Yes he assigned Lucretia a name and the places he wrote are just places from his canon. He thought about it for the first one but for the second one he just gave up.
The longer this goes on the worse his handwriting gets because these papers aren't exactly being helpful by the way his vision starts distorting. There is lie, a particularly big blotch of ink at the end of horse like the brush stayed and paused there, because that's exactly what's happening. ]
Ugh...
[ What the hell... anyway, sifting through these papers. Hello? ]
[Before Lucretia leaves she will point out the exit, which is basically just a gate on the exact opposite side from where they came in. Hopefully they won't need that knowledge!
These papers though HELP...
Anyway as he's sifting through the papers, first of all he'll find a wanted poster for Vaux Sucksman. Damn, they work fast.
But more than that, as he's flipping through them, the swimming and shimmering of the words seems to worsen. Letters disappear and seem to shift until the spell out one distinct thing, which remains still and steady in spite of the rest of the movement:
[Like Popeye in muscular stature for some reason, and also his mask has somehow become something more like this but with a beard.
The words repeat.
Who are you?
No matter where he looks on any of the pages, they seem to reappear, forming themselves out of nothing and standing out in a way that might nearly hurt to look at.
Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?
That being said, he's frustrated. He already answered, the last time he was whisked away somewhere -- he doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't need CYOA to haunt him with this question, either -- it does by default, in every sleeping moment. The dark circles on him aren't just art style. He can't get a good night's sleep, and hasn't, for as long as he has ever remembered.
He shoves over some papers over the desk, trying to focus back on his task. ]
[The papers that he shoves over go spilling over the desk and onto the floor, filling the room with their soft, fluttering sounds. But the one he'd been filling out before is now blank. The only words in the center are:
Will they miss you when you're gone if you were never here?]
[ He looks at this one, quiet. And he thinks of Nikaido, however fake as she might be, out there. The fact that this place deemed it necessary to assign her as his hostage.
It would've been easier if it had been Risu, because then he could be a whole lot more honest. He misses the guy, and feels pretty embarrassed to say he'd completely forgotten about him for those two, three years as Caiman. Replaced him with Nikaido, he supposes, even though by no fault of his own... or, really. If one would consider Kai 'him', then...
The answer is already there, in the form of Nikaido. 'Caiman' never existed, but she kept insisting like he still was that old guy. But it's better for her if she never knew him.
(That's a lie too. He regrets finding out the truth of everything. He wants to go back, hanging with her at the Hungry Bug.)
'They shouldn't,' he thinks, feeling a whole lot more tired suddenly. He flips this paper over, too. Something else... ]
[The feeling in the room is somewhat stifling, but not in eeriness or maliciousness. It seems to reflect the heaviness of Aikawa's exhaustion in the way that it rests across his shoulders like a lead cape, weighing him down.
The other side of the paper is blank, and it remains blank. However, a voice speaks up from underneath the desk.]
This world isn't your own. But do you have one to call 'yours'?
[The soldiers crammed under there still seem knocked out cold, if he looks. Their faces and mouths don't move along with the words, even though that's certainly where the source of the voice is coming from.]
[ He remains silent, as if that'll make it go away. He refuses to answer that. He's still sifting through the papers just in case -- is he missing something? Should he go outside...? ]
[Maybe he should. Lucretia did say that he might want to consider heading back to the cart as back-up after finishing with the papers, after all.
As for the papers themselves: they're all blank now, as if nothing was ever written on them, and he's left with the uncomfortable feeling that something here is watching him.
On that last sift through the papers, however, he'll find himself unable to stand up or move at all. His dominant hand moves back toward the pen and picks it up again, and perhaps it feels a bit bizarre and out-of-body to watch from his perspective. He can still feel everything, after all; he simply has no say in what his arm is currently doing. His hand begins to write seemingly of its own accord, moving across multiple sheets of paper. In handwriting that isn't his own, the scrawl reads:
Do you ever wonder why death follows you?
...Though after that, almost as soon as it started, he'll be able to wrest control of his arm back and stand once more.]
