting' to witness the same phenomenon.

On such occasions as we have hitherto mentioned, we have supposed that the ghost-seer has been in full possession of his ordinary powers of perception, unless in the case of dreamers, in whom they may have been obscured by temporary slumber, and the possibility of correcting vagaries of the imagination rendered more difficult by want of the ordinary appeal to the evidence of the bodily senses. In other respects their blood beat temperately, they possessed the ordinary capacity of ascertaining the truth or discerning the falsehood of external appearances by an appeal to the organ of sight. Unfortunately, however, as is now universally known and admitted, there certainly exists more than one disorder known to professional men of which one important symptom is a disposition to see apparitions.

This frightful disorder is not properly insanity, although it is somewhat allied to that most horrible of maladies, and may, in many constitutions, be the means of bringing it on, and although such hallucinations are proper to both. The difference I conceive to be that, in cases of insanity, the mind of the patient is principally affected, while the senses, or organic system, offer in vain to the lunatic their decided testimony against the fantasy of a deranged imagination. Perhaps the nature of this collision—between a disturbed imagination and organs of sense possessed of their usual accuracy—cannot be better described than in the embarrassment expressed by an insane patient confined in the Infirmary of Edinburgh. The poor man's malady had taken a gay turn. The house, in his idea, was his own, and he contrived to account for all that seemed inconsistent with his imaginary right of property—there were many patients in it, but that was owing to the benevolence of his nature, which made him love to see the relief of distress. He went little, or rather never abroad—but then his habits were of a domestic and rather sedentary character. He did not see much company—but he daily received visits from the first characters in the renowned medical school of this city, and he could not therefore be much in want of society. With so many supposed comforts around him—with so many visions of wealth and splendour—one thing alone disturbed the peace of the poor optimist, and would indeed have confounded most bons vivants. "He was curious," he said, "in his table, choice in his selection of cooks, had every day a dinner of three regular courses and a dessert; and yet, somehow or other, everything he eat tasted of porridge." This dilemma could be no great wonder to the friend to whom the poor patient communicated it, who knew the lunatic eat nothing but this simple aliment at any of his meals. The case was obvious. The disease lay in the extreme vivacity of the patient's imagination, deluded in other instances, yet not absolutely powerful enough to contend with the honest evidence of his stomach and palate, which, like Lord Peter's brethren in "The Tale of a Tub," were indignant at the attempt to impose boiled oatmeal upon them, instead of such a banquet as Ude would have displayed when peers were to partake of it. Here, therefore, is one instance of actual insanity, in which the sense of taste controlled and attempted to restrain the ideal hypothesis adopted by a deranged imagination. But the disorder to which I previously alluded is entirely of a bodily character, and consists principally in a disease of the visual organs, which present to the patient a set of spectres or appearances which have no actual existence. It is a disease of the same nature which renders many men incapable of distinguishing colours; only the patients go a step further, and pervert the external form of objects. In their case, therefore, contrary to that of the maniac, it is not the mind, or rather the imagination, which imposes upon and overpowers the evidence of the senses, but the sense of seeing (or hearing) which betrays its duty and conveys false ideas to a sane intellect.

More than one learned physician, who have given their attestations to the existence of this most distressing complaint, have agreed that it actually occurs, and is occasioned by different causes. The most frequent source of the malady is in the dissipated and intemperate habits of those who, by a continued series of intoxication, become subject to what is popularly called the Blue Devils, instances of which mental disorder may be known to most who have lived for any period of their lives in society where hard drinking was a common vice. The joyous visions suggested by intoxication when the habit is first acquired, in time disappear, and are supplied by frightful impressions and scenes, which destroy the tranquillity of the unhappy debauchee. Apparitions of the most unpleasant appearance are his companions in solitude, and intrude even upon his hours of society: and when by an alteration of habits, the mind is cleared of these frightful ideas, it requires but the slightest renewal of the association to bring back the full tide of misery upon the repentant libertine.

