11. Wonderland (25)
11. Wonderland (25)
A person didn't vanish the instant they died.
Even after the flame of life was extinguished, residual thoughts — memories, emotions, will, the full spectrum of spiritual information — still remained. They gathered around the magnet of the "soul," clustering like iron filings.
But no matter how carefully those thoughts were collected, without the vessel of a "body" to hold them, they crumbled like a sandcastle, grain by grain.
Memories, emotions, will — all of them faded with time.
That was why the souls of Wonderland craved the audience's response.
By performing on stage and receiving cheers and applause, they could testify to their own existence and preserve their sense of self.
A soul entering this place typically forgot its own name after about twenty years. Through performance, that span could be stretched to fifty — even a century.
But nothing in the world lasted forever.
Performance only slowed the dissolution; it could never stop it.
Eventually, the iron filings would all scatter, leaving only the magnet behind. A soul emptied of self would then depart, ready to embrace newly born life.
That was what mages called the Circulation of Souls.
"So how many years have you been here, mister?"
I answered Ella's question with a figure that seemed reasonable.
"About seventeen, eighteen years or so?"
It was the right sort of number to brush off any questions about my living memories with a vague "I don't remember."
She gave me a pitying look.
"Not much time left, then. Can you really afford to laze around like that? If you want to hold yourself together, you've got to perform hard."
"I told you. It only slows things down; it doesn't stop them. Is it really worth scrambling to squeeze out a few extra years?"
She pursed her lips at my reply.
For someone who lived at full throttle, my lazy attitude clearly grated on her.
"Don't you have any family up on the surface?"
Her question called up the image of my late parents.
Swindled by a cult that promised to heal their son's body, they'd worked themselves to the bone and handed over everything they earned until the day they died.
Common sense said no religious power could regrow limbs....
But parents of severely disabled children tended to be emotionally threadbare, desperate to lean on even a sham salvation.
Cults were adept at worming their way into such hearts.
"Mister?"
"Ah, my apologies. My thoughts wandered for a moment. Family on the surface... None at present."
She studied me for a beat, then dropped her gaze to the floor.
"...Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
"Hahaha, no apology needed. This is the afterlife. Death is the clowns' number-one joke whenever they run out of material."
She let out a small laugh.
"Ha, really? Yeah, I guess it would be... Ah, there's Rumi."
An unwinged fairy stepped through the theater entrance, a fruit juice in each hand.
I had no need, but the two flesh-and-blood members of our party required nutrition. Fortunately, this theater offered free drinks.
"What were you two talking about?"
"The dissolution of souls."
She frowned at my reply.
"Idiot. You're supposed to entertain our guest. What's with the gloomy subject?"
"She got curious after seeing that."
I pointed at the banner hanging over the stage.
It announced that a puppeteer with seventy years of experience in Wonderland was directing this play.
Puppeteers tended to linger in Wonderland longer than other performers.
That was likely because their true persona resided not in their Spirit Body but in the physical puppet itself.
"Ah."
Reading the banner, Rumi's complexion shifted slightly as her eyes fell on the panel below it.
It listed the script for today's play and the name of its author.
I glanced at her cautiously.
"Someone you know?"
"Hm? Ah, well, we only ever exchanged names in passing."
She smoothed her expression and sipped her juice through a straw.
"Has it been long since they passed?"
"Seventeen years."
I caught the weight behind her words and turned toward her.
A slight nod confirmed my guess.
"That's right. Died in the accident at the Second Circus Grand Prix."
"...Come to think of it, there must be quite a few here. People who died back then."
It only reinforced my conviction: the name Wonderstein was not to be spoken aloud here.
Our conversation wound down, and soon the performance began.
As Ticketer had promised, the puppet show was a short, bright tale, easy to enjoy.
We laughed and cheered through it naturally, not once thinking about earning RP.
"48%!"
Ella called out in an excited voice as we left the theater.
The rating for this performance, then.
The first time in a while I'd heard her measure a show's combat power.
I nearly reflexively answered, "That's a decent score," as if I knew exactly what it meant.
Luckily, Rumi asked what she was talking about and spared me the slip.
After hearing Ella's explanation, Rumi looked astonished.
"100%? That's the score of your script? Wait — does that mean the puppet show we just saw didn't even reach half of that? Your troupe leader's writing is that impressive?"
"Of course. I told you, didn't I? He's someone I look up to."
Look up to....
I had to fight back a smile. The corner of my lip tugged upward.
Rumi shot me a sidelong look and gave a derisive sniff.
"So the scripts are that extraordinary? Now I'm curious what level they're at. Wait — back on the surface, did you ever see a show by someone named Eunmak Arno?"
"You mean the Silver Screen Circus's 'Kinema'? I saw it a few times."
"What score did that get?"
Tension crept into Rumi's face.
Perhaps because she was always hiding behind illusions, she wasn't very good at concealing her expressions.
Ella, oblivious to the shift in mood, answered offhandedly.
"Mid-70s?"
"What?"
Rumi's antennae stood straight up. Her eyes sharpened.
"You're sure you watched it properly?"
"Of course. Is that really so shocking?"
Ella stared at her, genuinely baffled.
I bit back a laugh and tried to soothe Rumi.
"Calm down. It's nothing more than a personal impression, isn't it? Miss Elphi, don't read too much into it. Our vice president is a fairy, you see, so she's rather proud when it comes to illusions."
"Aha, is that so? Come to think of it, the Silver Screen people all hide their faces, right? Maybe one of them really is a fairy."
"Ha ha, and even so, it's only around 70% compared to Miss Elphi's troupe, isn't it?"
