1289/The Ark and the Gods

The Ark and the Gods
Date of Scene:	07 January 2015
Location:	A Quiet World
Synopsis:	Come for the story, stay for the atmosphere! Even if there is no atmosphere in space.
Cast of Characters:	Arthur Lowell, 183

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Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Rather than inviting Arthur to her palatial library as she has in the past, Mizuki has opted to introduce him to a far more humble and personal location this time around: her first home. The shack that she may elucidate existed long before her Clock Tower, in a time when her world had just been born and a a point of distant observation was needed. Somehow it ended up divorced from the world proper, but the odd physics of Mizuki's realm do not relent, making it perfectly feasible for even the most mundane of beings to breathe in these depths of the space unhindered. This is likely a pointless quirk to each of those present, though.

    Ah, but the rest of that explains itself quite handily. The lonely phonograph rests on the table beside which Mizuki is seated, playing a decidedly reserved reprise of Clair de Lune as the girl gently turns each page, awaiting her guest's arrival. And as Arthur would approach? She might indulge a bit of her usual theatrics to bob a hand as would the conductor of an orchestra, causing lines of stars to fall in with his path of trajectory. They would rapidly disperse as he lands, scattering every which way in utter silence, as if they were fireworks heralding the return of a hero. Yet, at the same time, the feeling it projects is something far more subdued -- though the display may be very grandiose in reality, it would feel only so consequential as the waving of a hand, and all the more beautiful for that perceived simplicity. All this, just so that the girl will be able to feel satisfied with how she has established the 'mood'.

    When Arthur is present, Mizuki would acknowledge him with a smile and the smallest of nods, limply dangling an open palm over the seat on the opposite side of the end table as if to say 'sit here'. She sees no real need for words just now; everything is perfectly set out and arranged, tea laying on each side of the table for the reader and her guest both. He knows what to expect, so there is no need for a plethora of preamble as she might've gone into before. Yes, all that is really needed is for the visitor to take a seat, and this whole thing can begin.

    She -might- be giving him the silent treatment on purpose in an effort to bolster the mystery that surrounds her, though, maybe. She can be a bit stubborn with that behavior.

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    Arthur enters in a way that's traditional for him: Lots of swagger, a fair amount of brash bravado in every step, after landing dramatically from flight. But he slowly begins to fit the mood as time goes by. Mizuki's worn away enough of his social armor at this point that Arthur can't help but treat her tone with a lot more respect than he gives most, and so the swaggering, blustering, and intense nature of his steps down that star-strewn path becomes a little more peaceful, respectful, and soft over time, until he's sort of shuffling gently just in front of her. The show's obviously had an effect, in one sense of things!

    He matches her mannerisms, giving off less of his huge, intense grin and more of a soft, genuine kind of smile and a quick, small nod. In an incredible defiance of his usual behavior, he keeps quiet too, taking a seat politely at the other end of the table in a relaxed way, already attentive to whatever Mizuki may choose to say. As usual, the boy shamelessly indulges Mizuki's quirks of tone, sitting in an interested, maybe even fascinated posture to listen to what Mizuki has to say here.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Though she's never been one to let silence last for too long. "... it is fascinating to see how you acclimate to more somber atmospheres, I must say. Though I will happily remind you: today will not be so filled with heavyhanded anguish as was our last get together. Rather, this short story I'll read to you is one with a similarly melancholic air, but with a far more conclusive, mirthful end. It should lift both our spirits, I think." Still smiling, she would allow for a pause while she shuts the book in preparation to re-open it in a few moments. "This story, too, is one which is based on a true event I witnessed. It is from a world I visited but did not participate in. There have been many such cases where I have watched the affairs of worlds pass by as those they were some manner of celestial cinema... and now as I sit here, in the company of one belonging to a world I have finally chosen to participate in more fully, I could not be more glad that I kept record of these stories. So that I may share them, and remind some, small, infinitesimal corner of this world that they existed."

    With that, she would fall silent again, opening the book to the dedications page -- it reads 'To all who have ever stared with longing at the night sky', should Arthur care to look -- and then to the first page of the first chapter. Mizuki gingerly plucks the needle from the record on the phonograph to afford the realm silence as she clears her throat, beginning. "Never can one tell whether it is day or night in the realm of the stars, so we shall assume the time falls somewhere about dawn. The milky rhapsody of the star plays on unhindered in every direction that any singular entity could hope to perceive, being interrupted in only one locale. Yes, for there lies one aberration at the heart of this particular scene: a cradle of metal and blinking lights, a shell that cloisters flesh from the harshness of a deceptively halcyon vacuum."