Of this the following instance was told to the author by a gentleman connected with the sufferer. A young man of fortune, who had led what is called so gay a life as considerably to injure both his health and fortune, was at length obliged to consult the physician upon the means of restoring, at least, the former. One of his principal complaints was the frequent presence of a set of apparitions, resembling a band of figures dressed in green, who performed in his drawing-room a singular dance, to which he was compelled to bear witness, though he knew, to his great annoyance, that the whole corps de ballet existed only in his own imagination. His physician immediately informed him that he had lived upon town too long and too fast not to require an exchange to a more healthy and natural course of life. He therefore prescribed a gentle course of medicine, but earnestly recommended to his patient to retire to his own house in the country, observe a temperate diet and early hours, practising regular exercise, on the same principle avoiding fatigue, and assured him that by doing so he might bid adieu to black spirits and white, blue, green, and grey, with all their trumpery. The patient observed the advice, and prospered. His physician, after the interval of a month, received a grateful letter from him, acknowledging the success of his regimen. The greens goblins had disappeared, and with them the unpleasant train of emotions to which their visits had given rise, and the patient had ordered his town-house to be disfurnished and sold, while the furniture was to be sent down to his residence in the country, where he was determined in future to spend his life, without exposing himself to the temptations of town. One would have supposed this a well-devised scheme for health. But, alas! no sooner had the furniture of the London drawing-room been placed in order in the gallery of the old manor-house, than the former delusion returned in full force: the green figurantés, whom the patient's depraved imagination had so long associated with these moveables, came capering and frisking to accompany them, exclaiming with great glee, as if the sufferer should have been rejoiced to see them, "Here we all are—here we all are!" The visionary, if I recollect right, was so much shocked at their appearance, that he retired abroad, in despair that any part of Britain could shelter him from the daily persecution of this domestic ballet.

There is reason to believe that such cases are numerous, and that they may perhaps arise not only from the debility of stomach brought on by excess in wine or spirits, which derangement often sensibly affects the eyes and sense of sight, but also because the mind becomes habitually predominated over by a train of fantastic visions, the consequence of frequent intoxication; and is thus, like a dislocated joint, apt again to go wrong, even when a different cause occasions the derangement.

It is easy to be supposed that habitual excitement by means of any other intoxicating drug, as opium, or its various substitutes, must expose those who practise the dangerous custom to the same inconvenience. Very frequent use of the nitrous oxide which affects the senses so strongly, and produces a short but singular state of ecstasy, would probably be found to occasion this species of disorder. But there are many other causes which medical men find attended with the same symptom, of embodying before the eyes of a patient imaginary illusions which are visible to no one else. This persecution of spectral deceptions is also found to exist when no excesses of the patient can be alleged as the cause, owing, doubtless, to a deranged state of the blood or nervous system.

The learned and acute Dr. Ferriar of Manchester was the first who brought before the English public the leading case, as it may be called, in this department, namely, that of Mons. Nicolai, the celebrated bookseller of Berlin. This gentleman was not a man merely of books, but of letters, and had the moral courage to lay before the Philosophical Society of Berlin an account of his own sufferings, from having been, by disease, subjected to a series of spectral illusions. The leading circumstances of this case may be stated very shortly, as it has been repeatedly before the public, and is insisted on by Dr. Ferriar, Dr. Hibbert, and others who have assumed Demonology as a subject. Nicolai traces his illness remotely to a series of disagreeable incidents which had happened to him in the beginning of the year 1791. The depression of spirits which was occasioned by these unpleasant occurrences, was aided by the consequences of neglecting a course of periodical bleeding which he had been accustomed to observe. This state of health brought on the disposition to see phantasmata, who visited, or it may be more properly said frequented, the apartments of the learned bookseller, presenting crowds of persons who moved and acted before him, nay, even spoke to and addressed him. These phantoms afforded nothing unpleasant to the imagination of the visionary either in sight or expression, and the patient was possessed of too much firmness to be otherwise affected by their presence than with a species of curiosity, as he remained convinced from the beginning to the end of the disorder, that these singular effects were merely symptoms of the state of his health, and did not in any other respect regard them as a subject of apprehension. After a certain time, and some use of medicine, the phantoms became less distinct in their outline, less vivid in their colouring, faded, as it were, on the eye of the patient, and at length totally disappeared.

The case of Nicolai has unquestionably been that of many whose love of science has not been able to overcome their natural reluctance to communicate to the public the particulars attending the visitation of a disease so peculiar. That such illnesses have been experienced, and have ended fatally, there can be no doubt; though it is by no means to be inferred, that the symptom of importance to our present discussion has, on all occasions, been produced from the same identical cause.

Dr. Hibbert, who has most ingeniously, as well as philosophically, handled this subject, has treated it also in a medical point of view, with science to which we make no pretence, and a precision of detail to which our superficial investigation affords us no room for extending ourselves.

The visitation of spectral phenomena is described by this learned gentleman as incidental to sundry complaints; and he mentions, in particular, that the symptom occurs not only in plethora, as in the case of the learned Prussian we have just mentioned, but is a frequent hectic symptom—often an associate of febrile and inflammatory disorders—frequently accompanying inflammation of the brain—a concomitant also of highly excited nervous irritability—equally connected with hypochondria—and finally united in some cases with gout, and in others with the effects of excitation produced by several gases. In all these cases there seems to be a morbid degree of sensibility, with which this symptom is ready to ally itself, and which, though inaccurate as a medical definition, may be held sufficiently descriptive of one character of the various kinds of disorder with which this painful symptom may be found allied.

