4. Ghost of the Cabaret (1)
4. Ghost of the Cabaret (1)
The Dragonyu and the Alliga.
Two rivers that rose far apart, one emptying at the continent's northernmost tip and the other at its southernmost reach.
Two rivers that seemed destined never to cross came, astoundingly, within a hundred kilometers of each other at the very point where each twists sharply away.
By digging a canal to bridge those two bends, people had revolutionized trade between the northern and southern halves of the continent.
Rouge was one of the cities that flourished on the back of that canal.
What began as a modest ferry landing along the middle Dragonyu had swollen, decade by decade, into a thriving trade satellite where ships moored and their crews lingered.
In ports of this sort, you would normally expect sailors who knocked back soju at street stalls before grabbing a whore and vanishing into a room.
But the transition from sail to steam had shaken up maritime culture too.
Younger seamen, raised on the steady, unhurried rhythm of steamships, spent their shore leave differently from the old hands who had wrestled canvas and gale.
They preferred smooth, foaming beer to harsh soju, and they favored a few drinks and conversation that naturally led to the bedroom over simply throwing money at a prostitute.
A canal is, by its nature, a windless stretch of dead water—impassable for a sailing ship—so the nightlife along its cities had catered to younger tastes from the start.
The cabaret was the entertainment that stepped into that generational shift. Cabarets taught women to sing and dance. Singers and actors staged lavish vocal numbers and ensemble choreography. They hired writers and mounted musicals and plays.
The most famous of them all was the Rose Windmill in Rouge, named for the gigantic windmill atop its hall, wrapped in tangles of rose vines. The Rose Windmill employed over a thousand people: actors, singers, dancers, musicians, composers, writers, choreographers, managers, hosts.
That same Rose Windmill was one of the six theaters hosting the Circus Grand Prix preliminaries.
Rouge—a beautiful city of red clay bricks and russet roofs that harmonized into a single warm hue.
The first thing I felt when I set foot in Rouge was familiarity.
No surprise there—Rouge was one of the main stages in TT2.
The Sky City Hippodrome, the setting of TT1, had plunged into the northern ice sea at the climax. The heroes evacuated everyone and escaped themselves, but Wonderstein's body sank with the city.
Some time later, the salvage crews raising the fallen sky-city unearthed a significant relic.
A jewel called the Eye of Kirkeus—the sacred flame of the Circus Grand Prix, a holy object said to grant artistic inspiration simply by being seen or touched.
The jewel was split into six fragments and donated to renowned theaters across the world. The artists of six cities fell under its magical spell.
But as the years passed, those enthralled by the fragments began to show signs of madness. They painted with human blood and flesh, assembled music from screams wrung out by torture, strung up corpses to perform their plays. The affliction spread beyond the artists to ordinary citizens. The Eye of Kirkeus was steeped in the ghost of the dead Wonderstein, and it was his lingering spirit that drove people mad and twisted them into monsters.
The three heroes of TT1 caught wind of the rumor and reassembled. Their quest to destroy the six jewel fragments—that was TT2.
The six theaters hosting the Grand Prix preliminaries were the very same locations that served as TT2's stages.
I wandered the streets of Rouge, lost in memory. Every corner where I'd hunted monsters and cleared quests in the game stood recreated before me.
No collapsed or burned-out buildings, of course. No corpses littering the streets.
The city hummed with life and noise. A trade hub, a pleasure district, and a festival just days away besides.
I passed people I recognized.
The florist who'd given me a side quest sat outside her shop, assembling bouquets. The young mounted-police officer who'd become a field elite monster was cheerfully giving directions to tourists. The little cabaret dancer who'd shown me the secret passage went darting past with an armful of snacks.
And when I finally crossed the stone bridge and stood before the windmill veiled in red roses, I felt as though I'd come home after a long absence.
The Rose Windmill Cabaret!
The named characters paraded through my mind's eye: General Director Yug Maroine, manager Bwallet, owner Marquis Mustang, Shayla the Singer, the actor Paris, choreographer Mare, dancer Sol, playwright Romeo. People who, possessed by Wonderstein's evil spirit, had become monsters. Many with backstories as tragic as Anais's.
Unlike Anais, though, they were largely irrelevant to my current life. Their monstrous transformations belonged strictly to TT2. For now, the most I could expect was running into them during the preliminaries.
I ran through their specialties, histories, and weaknesses in my head. Some of them would be assisting with the preliminary events. The knowledge I carried might just give me the clue I needed to make it through.
I was still lost in thought when a sulky voice cut in beside me.
"You can't tear your eyes away, can you? You really do want to go in there."