    The page turns, and should Arthur's gaze deviate from her for even a moment, he might see the ghostly silhouette of said 'cradle' resolve in the distance. The outline of a massive starship, thrusters blaring at its aft, propelling it through space. It is making a slow, gradual turn to port as more detail comes into focus: metal plating, illegible text proclaiming some ownership and title, and windows from which people must be peering out at this very moment. As all this plays out in silence, Mizuki would continue. "Long has this ship been sailing these seas, and many captains have had its helm. Once upon a time it was followed even by a caravan of smaller ships, all of them in search of a new haven that, in the life span of all those smaller spacecrafts, was never found. By now, though, people have adjusted to life in this cold microcosm of the world: a government has formed in which people sit as they did on the planets that have by now fallen into myth, and many people have loved and died here. These are people just as you and I, but they never played in fields of grass; rather, their place of growth has been the sea of the stars since the day they were all born."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    The ship completes its turn, slowly carrying itself closer and closer to their small landmass, eventually giving Arthur the opportunity to gaze inside. A world purely wrought from metals of all sorts, he would see, with technology that might baffle him even in all his experiences with the Sburb machines. People have only just now begun to stir, a girl with stark white hair stretching her arms and yawning, peering to her still slumbering mother with a groggy but somehow impatient look. "Though there is no sadness in this, really. While there are many worries, such as resources and an almost mythological tale that tells of a home they must find, not a one of them can know the sad parting that their ancestors did. This is their home, and this long journey is simply their life. And ah, it is a peaceful one -- in such a small world, not a one of them would forget the name of their neighbors, and not a single birth would go without the celebration of the entire installation. There is a certain beauty to their condition, really; within their separation, something, perhaps, to respect. Even envy."

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    Arthur has a bit of a heavy sigh, but it's the relieved kind, not the stressed kind. "Yeah. Lifting spits would be... Yeah, that'd be good. I'm all good and stuff, but..." He rubs his hands over his face for a moment. "It's maybe getting a little hot to handle." He leans back a bit, his head sort of laying to one side to watch MIzuki and her book, as he listens. He reads the dedication, but whatever emotion it's evoked, his face is indecipherable.

    His sight does slip away for a moment, and he peers for a long time at the silhouette of that ship. It's not something he'd ever admit to anyone who asked, of course -- perhaps even if Mizuki herself asked -- but he was a huge fan of science fiction long before Sburb, having a deep affection for Asimov's work at times. Arthur himself keeps his dialogue to a minimum; his tones are meant to be respectful, to show that he is listening, but to not make it a conversation. "Generation ships." He whispers, for a moment, smiling softly. There's a gentle sort of nod.

    Arthur, more than perhaps anyone, would know what's desirable in a more cozy, self-contained social context. The note of sympathy is easy to see in his eyes. This is a kid who spent untold eons as a god with only four friends for company, so for a very brief moment Mizuki not only has his social armor off but gets to see a rather genuine, rarely-seen bit of intense emotional connection. Of course, it fades after a moment, as Arthur stares with a fascinated sort of look at the ship's interior.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Mizuki would briefly glance away from the pages to give Arthur a small nod when he mentions generation ships. "The very same, yes. They are a bit of a cliche to those who know the genre, but nevertheless the concept manages to harness a certain quantity of all the things I love most. In a setting I am rather unaccustomed to, even. But before I digress too far..." Mizuki would clear her throat for reason more symbolic than practical, here, before glancing back to the page and continuing.

    "Yes, but this particular day is a special one. It is the birthday of the captain's daughter, Lucille Brahms. In a world so large as ours the idea might seem preposterous, but on this particular ship the birthdays of children were celebrated as no less than national holidays. Everyone who was willing and able would come to see the lucky young one, and those particularly close to them would offer them their most precious hand-me-downs, poems, and other such personal artifacts as gifts. There never was more than four or five children on board that ship at any given time - as per their laws of necessity - so the young learned to appreciate the sentimentality behind these things quickly. Relationships between adults and children were much more fluid and equivalent, and this fostered surprising degrees of trust and stability."

    "Perhaps this is why, then," The page turns again, "that the aforementioned Lucille was quit unafraid to wake her mother when she was cognisant of herself on this particular morning. She groggily dashed from her bed, almost tripping as she tore across their cozy cubicle to her mother." This very seen is depicted on the other side of the glass as the ship continues to make its pass as the older woman in question would sleepily rub at one of her eyes. Quite contrary to normal situations, the woman would just gently smile and pat her loved one's head rather than grow perturbed, though she does not rise from her resting place yet. The girl pouts but eventually resigns herself to a seat in the corner of the room where she locates a stuffed animal, holding it closely to her chest and casting her gaze toward what would appear to be a holographic projector mounted on a wall, as a modern flat screen TV might be.