A very singular and interesting illustration of such combinations as Dr. Hibbert has recorded of the spectral illusion with an actual disorder, and that of a dangerous kind, was frequently related in society by the late learned and accomplished Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh, and sometimes, I believe, quoted by him in his lectures. The narrative, to the author's best recollection, was as follows:—A patient of Dr. Gregory, a person, it is understood, of some rank, having requested the doctor's advice, made the following extraordinary statement of his complaint. "I am in the habit," he said, "of dining at five, and exactly as the hour of six arrives I am subjected to the following painful visitation. The door of the room, even when I have been weak enough to bolt it, which I have sometimes done, flies wide open; an old hag, like one of those who haunted the heath of Forres, enters with a frowning and incensed countenance, comes straight up to me with every demonstration of spite and indignation which could characterize her who haunted the merchant Abudah in the Oriental tale; she rushes upon me, says something, but so hastily that I cannot discover the purport, and then strikes me a severe blow with her staff. I fall from my chair in a swoon, which is of longer or shorter endurance. To the recurrence of this apparition I am daily subjected. And such is my new and singular complaint." The doctor immediately asked whether his patient had invited any one to sit with him when he expected such a visitation. He was answered in the negative. The nature of the complaint, he said, was so singular, it was so likely to be imputed to fancy, or even to mental derangement, that he had shrunk from communicating the circumstance to any one. "Then," said the doctor, "with your permission, I will dine with you to-day, téte-à-téte, and we will see if your malignant old woman will venture to join our company." The patient accepted the proposal with hope and gratitude, for he had expected ridicule rather than sympathy. They met at dinner, and Dr. Gregory, who suspected some nervous disorder, exerted his powers of conversation, well known to be of the most varied and brilliant character, to keep the attention of his host engaged, and prevent him from thinking on the approach of the fated hour, to which he was accustomed to look forward with so much terror. He succeeded in his purpose better than he had hoped. The hour of six came almost unnoticed, and it was hoped might pass away without any evil consequence; but it was scarce a moment struck when the owner of the house exclaimed, in an alarmed voice, "The hag comes again!" and dropped back in his chair in a swoon, in the way he had himself described. The physician caused him to be let blood, and satisfied himself that the periodical shocks of which his patient complained arose from a tendency to apoplexy.

The phantom with the crutch was only a species of machinery, such as that with which fancy is found to supply the disorder called Ephialtes, or nightmare, or indeed any other external impression upon our organs in sleep, which the patient's morbid imagination may introduce into the dream preceding the swoon. In the nightmare an oppression and suffocation is felt, and our fancy instantly conjures up a spectre to lie on our bosom. In like manner it may be remarked, that any sudden noise which the slumberer hears, without being actually awakened by it—any casual touch of his person occurring in the same manner—becomes instantly adopted in his dream, and accommodated to the tenor of the current train of thought, whatever that may happen to be; and nothing is more remarkable than the rapidity with which imagination supplies a complete explanation of the interruption, according to the previous train of ideas expressed in the dream, even when scarce a moment of time is allowed for that purpose. In dreaming, for example, of a duel, the external sound becomes, in the twinkling of an eye, the discharge of the combatants' pistols;—is an orator haranguing in his sleep, the sound becomes the applause of his supposed audience;—is the dreamer wandering among supposed ruins, the noise is that of the fall of some part of the mass. In short, an explanatory system is adopted during sleep with such extreme rapidity, that supposing the intruding alarm to have been the first call of some person to awaken the slumberer, the explanation, though requiring some process of argument or deduction, is usually formed and perfect before the second effort of the speaker has restored the dreamer to the waking world and its realities. So rapid and intuitive is the succession of ideas in sleep, as to remind us of the vision of the prophet Mahommed, in which he saw the whole wonders of heaven and hell, though the jar of water which fell when his ecstasy commenced, had not spilled its contents when he returned to ordinary existence.

A second, and equally remarkable instance, was communicated to the author by the medical man under whose observation it fell, but who was, of course, desirous to keep private the name of the hero of so singular a history. Of the friend by whom the facts were attested I can only say, that if I found myself at liberty to name him, the rank which he holds in his profession, as well as his attainments in science and philosophy, form an undisputed claim to the most implicit credit.

