Another Epilogue
There is a knock at the door.
You ignore it. Huddled in your blanket, in the center of the dark room where your computer screen is the only source of illumination, you continue clicking through the wide variety of pictures depicting cartoon characters in various states of undress. Hm, you’ve seen this one before. Skip. Skip. Boring. More vanilla? Bland. Skip. Ooh, this is new. Your hand creeps downwards, and then stops.
You look at the girl who is watching you. She seems entirely unperturbed, except for the perpetual sorrow in her eyes. But you are used to that. You are used to the blame, to the guilt. Over time she has become a fixture in your life. An unmoving, visible but intangible, permanent fixture. For some strange reason, she has even become a source of stability for you. Like… like a vase that you don’t quite like but would not part with. Or something. She is a better conversation partner than 90% of the trolls on the internet at least, even if she doesn’t speak. You could live like this. Yes, you could.
The knocking starts again, more urgent this time. You ignore it. You have gotten very good at ignoring things.
Then, the door explodes.
Squinting at the bright daylight streaming in from the outside – something you haven’t seen for a long, long time – your only reaction is to wrap the blanket more tightly around your naked body. You are not sure what to think… what to feel about this break from the norm. You had your daily life. It was dull and dark and that was how you wanted it. This… exploding door… this is not what you want.
A man walks in. There is a roguish grin on his lips and a patch over one eye. “What are you… yakuza?” you ask. “Are you here to kill me? I would like it if you could please leave some reparations for the door.”
“This place stinks,” he says, holding his nose. Well, you had not cleaned in… you don’t exactly remember how long, but you had not cleaned. “So, are you the one in contract with the book?” he asks. There is a strange accent to his words, and you wonder if he is a foreigner.
“What contract are you talking about? With a book?” Is he insane? Perhaps he is one of those people who never outgrew their middle-school delusions. He certainly looks the sort. “I’m calling the police,” you threaten. Not that you know where your phone is – you had shut it off a long time ago, to avoid calls – but he doesn’t know that.
“Right! The police. Should I be worried about them?” He seems unconvinced, and even a little dismissive of the possibility that the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department’s finest might apprehend him. As he looks around the room, his gaze falls upon the girl, whose eyes have never wavered from you. “What’s… that?”
“You can see… her?” you murmur.
The man does not reply to you. Reaching up, he pulls down his eyepatch with a swift motion. A white light engulfs the room. When it has faded, the girl is no longer there.
Na-chan.
“Well, I suppose that explains a bit,” he grins. “Was she a warden you made to guard your prison of self-recrimination?”
Useless words. “Where… where did she go?” Now that the girl is not here, something feels wrong. As if there is an ever-growing empty hole in your heart and in the world, and everything is about to collapse on itself. The blame was all that kept you going, kept you living. This is not what you want. This change to your predictable world… this is something you hate. Unknowingly, your hands have balled into fists, and an emotion that feels utterly alien to you manifests. Anger.
“Honestly, I find it amazing that she could have stayed here for so long, considering the smell… and the stuff you’re watching,” quips the man wryly.
You stand up, letting the blanket fall off of you.
“Well.” The man blinks, looking at your naked form. For once, he seems to be caught without a smart comment to say.
Howling in a rage that surprises even you, you hurtle through the air at the man who has invaded your home and destroyed your peace. You throw a punch at him, but before it lands, up becomes down, left becomes right, and you find yourself tumbling backwards, your jaw aching terribly. The man is smirking, his fist outstretched. You had not seen him move at all. “I hope that woke you up a bit.”
“What did you do to Na-chan?” you cry out.
But… this is not Na-chan.
A sharp pain shoots through your brain, and you cry out in agony. The room begins to crack. To unfold. And collapse. A sea of chains slowly rises up, swallowing the floor in a writhing mass of black metal links. The screams of a million dead souls echo throughout the abyss lying behind the seams of reality. Throughout all this, the man looks surprised – he does not seem to have expected this. “I didn’t screw this up, did I?” he asks awkwardly. "Damn it, that's the last time I trust what that fox-faced bastard tells me to do." The hole has finally widened so far, beyond the point of no return, that everything comes spilling out whether you want it or not. Falling to your knees, you scream and bang your forehead against the floor, trying to cut off all of the memories, old and new, flooding your mind. Of a life that never existed. Of a you that never existed. You laugh. And laugh. Without stopping, you laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Shinoseki Adachi is merely a shell, carved from the dead husk of a boy’s memory, and then filled with the thoughts of many. There is no place that he can exist, except in a dream.
“All life is a dream, so it doesn’t really matter. The way out has always been there if you look for it,” says the man, seeming to read your mind. “And yes, I was talking about that book.” He points in front of you, where a black, leather-bound book has appeared out of nowhere. “The bond is thin, but unbroken.”
A faint voice calls out to you from across time and space, pulling you back to where you are now. Your mad laughter slows down, and stops. Acchan. You have the sudden understanding that once you touch the book, you will finally know everything, and that there will be no turning back. Your path will be set, even if it means your destruction. There will be no escape, no more dreams within dreams that you can flee into. Your fingers reach tentatively for the book. You hesitate. Should you?
“Will you stop being indecisive and hurry up? If touching it is what you have to do, just do it, man,” comes the complaint. “Either you do it and help me, or I’ll make you do it and help me.” He cracks his knuckles threateningly.
You can’t help but laugh. “What’s the rush? This is a dream, and we have all the time in the world.”
“No, I suppose there is no rush,” he replies. “But I am serious about needing your help. The… spells? Magic? Well, whatever is in that book allows its master to move through time and space… ah, what did she say again? I’m really not too good at explaining this. Anyway, I need that book so I can rescue a buddy of mine. He’s imprisoned in a very, very far place, one I can only reach with the book’s magic. And it so happens that you are the only one left that the book responds to, so I need you, by extension.”
“Oh,” you say.
“Nice reaction,” he says flatly. “So… are you going to touch the book any time soon?”
“I’m not too sure myself what is going to happen when I do. Things might get even more messed up. I’m still not too sure myself what I want to happen after this, but…”
“Sure, I’ll help you out first. That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?” shrugs the man, understanding what you’re getting at. Quid pro quo. If he wants your help, he’ll have to help you first. And there are a lot of things to be done. People that you have to meet. Cycles that you have to break. Endings that you have to create.
“Exactly. If you want to recruit the NPC, you need to complete the side-quest first,” you say. He does not get the reference, and you chuckle. “Here goes.”
You touch the book.