    This room would slide out of view, now, and the reading would continue. "But alas, her mother would need some time yet before she had the energy to rise from her slumber, so Lucille drifted to occupy time elsewhere. She watched the Holograph for some news bulletins or the morning music selection, but it was too early for that as well. She tried to content herself by holding fast to the precious heirloom she had received on this very day two years prior, but that, too, was not enough to sate her. So out she went into the halls to explore on her own power -- to see what arrangements had been made for her special day, and, if she was feeling naughty, to get a look at a few of the areas she was usually barred from. These, the wee hours of morning, were the time when the world was her oyster always, and today should be no different."

    "Ah, but where to go, she wondered? There was the engine room, but she had been there many times, and that had really become quite boring. There was the master storage center, but something about being there made her feel lonely, so that wasn't ideal either. Ah, but yes! The obvious choice was the AI core, where she could speak with the mother system that governed the every automatic function of the ship. Life support, faster than light travel, the engines, artificial gravity -- all of these things that Lucille, nor even her parents, could truly grasp the import of any longer. But she did not need any of this to love the AI all the same; Ivory, as she had long since been dubbed by the populace, had a draw and mystique of her own. A distinctly human, even maternal grace, that all the children loved her for. If only she was less often preoccupied with work, if only..."

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    Arthur smiles a bit at the idea of so many people being so into a birthday like that. Arthur's own birthday had been... Well, eventful, and maybe a bit unpleasant, to say the least, but he's not got any special traumas about that. She can tell that Arthur is especially connecting with the extremely small number of children involved here. And like the giant dork that he is, the rather simple, domestic display makes him feel cozy in exactly the way it likely ought to. This, for once, is slightly less easy to see.

    He does tilt his head though. There's a lot of sympathy he feels with that sort of indirect connection. While the children on the ship might not have a network near large enough to sustain that sort of thing, he does know the intense value of that sort of indirect friendship. From the way he leans a bit closer, she can tell there's a bit of curiosity, but a mild lack of connection. With Mizuki's well-practiced brand of insight, she ought to be able to tell that Arthur is somewhat disconnected from understanding maternal nature, of course due to never having a mother in his life in the first place, and so a visible mild curiosity builds in how this more maternal side of things works here.

    At the very least, there's no question that he's completely focused on the story now, taking in every word offered even just at the "setup" stage of the narrative. It's not with a high volume of energy, but with a relaxed sort of interest.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    "So on she went down each of those angular, colorless halls, each of them identical to you or I, but to Miss Lucille, as distinct from each other as ever they could be. This is her home, of course, and one tends to accrue an affinity for the place in which they dwell, regardless of its varied quirks. For this reason she was able to navigate as deftly as any of the most seasoned explorers might, up the aged but immaculately well-kept stairs, past the dining halls and their employees just now establishing things for the morning. 'Round and 'round that crucible of steel until at last she reached the peak of that celestial tower, and the home of Ivory. A panel by the door requests a password, but as per the norm, all it takes to gain entry is a request directed at the AI herself. As though her voice alone was the passphrase, the door would slide open."

    Another page turns, and the surroundings adjust again. The ship seems to fade from view, the room that is soon described sprawling itself amongst the stars, its borders and walls remaining mere outlines whilst the ground near Lucille seems to come alive. Likewise, grounds left behind as the girl navigates the hall would lose their color and shape, yielding themselves to the pool of stars once more. "A brilliant, startling hall it was," Mizuki's voice would reassert itself, "of alternating colors and lines of light that flash across the glass panels on the floor. Where cleaning robots rush past one another dutifully as they have for countless years, and seemingly endless boxes of blinking lights collect. All of these mainframes would congeal at the far end -- a central apex with four monitors connected to yet more blinking apparatus and keyboards, all of them covered with deep waves of dust. It is clear that Ivory has done her duties for many years undisturbed."

    "And yet, the cybernetic woman is no less warm for it. If anything, she is moreso; the warmth in her inflection would hint that her time in existence has taught her a good deal of empathy that humanity might once have thought machine incapable of possessing." Here, Mizuki's voice would yield to Ivory's own: an obviously synthetic but still effeminate rhythm of hums and whispers. Tinged with a distinct wrongness, but still somehow fit to wield nursery rhymes as it greets Lucille, welcoming her into its 'abode'. "Welcome, Lucille," 'She' would chime in her calm yet loving way, "and happy birthday. How many years has it been, now?"