It was the fortune of this gentleman to be called in to attend the illness of a person now long deceased, who in his lifetime stood, as I understand, high in a particular department of the law, which often placed the property of others at his discretion and control, and whose conduct, therefore, being open to public observation, he had for many years borne the character of a man of unusual steadiness, good sense, and integrity. He was, at the time of my friend's visits, confined principally to his sick-room, sometimes to bed, yet occasionally attending to business, and exerting his mind, apparently with all its usual strength and energy, to the conduct of important affairs intrusted to him; nor did there, to a superficial observer, appear anything in his conduct, while so engaged, that could argue vacillation of intellect, or depression of mind. His outward symptoms of malady argued no acute or alarming disease. But slowness of pulse, absence of appetite, difficulty of digestion, and constant depression of spirits, seemed to draw their origin from some hidden cause, which the patient was determined to conceal. The deep gloom of the unfortunate gentleman—the embarrassment, which he could not conceal from his friendly physician—the briefness and obvious constraint with which he answered the interrogations of his medical adviser, induced my friend to take other methods for prosecuting his inquiries. He applied to the sufferer's family, to learn, if possible, the source of that secret grief which was gnawing the heart and sucking the life-blood of his unfortunate patient. The persons applied to, after conversing together previously, denied all knowledge of any cause for the burden which obviously affected their relative. So far as they knew—and they thought they could hardly be deceived—his worldly affairs were prosperous; no family loss had occurred which could be followed with such persevering distress; no entanglements of affection could be supposed to apply to his age, and no sensation of severe remorse could be consistent with his character. The medical gentleman had finally recourse to serious argument with the invalid himself, and urged to him the folly of devoting himself to a lingering and melancholy death, rather than tell the subject of affliction which was thus wasting him. He specially pressed upon him the injury which he was doing to his own character, by suffering it to be inferred that the secret cause of his dejection and its consequences was something too scandalous or flagitious to be made known, bequeathing in this manner to his family a suspected and dishonoured name, and leaving a memory with which might be associated the idea of guilt, which the criminal had died without confessing. The patient, more moved by this species of appeal than by any which had yet been urged, expressed his desire to speak out frankly to Dr.——. Every one else was removed, and the door of the sick-room made secure, when he began his confession in the following manner:,

I have read this demonology book when I was I think, 11 or 12 maybe 13. Anyways, I am getting a far lot more out of it NOW ; as compared to then!

The next posting about this Demonology and Witchcraft by Sir Walter Scott will be in the next hour or so, if not then when I wake up!

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commentaryvorg · 5 years

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Danganronpa V3 Commentary: Part 4.6

Be aware that this is not a blind playthrough! This will contain spoilers for the entire game, regardless of the part of the game I’m commenting on. A major focus of this commentary is to talk about all of the hints and foreshadowing of events that are going to happen and facts that are going to be revealed in the future of the story. It is emphatically not intended for someone experiencing the game for their first time.

Last time in the remainder of chapter 4’s free time, it was Issues Central, as we learned more of Maki’s mercilessly cruel backstory, then hung out with Kaito for the final time in our last chance before everything falls apart and lengthily discussed how badly he needs Shuichi to rely on him right now, since his final FTE managed to be delightfully full of his issues beneath the surface despite him not talking about himself in it at all.

Now for slightly fewer issues and slightly more plot.

*ding-dong!* *ding-dong!*

Shuichi: (The doorbell? Is it Kaito or Maki looking for me?)

Come on, Shuichi, you should know by now that that won’t be Kaito; the doorbell didn’t ring like a million times.

But unfortunately, it’s Miu. At least Shuichi deliberately ignored all of the vulgar nonsense she spouted at him and insisted she get to the point, which is that he should go to the computer room.

Himiko’s lingering just outside the computer room door.

Himiko: “I just remembered… how Tenko would always grab my hand and pull me along at times like this…”

Aww. She was mostly just irritated by it while Tenko was alive, but now she’s starting to appreciate that Tenko was always there for her.

Apparently all the armchairs in the computer room were brought here by Kokichi while helping Miu prepare, but where the hell did he get them from?

Kokichi: “Doesn’t it smell like something fun is gonna happen instead?”

Nobody is here to have fun, Kokichi. Nobody except for Monokuma, and you, apparently.

Kaito: “You always seem to show up for stuff like this. I’ve got you figured out…”

It’s a bit much for Kaito to be saying this since everyone showed up for it. I guess what he’s really getting at is the fact that Kokichi showed up for this despite having not showed up to breakfast, meaning he only cares about doing stuff as a group when it seems like something bad might happen and not to actually co-operate and escape. That’s still only Kaito having Kokichi partially figured out, though.

I’m, again, not going to quote any of the stuff Kokichi is saying to Miu, but suffice it to say that this is how he figured out he can manipulate her, and presumably how he got her to make all of the contraptions (that he’s still not telling anyone about because lol what’s escaping that’s boring let me kill two people instead).

Gonta: “Gonta understand! Exit is in that kon-poo-ter box! So we gotta break it open and go in!?”

Oh, Gonta. He’s still trying his hardest. Of course he wouldn’t know what a computer is, let alone the concept of virtual realities.