At that, the calm I'd barely coaxed out of her evaporated. She bristled visibly.
I realized my mistake the moment the words left my mouth. Wearing the 'Torch Dancer' persona had an unfortunate side effect of loosening my tongue.
"Even a mouth haphazardly stitched onto rags ought to speak properly! Weren't you listening to her? She said her troupe has barely reached 60% so far!"
"But they have 100% as their target. Arno's shows, on the other hand, might be stuck in the mid-70s forever, don't you think?"
"What? Forever? Why, you... do you want to die?"
"Pfft, you started to say 'do you want a thrashing?', didn't you?"
"You little—!"
"Nngghk!"
Illusion ropes surged up again, snaring my arms and legs and twisting.
I had no choice but to roll helplessly across the floor.
"Good grief."
Ella, though she'd only known us a short while, had already witnessed this bickering routine enough times to look thoroughly weary as she shook her head.
"Shall we stop the marital spat and get moving?"
"Wha— what? Marital? Me? With this guy?"
Rumi's face went scarlet to the tips of her ears. She flailed her arms wildly.
The illusion weakened, and I finally managed to squirm free of the ropes.
"D-do we— do we really look like that to you?"
Rumi pressed the question again, but Ella pretended not to hear, looking conspicuously elsewhere.
"Ah, right. I should go write a review. They said it gives extra RP, right?"
"Hey! Answer me before you go!"
"I'll wait by the entrance!"
Leaving us behind, Ella headed for the guestbook station.
Silence settled between us.
I was straightening my twisted limbs and getting to my feet when our eyes met.
Face still flushed, she shrieked at me.
"Wh-What are you staring at!"
A short while later, Ella emerged from the theater.
She checked the time and murmured,
"About two hours left, I guess."
"Would you like to see another performance?"
"Mhm, I would, but... if we don't leave now, won't we be late?"
I shook my head reassuringly.
"If we use a paid ticket, we'll be transported right outside the theater anyway."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. We've still got plenty of time. Let's watch one more before we go."
"Great. I'd like to book something!"
Her call summoned Ticketer from thin air.
The uniform was the same as before, but the figure wearing it was a different middle-aged man.
Unlike the somewhat frivolous Ticketer from earlier, this one spoke in a measured tone, as if taking an order at a fine restaurant.
"According to the algorithm, shall I recommend something similar to what you just saw?"
"No, I'll specify the tags myself."
I stuck my head between the two of them.
"Sticking with taming, then?"
"No, I'm searching 'Monster Circus'!"
She said it with a bashful little smile aimed our way.
"I want to get a look at Wonderland's shows too. I am the Deputy Leader of the Monster Circus Troupe, after all — in name, at least. I want to be useful to the members... and to the troupe leader."
At that admirable declaration, I shut my mouth firmly.
'You really do need to treat her well.'
Rumi whispered it into my ear.
I nodded.
Monster Circus, huh.
For someone who was supposedly the troupe leader, I hadn't even thought of that.
She was right — seeing a show here might yield something genuinely useful.
But once the search completed, Ticketer shook his head with a faintly apologetic expression.
"I'm sorry, but there are no performances registered under that tag."
"Why not?"
She demanded, indignation creeping into her voice.
It was odd.
Monster circuses were an inescapable part of circus history.
The earliest form of the modern circus was said to have been traveling carts loaded with strange creatures, paraded as spectacles. Only later had the magicians who performed at banquets, the acrobats who showed off on street corners, the actors who trod the theater boards, and the jesters who cracked wise at court all joined the caravan.
There were, admittedly, a few reasons I could guess why this place had no monster circuses.
"Perhaps everyone here has shed their bodies and lost interest in physical appearances?"
"And this is also a place where fairies and even demons drop by. No matter how scary you look, it'd be hard to draw a crowd purely on 'monster circus' appeal, wouldn't it?"
"So if our members came here, they'd all be out of a job."
Ella shook her head as if resigned.
"Can't be helped. Let's watch something else. I picked last time, so now the two of you choose. What do you want to see?"
"I'll take something with plenty of action."
"I want one with lots of songs!"
My choice was an acrobatic piece called 'The Archrival on a Single-Log Bridge.'
It was a spectacle about people nursing grudges who happened to meet on a narrow bridge, and the chaos that ensued.
What began with two performers eventually drew in acquaintances and passersby, until more than twenty acrobats were grappling and tumbling over one another on that single log.
The ending was ridiculous: they all splashed into the river, floundered around, and were rescued by a passing fisherman.
"53%!"
Rumi picked a piece called 'The Frenzy Kitchen.' It was a play about the uproar among cooks preparing a banquet, and — unusually — their acrobatics were performed with cooking tools and food.
Every swing of a knife sent ingredients of every color bouncing into the air to the rhythm of cheerful chopping-board percussion; a pizza dough that looked meters across sailed across the stage like a discus. Every time flames shot up from a pan, cheers and applause erupted.
The entire sequence was choreographed to rousing music.
"67%!"
Striding out of the theater, Rumi looked at me with a smug expression.
"Heh, I picked the higher-rated one. For someone who can write a script, your eye for a show is terrible."
I let a note of wounded pride creep into my voice.
"The one you chose was a paid performance, Miss Rumi."
"Oh? Then we'll make a bet next time. See who can pick the higher score."
By the time we came out of the third performance, less than five minutes remained before the three troupe leaders' punishment was due to begin.
We bought admission tickets from Ticketer and tore them along the perforation.
Having already used one during the third show, we didn't panic when the scenery around us abruptly warped.
Our bodies shifted to the Judicial Theater in the Central Plaza.