    "Eleven~!" The voice of the white-haired girl would chime. "I'm eleven now! Can you believe it, Ivory? Eleven years is a long time!" She was blissfully unaware of how different 'Ivory's' concept of time was from her own, of course, and how fleeting eleven years would seem to any machine, let alone one that had existed for some two-hundred years. Another page turns as that mechanical voice would murmur a series of giggles. Laughs that, if emitted by any corporeal presence, would likely be followed by a pat on the head. "Indeed, it is. Congratulations, Lucille. You should be proud." This conversation would continue until Lucille's mother would appear at the door from which the long passage through which the girl had initially entered, coaxing her back out into the station proper. The little one would say her usual, exuberant goodbyes as she is led out to her personal holiday celebration, and Ivory, as always, was left behind.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Mizuki's voice would rise back to the fore, now, as the image takes some time to reorganize itself again. "On their way, Lucille unleashed a fathomless deluge of inquiries regarding what treats might await her upon their arrival. Her mother dismissed them all with 'maybe' or 'we'll have to see' in attempt to preserve the surprise. This was all, as one would expect, much to the poor girl's chagrin, but her mother could be certain that she would be happier this way when the time came."

    "All the better that they had come together when they had, though -- for down the hall was one of the station's many ghosts. They appeared as any normal person might, of course, but like all 'phantoms' their eyes were blank and white, their expression fixed and motionless. Their form flickered as though it were but a figment of the girl's imagination; reverberant static of some person no longer with them. The thing that truly perturbed Lucille, however, was this figure's shocking similarity to people she did not know as well as she ought to: the baker woman, for example, or doctor. She would pester her mother about these troublesome figments, only to be dismissed in this regard too with more words of comfort: 'They are not real, it's all in your head. You just didn't sleep well enough because you were too excited'."

    "Mercifully," Another page would turn, "this would be enough to satisfy Lucille until they arrived at the central park, the only locale on the ship to sport any sort of greenery. Small patches of grass segregated into neat polygons surrounding a fountain of austere metal are gathered, as are vast numbers of the good people Lucille knows. Trace and her father Raymond are there, the former holding a cleverly disguised box containing the finest shoes owned by her late mother. So, too, are Kale and his mother, the former closely clutching a vaguely bell-shaped object with ruffles and aberrations to its form at the peak, all of these features concealed beneath a soft tan cloth tied with string."

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    This, for a moment, hits Arthur a little more directly. The idea of a more distant, inhuman entity retaining and keeping humanity over time, or even amplifying it, seems to strike him with especially severe potency. Something about that slams right into the core of his identity and for a moment the intensity of his look reaches a peak. He seems rather fixated just for that moment, before the story moves on and he eases out of his intensity naturally.

    He seems to take a reclining sort of amused posture at how much quaint happiness can be extracted from the scarcity here. It's a cozy kind of feeling! Arthur seems put very at-ease by it. His posture is of someone who rather understands and likes this sort of sentimentality. Just coming off of christmas shopping for gods, he understands it well. Both the people with the least and the people with the most value sentimentality best. "These sound like good people." He says, simply, once more merely a reaction, not intended to provoke... TOO much conversation, at least. "A really happy place. Lucky kid, that's for sure." He smiles at the image he's seeing here.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    "Each of the presents are opened, Trace's to reveal the aforementioned shoes, and Kale's to reveal a bouquet of flowers that he had grown in his own home for her over a course of months. There are multitudes more that Lucille gradually uncovers, all of them similarly heartfelt and warm, and each one renews her elation. The day proceeds, filled to the brim with that same excitement of discovery, culminating with the three children - Kale, Lucille, and Trace - lying beneath a skylight to the stars together, recounting the highlights of their day."

    "Afterwards, things should have slipped back into the typical, pleasant monotony of everyday life, but things gradually became increasingly... peculiar, soon after. The frequency of 'phantom' appearances increased exponentially, and the parents of the children would occasionally go missing. This left Kale, Lucille, and Trace alike all very confused, so they decided to speak to the one that they had always trusted to give them advice in the past: Ivory."

    Mizuki pauses in her reading a moment, here, gingerly raising her gaze to look at Arthur. "... I will be honest, I had forgotten about the contents of these coming passages. There -is- some discomfort to this tale, but I can still promise you, without any reservation whatsoever, that the ending is a good one. Please bear with me through the melancholic parts -- they aren't as gruesome nor as biting as those in the previous tale." With that she would look back to the pages, clearing her throat. "Ivory greeted them with her usual, quiet cheer, but she could tell immediately that the children had grown afraid. All the strange occurrences and aberrations of the recent few days had disturbed them, and like the curious things they were, they wanted answers. Here, Ivory was torn. There was much she had to tell them, yes, but would they understand?"