Everyone is quite rightly suspicious of Miu’s proposal.

Miu: “Am I… really that untrustworthy?”

I mean, yes. You’ve not shown any signs of being willing to co-operate this entire time and have been generally unpleasant to everyone. If you don’t trust everyone else, they’re not going to trust you either.

Maki: “So it separates the consciousness from the body… If that’s possible, then… No… it’s nothing.”

It really feels like Maki’s supposed to be thinking about something interesting and relevant to her issues here, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it could be. (If it were Kaito saying this, then that’d be one thing, but.) Any ideas are welcomed.

Gonta: “We all gonna sleep and have same dream? That possible?”

That’s basically it, Gonta! That’s the most accurate way of describing it that uses concepts he’s familiar with. See, he’s trying his best to understand.

This also means that when he wakes up and claims to have “had strange dream”, it’s very easy to assume he’s talking about his experience of going to the Virtual World.

Himiko: “So an avatar is another body… But I like this one. This body made my soul, and my soul made this body…”

Ha. Oh, dear. I have some bad news for you about that, Himiko.

Kokichi: “Hey, let’s trust Miu! We should trust in our friends more anyway!”

Oh my god, Kokichi, you are so transparent every single time you do this to try and make everyone’s words along similar lines sound just as empty as yours. I’m almost glad we’re close to the point where he stops having any opportunities to do this because I’m pretty sure I’ve been sounding like a broken record about this for the past four chapters.

Kokichi: “I mean, Monokuma created this world, right? Maybe he laid a bait to lure us in! Like… a super duper crazy secret hidden in that world!”

Kokichi is not being very subtle about the fact that he’s working with Monokuma on this.

Also, please note that Monokuma’s bait is the only reason everyone decides that it’s worth taking the risk and checking out the Virtual World. If all Kokichi wanted was to not get killed by Miu, he would have simply had to not do anything at all and nobody would have even gone inside the Virtual World to give her a chance to kill him in the first place. Miu’s plan was running under the rather idiotic assumption that everyone would trust her and believe that the Virtual World was worth checking out even if there wasn’t anything of value in there. It would never have happened at all if Kokichi hadn’t helped it along.

Shuichi: “Kokichi… what’s going on here? Did you know this all along? That Monokuma is hiding a secret in the virtual world?”

Seems like Shuichi has picked up on Kokichi’s lack of subtlety. It’s just not possible to be sure about this until Kokichi actually admits it.

Kokichi: “Maybe with that info, we could even put an end to this killing game.”

Gonta: “Huh!? We can end killing game!? Then Gonta will go!”

Oh god, of course Kokichi knew exactly what to say to get Gonta to decide to go. All this stuff about virtual realities and secrets is lost on him, but ending the killing game makes perfect sense.

Keebo decides to go because his inner voice is telling him to. Yeah, they probably know something exciting and murdery is likely to happen in there, don’t they.

Keebo: “I have always obeyed that voice, and I will continue to do so.”

He’s not even aware of how sketchy it is that he’s unquestioningly obeying this voice without even knowing where it comes from.

Kaito also makes up his mind, but for a… somewhat different reason.

Kaito: “Call it a man’s curiosity!!!”

Maki: “The idiot’s at it again…”

Kaito: “Wh-When a man loses his curiosity, he ages! Curiosity is what moves a man!”

It’s actually kind of adorable (and again, not remotely inherently masculine) that Kaito also connects curiosity to his concept of manliness. Of course that’s something he has a lot of and values a lot – that’s part of why he wants to go into space, after all! – so he considers it part of his idea of “the best person you could possibly be”!

This particular instance also highlights something which has been the case most of the rest of the time too, which is that Kaito’s concept of manliness is really just a thing he has for himself. He’s not inflicting it on others and trying to insist that everyone should be showing manly curiosity right now. He’s just saying it because this is something that’s personally important to him. Just like Gonta isn’t ever trying to tell anyone else that they should be a gentleman.

Maki: “You can stop talking now, but… I guess I’ll be an idiot too.”

Maki’s comment last chapter that she finds men talking about manliness to be gross is finally relevant to the actual situation at hand, heh.

(Even though Kaito’s concept of manliness isn’t at all gross like a lot of concepts of it can be. Subjectively annoying, maybe, and that’s clearly the only real problem Maki has with it here, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to stay curious.)

I also like Maki just accepting that she’s going to be an idiot along with him. She’s a lot more willing to just roll with Kaito’s “idiocy” at this point. He may be an idiot, but whoops, looks like he’s her idiot now.

Shuichi: “Kokichi… are you planning something?”

Kokichi: “Ah-haha, of course not. After Kaito punched me, I became a changed man.”