[ It, in fact, does not. It is a sensation familiar to him, although not usually with so much lucidity -- but he's gone through this exact thing but way worse in his earlier CYOA.......... UNFORTUNATELY. So he goes stiff, but watches the pen write out what it does --
-- and breathes, when the control is returned to him. Not nearly as bad as before, but he does rush to get out the door now.
He knows. He knows, damn it -- he doesn't need that thing nagging at him about it, and he certainly doesn't need this place bothering him either. The thing with cross-eyes, the cause of his misery. If he can't exist, if he shouldn't exist -- then that guy shouldn't either.
That would be the happiest, a world where he doesn't exist.
[i still can't believe this im losing my mind. WELL.
Out he goes, back into the outdoors! For some reason, it's like hours have passed - or like the sun's ascent in the sky has sped up, somehow. As he goes back through the doors and into the sunlight, it looks like what you would expect from a midday sky, though no one acts as though anything is strange about that. For a few moments, the brightness sears his eyes sharply, and for just a few seconds, there's a ringing in his ears.
But the cart is where they'd left it should he turn to look, and the inspection appears to be continuing onward. Nikaido is leaning on her rifle while standing next to the horses, and she lifts a hand and waves at Aikawa once he's in view.
He may also notice that a few of the soldiers nearby seem to be keeping an eye on him. Definitely more than before.]
[Well first of all, there are indeed a couple of guys in here finishing up a tally. They're peering into the barrel with porcelain horses and making some notes. Soujirou is also still here kind of half tucked next to some barrels, though he'll scoot over to stand by Aikawa's leg once he enters the cart. Friendly face...
Oh yeah, and one barrel's lid is missing. A particularly large, Risu-sized barrel's lid! You know how it goes.]
[The soldier glances around, surveying all of the barrels. They're all here, save the ones that were thrown overboard! Risu's is just missing its lid.]
Are we? I heard you lost some cargo, but not, you know... [That cargo. The cargo for Tama. Tama's cargo.]
--Oh. The one back there? [The man gestures toward the lidless barrel.] That one was missing the lid since we got in here to look around. Why're you carrying an empty barrel around, anyway?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ May as well ask. Where is the exit of this place? Anyway looks at this...
HE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK HE'S SUPPOSED TO WRITE THOUGH. I GUESS IT'S JUST:
Starting Destination: Senshu Kannon
Final Destination: Berith
Cargo: Horse
Yes he assigned Lucretia a name and the places he wrote are just places from his canon. He thought about it for the first one but for the second one he just gave up.
The longer this goes on the worse his handwriting gets because these papers aren't exactly being helpful by the way his vision starts distorting. There is lie, a particularly big blotch of ink at the end of horse like the brush stayed and paused there, because that's exactly what's happening. ]
Ugh...
[ What the hell... anyway, sifting through these papers. Hello? ]
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These papers though HELP...
Anyway as he's sifting through the papers, first of all he'll find a wanted poster for Vaux Sucksman. Damn, they work fast.
But more than that, as he's flipping through them, the swimming and shimmering of the words seems to worsen. Letters disappear and seem to shift until the spell out one distinct thing, which remains still and steady in spite of the rest of the movement:
Who are you?]
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Tell me what the picture on the Wanted Poster looks like.
But also he hates this. ]
Fuck off...
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The words repeat.
Who are you?
No matter where he looks on any of the pages, they seem to reappear, forming themselves out of nothing and standing out in a way that might nearly hurt to look at.
Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?
Who is Aikawa?
Is Aikawa here?
Is Aikawa anywhere?]
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That being said, he's frustrated. He already answered, the last time he was whisked away somewhere -- he doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't need CYOA to haunt him with this question, either -- it does by default, in every sleeping moment. The dark circles on him aren't just art style. He can't get a good night's sleep, and hasn't, for as long as he has ever remembered.
He shoves over some papers over the desk, trying to focus back on his task. ]
Stop fucking with me.
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Will they miss you when you're gone if you were never here?]