    "At the least, she could start with what she believed they could grasp. Firstly, Ivory had located the long sought after planet. It was many light years away, likely too far for the ship to reach in the next twenty-some years, but it was for that purpose that she had been diverting the energy of the ship to spool up the long dead faster than light drives. This, Ivory told them, was the source of many of the strange occurrences of late: the flickering of the lights, the phantoms, and even the disappearances of their parents. But the question remained: why? Why on Earth would the ship's malfunctions have any bearing whatsoever on their parents, and why would it cause 'ghosts' to appear? Ivory knew the answer, but there is a time and a place for these things. Unfortunately, that moment very well might've been the right moment."

    Mizuki takes a breath, and exhales. "... so she told them, to the very best of her ability. Everything. How the phantoms were holographic projections of people stored within the memory banks of the ship's databases, and how they came to wander whenever Ivory had to dedicate their intelligence elsewhere. And how their parents were 'phantoms' as well -- people that were merely shadows of inidividuals who had once existed, and whom Ivory had been controlling since the very start. Their parents, she said, died of the same illness that had dyed their hair white in youth. A vaccine was developed, but the quirk of it was that it was only able to outright destroy the disease in people who were not yet fully mature in their growth. And so, in the span of but a few months, all of the adults on the ship passed away. Ivory had developed a culture of tangible holograms and dedicated most of their time and energy to raising the children with them, ensuring that they would never have to endure any hardship beyond that which they had already faced."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    "Of course, this was phenomenally hard to accept. That the parents they knew were but figments, and beyond this, that they would soon have to crawl to sleep in stasis chambers in preparation for the final journey that would tear them forever from their peaceful home. Ivory allowed the children to come to terms with this, and they cried together for many days and many nights. Ivory continued to have the holograms perform their roles, but the children knew enough now to make it all feel hollow. So with each passing day, fewer and fewer people appeared until, finally, none appeared at all. The dream ended."

    "Distraught though they were, the children, together, were ultimately able to come to terms with this. They returned to Ivory some weeks later and told her that they were ready. Ready to build their new world, and ready to see the sun, the ocean, and trees for the first time. It felt like a fairy tale to them: all these legendary things they had heard of since childhood were now finally within their grasp, but in order to find that paradise, they had had to sacrifice so much. Still, within eachother, they found peace; tranquility the likes of which most people never know. No matter how much the world changed around them, they vowed to maintain the same spirit of camaraderie that they had lived with, and to never allow their peoples' generations of friendship end with them. All those people -- the phantoms -- were no longer real, but they could never be false. Always their memories would live within them, and guide them. Whether or not they were flesh and blood... was ultimately deemed irrelevant."

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    Arthur gets hit with a few elements of melancholic sympathy all at once. Loss of the parent to some grim challenge he had to face is something Arthr knows really well, but so is this precise manner of memory-based emulation. Mizuki will be critically unaware of the Dream Bubbles and their habit of recreating people's parents out of memory... Or the encounters Arthur had with the ghosts of hig Dad's childhood versions while trying to help out Vruasa. It's a lot of very intense, very visceral connection and it instantly hits him with a dose of powerful melancholy. Mizuki should be able to see it rather plainly on Arthur's face, a sort of immediate dimming of emotional enthusiasm and a calming, but somewhat grim easing into a profound somberness.

    "...Jeeze, Mimi." He says. "You weren't kidding." There's a gentle sort of smile from him, that still drips with the light gloom of the melancholic tone. "That's pretty damn bittersweet." There's a heavy, gentle sigh, concerned and maybe even distressed, but only lightly, in the way this sort of serious story has to. "...It's nice though. It's... A good ending. Still, it's... Damn," He swallows, a dry sort of emotional kind. "Sorry. I should probably be doing the cool apathy thing there, but that went deep." He turns to face her directly, giving her a smile. "You got good taste. Right kinda story to bring me in for. I'll try to avoid being too much of a sentimental nerd and leave it at that. But thanks." He gives a few nods. "Four or five kids... I'm hoping that ended alright. Ivory kept them safe after landing?"

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Mizuki would gingerly close the novel and set it aside, folding her hands in her lap. The images from the reading would slowly evaporate into the silhouettes from whence they had come, too. "Ivory kept them safe until they grew old, shriveled, and died. I can assure you that they had very happy lives, but that... is where the story of humanity ends in that world. They never repopulated, so to speak. All that likely remains there now are the ruins of the ship landed on the surface of that planet, Ivory, if she still functions, keeping her vigil over the homes her children built for themselves. It's somewhat poetic, really. It tempts me toward feelings of gnawing loneliness, but all the same... all the same, there is beauty in that. The final humans in that world died happy, fully accepting of one another, filled with a sort of innocence and wonder for their entire lives that is normally reserved exclusively for children. The whole thing is..." Her eyes would briefly squeeze shut. "... it leaves me with mixed feelings, but for whatever it may be worth, there was not a day in their lives when they were not surrounded by warmth and love."