This is proof that Kokichi knows full well that Kaito punching him was not just an act of violence and was really an attempt to get through to him and stop him doing precisely the kind of thing that he’s about to do right here. Yet Kokichi chose to completely ignore what Kaito was trying to say to him and do this anyway. He is very consciously, wilfully avoiding all possible avenues out of this that would lead to him not becoming a double murderer. So even knowing that he has reasons for doing this that aren’t him purely being evil, it’s still very hard for me to sympathise with Kokichi at all. This isn’t an unavoidable tragedy. He’s choosing this for himself.

Himiko: “O-Okay… so I hold my chopsticks in my right hand, so…”

NO HIMIKO DON’T SAY IT. You just turned the 50/50 chance that this will be even more heartbreaking than it needs to be into a certainty.

(You can even see Gonta looking at Himiko in this illustration if you look closely.)

Chibi avatars, activate!

Kaito: “But… it feels weird. I can move this avatar like I could my own body, right? And with this body, I don’t have to worry about all that stuff…”

I thought you said you didn’t have any worries, Kaito.

It really must feel incredibly refreshing for him to suddenly be in a body that isn’t dying on him. He’s so surprised by genuinely feeling fine that he almost lets everything slip. Perhaps it’s because this feeling is a positive one, and while Kaito has a constant, unyielding mental filter to prevent himself from unthinkingly voicing anything remotely negative about how he’s feeling, positive thoughts like this don’t get caught by that filter in the same way.

Shuichi: “What stuff?”

Kaito: “Uh… no, it’s nothing.”

More stuff for Shuichi to file in the “don’t think about that because that’s too worrying a truth” section of his brain.

Maki: “…I want to go back.”

I like how this is the very first thing Maki says upon appearing here. Extremely Done Maki Roll™: now in chibi form!

Kokichi hitting Keebo to prove that their avatars feel pain is possibly done with the intent of backing up his assumption that they really will die in here if they experience pain that would have been fatal. But he’s also just taking the opportunity to be a robophobic asshole.

Kokichi: “Even if they are avatars, I could never hit a *person*!”

Kokichi explicitly, inarguably sees Keebo as less than a person even though Keebo is clearly a person to anyone who spends ten seconds talking with him. How is everyone so okay with this.

Kokichi: “And since it won’t leave any bruises, you can hit all you want!”

Keebo: “That’s a bully’s twisted logic.”

Kokichi is clearly, literally a bully, how is everyone so okay with this.

Kaito: “Information from our five senses here is sent to our real bodies… But it seems like information from our real bodies isn’t sent to our consciousness here.”

How would you know that, Kaito? It’s almost like there’s sensory information from your real body that you’re expecting to be sent to your consciousness right now.

I really, really like that this line exists to establish that Kaito’s real body is in constant pain at this point, since that’s not something Kaito would ever directly admit to but is very important information that I’m very glad we have.

Kaito: “If that’s the case, then… it’s fine, but…”

He seems worried, probably about the possibility that his real body could be getting even worse while he’s here without him being able to know or do anything about it. What if his body involuntarily coughed up blood while he’s in here and everyone woke up to see him covered in it? That would be unacceptable.

Fun fact: the assets used for the chibi avatars in game aren’t actually 3D models but are just a series of flat sprites and animations made out of 3D models turned to different angles. I know this because they just mirrored Kaito again rather than giving him different ones for each side. Also, perhaps even more noticeably, Shuichi’s protagonist hair suddenly flips the direction it’s pointing in when you move him from facing down to facing down-left.

Gonta: “But how we even get here? Gonta not feel anyone pick him up. And we got here so fast…”

His own understanding of this as a shared dream should be enough for Gonta to appreciate that they didn’t have to physically come here. So I guess the fact that he’s experiencing this a lot more vividly than he would experience a dream makes him think it can’t be that and be confused again?

Gonta: “N-No! If Gonta not strong, Gonta no can protect everyone!”

Oh no poor Gonta this world just took away the one thing he had that made him feel like he could be useful if the opportunity arose.

Gonta: “Hey, who Gonta gotta talk to to get strong again!?”

There’s someone on the end of that phone who’ll do it for you, Gonta. Just pick it up, say “Gonta Gokuhara wants to be strong again,” and then everything will be just fine.

Kokichi: “You guys better not cheat by logging out alone!”

I wouldn’t be surprised if Kokichi already suspects that Miu is planning to frame someone by forcing them to log out alone.

Maki: “I’m guessing… because it’s programmed like that for the killing game simulator. They want to see what kind of killing game it’ll be when no one has their special talent.”

The strength-equalisation only nerfs people whose talents involve being physically strong, though, giving the ones with intellectual talents an advantage. (…Not that the distribution of talents for a killing game was ever particularly fair in the first place, since some are inherently more useful than others regardless.)