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It would've been easier if it had been Risu, because then he could be a whole lot more honest. He misses the guy, and feels pretty embarrassed to say he'd completely forgotten about him for those two, three years as Caiman. Replaced him with Nikaido, he supposes, even though by no fault of his own... or, really. If one would consider Kai 'him', then...
The answer is already there, in the form of Nikaido. 'Caiman' never existed, but she kept insisting like he still was that old guy. But it's better for her if she never knew him.
(That's a lie too. He regrets finding out the truth of everything. He wants to go back, hanging with her at the Hungry Bug.)
'They shouldn't,' he thinks, feeling a whole lot more tired suddenly. He flips this paper over, too. Something else... ]
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The other side of the paper is blank, and it remains blank. However, a voice speaks up from underneath the desk.]
This world isn't your own. But do you have one to call 'yours'?
[The soldiers crammed under there still seem knocked out cold, if he looks. Their faces and mouths don't move along with the words, even though that's certainly where the source of the voice is coming from.]
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[ He remains silent, as if that'll make it go away. He refuses to answer that. He's still sifting through the papers just in case -- is he missing something? Should he go outside...? ]
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As for the papers themselves: they're all blank now, as if nothing was ever written on them, and he's left with the uncomfortable feeling that something here is watching him.
On that last sift through the papers, however, he'll find himself unable to stand up or move at all. His dominant hand moves back toward the pen and picks it up again, and perhaps it feels a bit bizarre and out-of-body to watch from his perspective. He can still feel everything, after all; he simply has no say in what his arm is currently doing. His hand begins to write seemingly of its own accord, moving across multiple sheets of paper. In handwriting that isn't his own, the scrawl reads:
Do you ever wonder why death follows you?
...Though after that, almost as soon as it started, he'll be able to wrest control of his arm back and stand once more.]
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-- and breathes, when the control is returned to him. Not nearly as bad as before, but he does rush to get out the door now.
He knows. He knows, damn it -- he doesn't need that thing nagging at him about it, and he certainly doesn't need this place bothering him either. The thing with cross-eyes, the cause of his misery. If he can't exist, if he shouldn't exist -- then that guy shouldn't either.
That would be the happiest, a world where he doesn't exist.
He goes to open the door. ]
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Out he goes, back into the outdoors! For some reason, it's like hours have passed - or like the sun's ascent in the sky has sped up, somehow. As he goes back through the doors and into the sunlight, it looks like what you would expect from a midday sky, though no one acts as though anything is strange about that. For a few moments, the brightness sears his eyes sharply, and for just a few seconds, there's a ringing in his ears.
But the cart is where they'd left it should he turn to look, and the inspection appears to be continuing onward. Nikaido is leaning on her rifle while standing next to the horses, and she lifts a hand and waves at Aikawa once he's in view.
He may also notice that a few of the soldiers nearby seem to be keeping an eye on him. Definitely more than before.]
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Anything new happen?
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Nope, but the guys should be just about done. Wanna get in there and give them a hand with the last check?
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Oh yeah, and one barrel's lid is missing. A particularly large, Risu-sized barrel's lid! You know how it goes.]
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Hey, how's it going? Checking barrels?
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One of the soldiers tips his stupid little cone hat in Aikawa's direction, and he offers a smile even though he looks a little nervous.]
Yep - just about done in here. You finished up with the papers, right? Let's get you guys out of here stat.
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[The soldier glances around, surveying all of the barrels. They're all here, save the ones that were thrown overboard! Risu's is just missing its lid.]
Are we? I heard you lost some cargo, but not, you know... [That cargo. The cargo for Tama. Tama's cargo.]
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that's my bad. ]
...Lid. I'm tired. Barrel lid.
Where'd it go?
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--Oh. The one back there? [The man gestures toward the lidless barrel.] That one was missing the lid since we got in here to look around. Why're you carrying an empty barrel around, anyway?
[:3c]
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...I'm not.
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--There's nothing in this one, though...? Was something supposed to be in it?
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Who's passed through this carriage since our arrival?
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