I turned and met Anais's cold blue stare.
I winced. However much cabarets styled themselves as respectable venues of song and dance, they were still establishments where women sold laughter. A man who stood gaping at one with a grin on his face wasn't hard to read.
Unfair, honestly. I'd been thinking purely about the game.
"Naturally. A man like you must frequent places like that. All you'd have to do is flash that face and the women would come swarming, wouldn't they?"
"I have frequented them, but..."
"You were just now thinking about the women in there, weren't you?"
"Well..."
I wanted to shout no, but I couldn't manage more than a sheepish grin. Anais sniffed, as though she'd expected that much.
"At least you don't lie. That's something."
Damn that Smiling Man. His trait seemed simple, but its constraints ran deep.
It wouldn't let me fire off a reflexive retort or reaction, the same way I couldn't spit out a curse or a scream. To lie or swear, I had to compose myself first, hold perfectly steady.
The monsters in the Rose Windmill were women with exaggerated sexual features.
The kind whose two legs wobble beneath a skirt before the crotch splits open and a tongue and teeth come spilling out. The kind that rolls around sprouting dozens of breasts. A beautiful woman's face on a bird's body.
I really had been picturing them while thinking through the strategy. Which meant I couldn't flatly deny the question about "thinking about the women in there."
I collected myself, ordered my words, and tried again.
"Your Ladyship, you misunderstand. Haha, I was merely pondering how to handle the prelim—"
"Spare me, you lecher. After that revolting display on the ship... you are simply that sort of man, aren't you? If it's a woman, that's enough to please you."
Here we go again. I sighed inwardly.
"That was Yurakne who first—"
"Oh, the nerve. Now you're blaming the other party? She threw herself at you; you could have gently pushed her away. Surely the Troupe Leader isn't weaker than a single woman."
This was the day before we reached Rouge. I'd returned from my disappearance and slept through the day, only rising at night. I'd stepped onto the deck for some fresh air and run into Yurakne.
Suddenly she was in my arms, telling me how desperately she'd worried while I was missing.
It had never crossed my mind that anyone might be anxious for Wonderstein. Her Affection level was 24. That explained it, I figured.
I held her quietly, patted her back, listened to her pour out her heart. Right up until an ink bottle came flying from the cabin and struck me in the head.
-Other people are working through the night, and you're just having a lovely time!
A full week had passed since we arrived in Rouge, and she still brought it up at every opening. Never mind that Yurakne herself, the actual source, was now carefully avoiding me.
"She's my patron. I have to read her mood. What else can I do?"
It was Ella who'd urged this outing in the first place, with a casually indifferent tone. That she, who usually watched my every move with such wariness, would say such a thing surprised me.
She seemed to have accepted my promise that reaching the Grand Prix finals was the goal, and that I wouldn't harm the troupe members or Anais.
I appreciated the trust. But I didn't appreciate being shoved into these messes.
I'd welcomed Anais originally because she meant an easier journey and no more letter-writing. If I had to keep dancing attendance on her like this, the trade wasn't worth it.
"Do you really not know?"
"Know what?"
"...Never mind."
No reason to tell him. Let this demon figure out people's feelings on his own and find some way to exploit them.
I could see Ella withdraw into that thought.
I smiled coldly to myself. As if I didn't already know. Why Anais paid attention to me. Why she wanted to go out with me.
I'd once felt that same emotion, once tried that same thing.
-Hello, sir. I'm calling about the assistant reassignment. Yes. I understand you asked our assistant on a date. Yes. I know. I understand. But here's the thing, sir. Our clients often misunderstand something. Helping our clients is our job. And in the course of that work, we train our staff never to forget kindness and consideration, so that clients are not hurt. Even lending an ear is an extension of that consideration. Yes. We're grateful that our clients—many of whom struggle with physical limitations—are moved by such small kindnesses and thank us for them. But please do not mistake it for affection or love. It puts us in an awkward position, and it can hurt you as well. Every person we dispatch is being paid to do a job. So going forward...
After that day, I switched agencies. To one that sent brusque male aides who did their work and nothing more. Cheaper, too.
She was making the same mistake I had.
Someone's kindness and smile were not proof that they were loved. Someone's sacrifice and help were not proof that they loved.
Our relationship was an exchange of treatment for patronage. Nothing more than a transaction.
Her Affection level wasn't displayed numerically. I had no desire to advance a relationship the system wasn't helping me navigate.
No, that's a shabby way to phrase it. The truth is, I had no ability to advance one.
Inside the carriage on the way back to our lodgings, I stole a glance at Anais's profile as she glared out the window. And I kept my guilt to myself.