Kokichi: “By the way, Miu, you prepared these maps yourself… not Monokuma, right?”

Miu: “Th-That’s right… I prepared the maps. What about it…?”

Kokichi: “No, it’s nothing. I just wanted to know.”

Shuichi: (What…? There was something off about Miu’s response…)

Kokichi deliberately asked this to give Shuichi a hint that’ll help him figure out the truth later. If Shuichi didn’t know this, he might never be able to figure out the true nature of the Virtual World, and Gonta could well get away with murder. Kokichi is actively trying to sabotage the mercy kill outcome, even before the murder happens.

Kokichi: “I was gonna go investigate alone. There’s a lot of interesting stuff I wanna check out.”

Kaito: “Hey… Like hell am I gonna let you do whatever you want.”

Kaito can tell that Kokichi is probably planning something bad and is trying to make an effort to stop it.

Kokichi: “I’m going, no matter what you guys say. Well, it’d be a hassle if someone kept watch over me—”

Kaito: “Kept watch?”

Gonta: “Gonta not understand what’s going on. Gonta not sure how helpful he can be… But Gonta can watch Kokichi so he not do anything weird!”

And Kokichi knows exactly what he’s doing and deliberately manipulates Gonta’s desire to help to get him to come along.

Kokichi: “Gonta, you’re so sweet… but I knew you would say that.”

DAMN RIGHT YOU KNEW HE’D SAY THAT YOU MANIPULATIVE SOON-TO-BE-MURDERER.

Kokichi: “You’d make a terrific bodyguard!”

Like he’s trying to tell himself that what he’s about to do is only because Gonta will be protecting him from Miu’s attempt to kill him. It is not. There is absolutely no conceivable way in which this is self-defence.

Gonta: “It’s okay! Leave it to Gonta! Gonta keep eye on Kokichi!”

NO GONTA DON’T GO WITH HIM

Just like everything else about what Gonta’s about to do here, even this part is driven by Gonta being desperate to be even a tiny bit useful. God damnit.

Kaito: “Geez… he really knows how to manipulate people. Well, whatever.”

Kaito can perfectly well tell that Kokichi deliberately manipulated Gonta into coming with him for some reason… but then he just brushes it off and doesn’t try to do anything about it, because there’s no way Kokichi’d be able to manipulate Gonta into doing anything truly bad, right? It’s Gonta! Kaito believes in him! Gaaah.

At this point, you can wander around and go into the bathroom to find the toilet paper in there. Shuichi even muses about how it won’t break.

When everyone comes out onto the rooftop, most of them just walk straight out, but Kaito goes wheeeee all the way around the rooftop in a big circle. He’s such an excited kid and I love that they even got that across with the very limited chibi avatars.

Kaito: “Whoa! It’s snow! Look, Maki Roll! It’s snow! Look! Snow!”

Maki: “Are you a dog?”

Yes, he is, Maki. He is a very good dog.

Also of note is the way Kaito specifically addresses Maki – not her and Shuichi, just her – and tries to bring her into his excitement. Even in the midst of his ridiculous dogginess, he’s still thinking about helping her by reminding her of the fun kid things she would have done in her normal life before she was an assassin.

Kaito: “It’s snow, Shuichi! It’s snow! Snow! It’s piling up everywhere! Look!”

Shuichi: “Y-Yeah!” (He really is like an excited puppy…)

I love that Shuichi agrees about Kaito being a dog.

(Kaito’s addressing Shuichi here because I had Shuichi talk to him directly, so my point just now still stands.)

Maki: “How can you get so excited over snow? You’re not a kid anymore…”

Kaito: “Hey, Maki Roll. Men are… living things that must cherish their playful heart! If they lose that, they’ll age!”

Maki: “…I thought you said when men lose their curiosity, they’ll age.”

Kaito: “Yeah, they’re both important! A man’s got a lot to remember!”

Kaito is such a wonderful dork. Not only does his concept of manliness include curiosity, it also includes playfulness. Those are both things usually associated with children – so it’s really neat that Kaito understands that they’re not inherently childish and sees them as important enough to be included in his idea of being a “man”. If someone wasn’t able to be curious about things and to let themselves have fun, they’d be boring and stagnant, and that’s not the kind of person who’s going to help humanity make its way into space! No wonder he was disappointed to have to reveal the secret of Himiko’s magic back in case 2. No wonder he kept insisting that those stories of his adventures as a kid were totally real!

When you think of characters in this game who are all about having fun, you’d usually think of Kokichi. But Kaito also understands the importance of letting yourself have fun – arguably better than Kokichi does, since Kaito’s idea of fun doesn’t come at the expense of other people.