    Her eyes would reopen, and Mizuki would hesitate a moment before adding, "Perhaps we may visit Ivory one day, if you like. I left a waymarker there, and I believe this book could yet lead us back should we wish to go. No pressure at all, but it would be nice to revisit that place. It may make very little sense, but it became like a home to me for the ten-some years I spent watching their travails. I miss them, and going to visit them might help fill a void I never knew existed." She would recline faintly in her seat, steepling her fingers. "... admittedly, I did converse with Ivory briefly before leaving for good. We spoke of them their lives, and various philosophical conundrums that I'll not bore you with. And then I did what she could not: I built their graves. I believe that is when I first realized that I had some purpose, however small it might've been. I am a record keeper, and I see to it that people can never be forgotten. I... may not share Staren's methods, but I do... in my own way... seek to make the people that I love immortal."

    Arthur might get a fleeting glimpse of a shimmering bead of moisture hung upon one of Mizuki's lashes before she gently brushes it away. "... ah, thank you for listening to all of that. It is awfully pleasant to have someone to read to. It has been so terribly long since I have last read to one of my Seekers. Beyond my notice, again, I seem to have begun to ache for the experience. So much I had forgotten before coming to this Multiverse. So many feelings that had slipped away from me, only to return with twice their original vividness now. Funny... funny how these things occur, at times. But I'm rambling at this point. Forgive me."

    She would straighten her posture and return the needle of the record to play, allowing herself a brief rest from conversation. "... I often wonder if this life I am living now is just a story as well, if I can be honest. If this Multiverse is just another place that I am destined to one day leave. But I suppose, if I do... I will have many eternities hence before I could finish writing a chronicle of all your stories. So in that sense, I suppose, it will take me far longer than I expect to be rid of all of you."

    Seems like the story's mood got to her, too, a bit.

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    "Bittersweet." Arthur says, with a definitive tone, when Mizuki seems to lose track of the conflicted feelings she's left with. "That's what I'd call it. That sort of bitter circumstance makes any warmth and love you can get there be even sweeter. I... Yeah, I gotta admit I know that sort of thing." He sheepishly scratches the back of his head. "Heh. Doesn't matter, sorry, getting all rambly, Your storytime, not mine. Let's go visit her sometime. There's... Mmmmh. Some stuff that'd definitely be worth talking about."

    "Been happy to listen, Mimi. It's nice, and it's... Well, 'fun' wouldn't be the right word. 'Satisfying'? It was nice, whatever it was. Plus, hey," He gives a quick grin, not unlike his usual. "I'm not gonna turn down any excuse to have some sweet hangouts. You're great company. Not a lot of people liking me being, you know." He gestures plainly to himself, sheepishly. "So, gotta hang out with them as much as I can."

    He lies back, sighing, relaxing a bit. "You're feeling what I got a bit of experience in myself. You gotta work feelings, like a muscle. Sure you've heard about what I've been doing around the multiverse. Being happy, being angry, being miserable, you gotta make sure you're feeling them as hard as you can. Well," He makes a quick 'pffft' noise with his mouth and a casual dismissive gesture. "If you've got the same goals as me, anyway. You're a little more on the disconnected side of goals." And then another soft sigh.

    "Well. By the end of this, I'll make sure you've got some good stories. If I can't aspire to being pleasant, I at least try to be interesting!" The wide grin returns again for just a moment as Arthur does a brief flourishing gesture with his hands, humorously.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    To Arthur's final words, Mizuki would allow for a brief silence whilst she smiles her usual smile, fluttering her lashes. She expects that Arthur knows precisely what she is going to say next, but she's still going to say it anyway. "You could never be unpleasant, you know. You are nuanced, and you are imperfect, but you should well know that I share your condition. Each of us have lived so terribly long at this point that all our flaws should have been accounted for long, long ago, and yet still humanity clings to us. You, at least, do not shy away from that. Other aspects might be obfuscated, perhaps, but through it all you remain very down-to-Earth. I... place more precedent on internal philosophical ramble than that, and have been isolated from a larger world for so long that it is only natural I feel more distant. Ah, but I suppose what I mean to say is -- in spite of it all, you are very warm. An extremely rewarding person to know should anyone really attempt to give you the time of day." She would raise her teacup at last, taking a sip before adding, "Though you have quite some tales to tell as well, to be sure."