Kaito: “Isn’t that right, bro?”

Shuichi: “I… don’t know how to respond to that.”

Also, this is the only instance of Kaito trying to bring someone else other than Gonta into his idea of manliness, except for when he punched Shuichi after trial 1, in which he was not thinking clearly at all. Probably this time it’s because he’s got so caught up in his excitement that he’s not thinking clearly for an entirely different reason. I like how Shuichi’s just awkwardly like “leave me out of this, I’m not as ridiculous as you”.

Shuichi: “That reminds me of a study I once read… People were told they were going to be splashed with hot water, but cold water was used instead. But their minds were so convinced, their bodies reacted as if the water was boiling.”

Tsumugi: “Oh, I’ve heard of something like that before, too.”

I’m sure you have, Tsumugi, because something like that was used in Danganronpa 2 in an attempt to justify why the victims would have died in real life. That didn’t make sense in the way it does in this game, though, because the argument here is that the body would die (from the brain dying of shock), whereas in Danganronpa 2, the bodies were still perfectly functional and the game was only trying to argue that their consciousnesses inside the virtual reality had somehow completely died even though they had no body to die with.

Once you’re outside the mansion, you’re completely free to run around everywhere on that half of the map. Which is a bit awkward, because Kokichi and Gonta should be somewhere out there right now, but they’re not anywhere to be found in the game. Soooo I guess Shuichi wasn’t dicking around like the players might be and just headed straight to the bridge.

The chibi avatars have a bunch of small idle animations, one of which, if they’re outside, is shivering with cold. It’s pretty cute.

Maki: “It’s really piled up outside. Kaito would be excited for all this snow. I bet he would make a snowman or something…”

Maki has a sad expression as she says this. Looks like Kaito really did manage to get her to remember her normal life back at the orphanage.

(It’s got to be heartbreaking for Shuichi and Maki the first time they experience real snow once they’re living relatively normal lives outside the killing game, thinking about how much Kaito would have loved it if he were with them. But maybe they’d still be able to make the most of it and honour Kaito’s childlike excitement for snow anyway.)

“Mirai Hills”, says the signboard. Totally not a reference. At least this one is gen two, not gen one, which makes sense given where we are.

I appear to have glitched the game somehow and have this non-stop sound effect of footsteps going on in the background, even when nobody’s walking. Good thing that’s not an in-universe phenomenon; that’d confuse things even more on top of all the other weird stuff about how this world works.

Kokichi and Gonta return, which means that poor Gonta is in despair and miserably believing that the only way to save everyone now is to keep quiet about what he knows and try to mercy-kill them all.

Kaito: “Where were you and what were you doing?”

Kaito immediately angrily demands this. He’s still doing his best to keep an eye on Kokichi and stop him from doing anything drastic.

Kokichi: “Oh, I was in the forest looking for the secret of the outside world. But unfortunately I couldn’t find it… Welp, I wasn’t expecting it to be that easy anyway. …Right, Gonta?”

Gonta: [with a sad expression] “Yeah…”

But Kaito doesn’t question this, because if Gonta is backing up Kokichi’s claim that they didn’t find anything then surely it’s got to be the truth after all. Obviously Gonta wouldn’t lie to them, right?

Gonta is being very quiet and subdued now. But perhaps Kaito isn’t quite able to pick up on that and realise something’s off because the less nuanced expressions on the avatars mean his intuition doesn’t work as well in here. If all he can see is that Gonta is sad and not precisely what kind of sadness it is, it makes sense that he could just be sad they didn’t find anything. Now there’s a neat way in which the Virtual World nerfs talents other than just making strong people weaker.

It would have been neat if the in-universe loading zone worked in the same way as an out-universe loading screen, to sort of lean on the fourth wall a bit. But it makes sense they couldn’t do it that way, because there’s out-universe loading screens between the different rooms of the buildings, but sound can still travel between them so they can’t possibly have in-universe loading zones.

Kokichi disappears through the loading point for a moment and comes back telling us that it cuts off sound, but I wonder how he confirmed that. I’m picturing him yelling something to insult Kaito, not getting a retort, and going “welp, he definitely didn’t hear me”.

Kokichi: “Well, I’m gonna go on ahead theeeeen.”

[Kokichi goes on ahead along with a silent Gonta]

Kaito: “Hey, don’t just go on ahead! I don’t trust you being off alone all by yourself!”

Kaito is still doing his best to keep an eye on Kokichi and prevent a disaster! He has no idea that’s it’s already basically too late. (It’s also interesting that he says he doesn’t trust Kokichi alone even though Gonta had gone with him. Apparently he still doesn’t think that Kokichi alone with Gonta is the safest of options if it can be avoided.)

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