    The teacup comes to rest beside the phonograph again, and the lady's hands would link, forming a sort of bridge. "Ah, but goals. Yes, goals. I would have you know that, once upon a time, I had a great many fascinations that might have constituted some aspirations. The one that keeps reappearing... is to find a way to forcibly thrust this world into a state of pure thought. A realm where people may all be as free to think and feel free of rote rules and limitations, and where their existences may be as genuinely romantic as people believed they were before 'biology' and 'psychology' were but the most infantile concepts." Her eyes would shut, thoughtfully. "I have another that cooperates with the former -- to somehow edit my mind and entirely remove the 'phantom limitations' imprinted upon my personality. So that I may be something more purely spiritual and as distant from the human condition as I've always fancied myself."

    Her eyes would dart open. "Somewhat silly, aren't they? There are so many paradoxes involved with what I would have Creation give me. But then, I never have been as connected to logic as have most others, have I? I live in a world where two mutually exclusive realities may exist in tandem, and even interact with one another, so I've begun to ignore even the most basic logical inconsistencies that my thoughts conceive. It's... a convenient state of being, but I fear it may one day lead me to a sort of more genuine insanity. Something that would make communication with other people -- or at the least people who think more conventionally, if I may use that word without stigma -- far more difficult, and leave me in a position potentially even more lonely than the corner in which my thoughts have already reserved for me." She would roll an oratory hand. "... I fear this would sound like frivolous nonsense to most people, but as someone who has scraped upon the fabric of 'fate', and seen this world from the peculiar angles I believe you have, it may yet make some sense to you."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Her smile would widen, and a sleeve would hurry to cover her mouth. It's clear she's had to stifle a laugh. "... though I suppose all I just said only serves as further evidence of how 'distant' my priorities really are. I find it difficult to be objectively fascinated with the conflict between the Union and the Confederacy, because it seems to me a reprise of countless other conflicts that will come and go. I am not so arrogant as to think it 'not worth my time', but I am painfully aware of how even my most profound motions could never be any more than a... gentle nudge upon the narrative. And even then, what meaning does it all have? I miss the days of my youth when I could live believing as though there were some 'ultimate' meaning to be found somewhere. Everything was so simple, then, and it was so very easy to feel that sensation of warmth at just knowing I had been useful to someone. Those feelings linger, to a degree, but they, too, have faded with time. Now I am much more likely to do as I did with Ivory and the others and just... watch, so that I may feel their feelings as my own. So that I may, for those brief few moments, not consider myself so completely hollow."

    A sigh, but not an overtly mournful one. "... another ramble, it seems. Apologies, apologies. We shall have to seek another date when we may conclude this, and when you may meet Ivory. I believe you would find her very interesting. In spite of all her history, she is content now to simply watch the flowers of her field sway in the breeze and await the day when she may cease to function. Were it only that we were all so halcyon and at peace within ourselves, our world might be a very, very different place." Her cheek would fall on to her fist for support, elbow resting upon the arm of her chair. "I ask myself this question so often, really: would I rather be satisfied, as she is? Free to just pass on and assimilate with some collective of energy and float, purposelessly, mirthfully, forever? Or would I prefer to remain as I am, firmly independent of all that lies around me yet so thoroughly nihilistic, and addled...? My answer varies with each passing hour."

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    Arthur remains rather silent for the brief discussion of how human he is. He sort of seems to just stare at nothing at all, with a rather somber sort of look, and doesn't reply. Hmmm.

    But then he actually takes an even more intelligent, academic mannerism for a moment, to reply to other things. "Well, maybe it's a little silly to apply anything from Sburb to stuff like this. But I think there's some bearing bearing on it." He leans on one elbow, propping up his chin. "In Sburb, you can theoretically do near about anything. Then, if you play Sburb, when you die, you've got... A sort of reserved afterlife, and it's like what you're talking about, a little. Pure thought and memory. Just a big menagerie of people's ideas." There's a long pause. "Well, plus a few things out of place there too, but without those, it'd be great, and pretty much exactly what you're talking about. But I mean, why not just start there, right? Well..."

    He looks down for a moment, seeming lost in thought. "I think it's not just limits. I mean, you go somewhere that's pure memory, pure thought..." He makes a vague gesture. "Then, you're just recycling someone else's when you're thinking." He does a philosophical sort of gesture with his free hand. "If I had to guess, it's the same reason you have internal contradictions. The rules serve a purpose. They make... Content, but that's such an irreverent way of putting it. They're lessons. You have the rules as long as you need to learn all you can from them. Sometimes you've got conflicting rules, and that's fine, just learn what you can from both and it'll all shake out in the end." He stops propping up his chin on one hand and instead sort of slumps over to rest it on the arm, over the armrest. "I dunno. I just think maybe there's stuff left to learn from things like that. Reality's got its own lessons it wants to teach, you know? Same as I learned from Sburb."

    "So nah. Be satisfied eventually. Ivory learned what she had to learn from people. Guess she was just a faster learner. But, you know, for now, stick with it." A sheepish sort of laugh from the boy. "Not that I've got any place trying to give insight here. Practically running away from that sort of thing myself. Erk--" He stammers briefly, saying, "Never mind that. Anyway, yeah, no stress about it."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Mizuki would bob her head along with Arthur's commentary, pausing to consider for some time after he's finished talking. Ultimately, Mizuki would posit in counterpoint, "... but alas, sometimes I feel even worlds appropriately governed by rules are just 'recycled' in different, more difficult to notice ways. Finding something genuinely 'original' in any world where beings' minds are built how ours are is one of the most difficult things one can possibly conceive of, if not an outright impossibility. This is not to say that I may be wrong in thinking so, or that I refute the value this world yet has, but even so." Her expression would dip slightly. Slightly more softly, she would continue, "... believe me, there are many, many days when I wish I could find no words to contradict you. I want it all to mean something just as much as anyone else might. Perhaps moreso, even."

    Mizuki would remain silent for a moment or two hence, idly stirring the contents of her teacup. "... in earnest, I'm just glad to hear that you have had similar thoughts. I have told many of these conundrums, only to have them repeat to me things I have already considered, or to be too heavy-handed in their attempts to 'bring me around' to their reason, so to speak. It is good to be able to share these thoughts with those who would not consider them self serving or otherwise in desperate need of immediate change." Her eyes, as if in reponse to Arthur's own mental meandering, would glaze over faintly. "... and until I come to any conclusions, I will of course endeavor to do what good that I can. And to do as I have always done: record, remember, and immortalize. Give my gifts, wherever I can."

    The stirring hand would come to a stop, and she would take another sip. "On another note, though, it astonishes me more and more with each passing day just how much we have in common. The worlds we live in, what we have seen and done... I will be honest, there was a time I thought it outright -humorous- that we became friends. I, one so thoroughly dedicated to finding tranquility, and you, with such a pronounced way of carrying yourself. I thought it was like a novelty, somehow -- it took a month or so of knowing you before I ceased to view you in that belittling way. Now, I feel like I have an old and dear friend. One who can understand where my bizarre, oft amoral thoughts stem from. Thank you for that, truly. For whatever it may be worth to hear, it grants me a sort of peace just to know that I am not alone in my pondering. Rationally I have always known that, but very rare was it that I would encounter examples that I could see, and hear."

    Her head rests against the back of the chair, now, her eyes facing out into space, toward the swirling lavender sphere she usually calls home. "But the story is done now, I suppose. I would never desire for you to feel obligated to stay and listen to my varied complaints, however... colorful they can be. Please feel free to depart at your leisure. Or stay and relax, I suppose -- you never need an express purpose to visit, or to stay. Fractured though it may be, you may think of my home as but another of those worlds given to the victors of Sburb, if you so choose. And we shall call it: The Land of Novels and Clocks. Yes." Her smile would resurrect itself at that, somewhat. "... I have read enough records to know some of the naming conventions."

Arthur Lowell has posed:
    Arthur gives a sheepish shrug. "Way I see it," He says, frankly. "Making you 'come around' to that kinda thinking, seems to me like the kinda thing that doesn't make much sense. If it's true, then the rule will teach you, and if it's not, they won't. Most that that way of thinking does is help a bit with the stress of wondering why. Maybe I'm just into it 'cause it was a big crisis scenario for me." A few chuckles. "Kinda the only way of rationalizing the circumstance, you know? I wanted it to be worth something. 'Course, I came up with that when I was planning on, you know, dying." And a long sort of silence. "Haha, never mind."

    There's a wide grin there. "Lemme tell ya." He says, with frank tones. "There's not a person in any world that expected to be friends with me. I kinda act like a jerk, let's be honest." A brief "heh" there. "But I'm glad we're friends, no grudge about anything you thought back then. And... Well, you know I don't usually like talking up that sort of NERD STUFF and all..." For one brief moment, his usual mannerisms burst into presence, then subside. "Yeah. I did my damndest to not think about that sort of thing during Sburb. And then, I had... You know, a few billion years." He goes a bit still. "I thought for a long time." That seems to be all he wants to say about that.

    "I'm gonna stay and relax." He says, with a definitive sort of tone. "For a while. If you're not minding." He closes his eyes, and leans back into the chair. "You don't gotta keep talking if you'd like to just relax a while, yourself. You don't get a horse voice or anything, but I know it can be a little much sometimes. If you don't mind me staying here a while, I'm gonna do that, though. It's de-stressing."