A Real Outing
My outing beyond the Art Gallery, the first in quite some time, stretched on far longer than I had expected.
"I haven't moved this hard in ages."
All because of artworks that fled far better than I ever imagined they would — so much for thinking I could scoop them up in no time.
Whatever grievance they were nursing, the moment I closed in they would slip away into another zone, forcing me to apologize to the local residents at every stop along the way.
Still, after several rounds of pursuit, their strength finally gave out, and I managed to recover two of them.
A forest vista painted in oil — Romanticism at its core, with a light wash of Surrealism mixed in.
And a sculpture of a crow, carved from a single unbroken mass of metal.
"Because of you two, I can barely show my face around here."
Honestly, if a Masterpiece or a Masterwork had escaped, I could at least tell myself I'd given the locals something worth looking at. But every piece that broke out this time was nothing but a Mediocre Work — it felt like having my blackest history forcibly put on public display.
"Don't just sit there. Say something."
I planted a hand on my hip and puffed out my cheeks, doing my utmost to broadcast how angry I was, but no answer came back from the artworks.
At their level, speaking aloud might be impossible — but conveying intent to me, their creator, should have been well within reach. The silence told me they knew full well they were in the wrong.
"Hah. Causing more trouble for the residents would be poor form, so I'll stop scolding you here. Once I've collected the rest and we're back at the Art Gallery, we'll continue this conversation."
I drew a light-refracting cube-shaped prism from my coat.
Then I lifted the captured artworks and fed them into the cube.
Physical laws be damned — pieces far larger than the cube itself slipped neatly inside with a soft shook.
This cube, too, was a gift from one of the artists — left behind as payment for viewing my work. It looked like nothing more than a curious light-bending cube, but anything placed inside could be stored regardless of size, up to twenty-seven items. I used it constantly.
Once every piece was sealed within, I turned and offered both thanks and apology to the resident who had helped me pin them down so they couldn't flee.
"Thank you. I'll make sure to repay you properly for this later. And I'm sorry my children caused you so much trouble."
The resident shook their head, gesturing that it was fine.
A black formal suit, a face pale as white porcelain, and tentacles trailing from their back.
They had declined, but I committed the appearance to memory. Next chance I got, I would paint a portrait and deliver it as thanks.
After parting ways with the local resident —
"Just one more to go."
According to what I had confirmed last night, three artworks in total had escaped the Art Gallery.
I had just recovered two, which left one — a sculpture modeled after a dolphin, if I remembered correctly.
I reached for the thread connecting me to my creations, the same way I always did, to sense where the sculpture might be. But for some reason, the line was severed clean through in the middle — a sharp snap.
"Huh?"
It had been a very long time since I'd encountered this.
If a work were damaged or destroyed, the connecting thread would vanish entirely. A clean break midway meant the piece was somewhere I could not go.
As rare as it felt, this was not the first time a connection had cut off like this. In the past, whenever I asked the Brush about such cases, the answer always came back the same: You are not ready yet. So despite my lingering curiosity, I had simply let it go —
"Brush?"
"What is it?"
"Am I still not ready?"
"…No. I suppose I can tell you now."
At last — it seemed I would learn where those few missing works had gone all this time.
I waited for the Brush's answer, wondering where my severed creations could possibly be, and what came back was something I never expected.
"Every work whose connection has been severed mid-thread is on Earth."
"What?"
Earth.
A name I hadn't heard in so long — and an answer I never saw coming.
I had fallen into the Art Gallery, and more time than I could count had passed since then. Even so, hearing the name of my homeland after all these years sent a wellspring of longing surging up from deep in my chest.
I had thought I'd already wrung every last drop of homesickness out of myself long ago.
"Do you wish to go?"
"But I can't return until I've created a Great Work, can I?"
"A brief 'outing' is possible."
"An outing? Isn't that what I'm doing right now?"
"No. The place you are in now is not an 'outing.'"
"Pardon? What do you mean by that?"
I'd stepped outside the Art Gallery — if this wasn't an outing, then what was it?
At my request for a fuller explanation, the Brush answered kindly.
"Every space you have thus far considered an outing — the forests, the fields, the deep sea, the corridors, the schools, the theaters, the hotels, the offices, the department stores, the moon — all of them are connected to the Art Gallery. Moving between them simply required a particular method. In other words, think of it as one vast apartment complex."
"So everything I've been calling an outing until now…"
"Precisely. You merely stepped out of your unit, walked down the hallway, and entered another unit. You have never once left the apartment building itself."
"Ah…"
"Humans call this place the Backrooms."
So that was what it meant.
Perhaps, on some level, I had already sensed it. After all, despite being told I could not leave until I created a Great Work, I had stepped out of the Art Gallery time and again — gathering materials, building friendships. Somewhere deep down, I must have suspected that those places were no different from the Gallery itself.
That thought brought the Brush's earlier words back to mind.
"Then does that mean I can come and go from Earth freely now?"
"No. Complete freedom still requires the completion of a Great Work. But for recovering artworks and seeking new inspiration… yes. By human reckoning, roughly three days per month of outing is permitted."
Three days a month.
Compared to the handful of hours a year I had cautiously estimated, this was an enormous amount of time.
"I never expected you'd grant me this much free time. Thank you, Brush."
"It is nothing that warrants gratitude. You have far exceeded my expectations. And even if I granted you complete freedom this very moment, you would not leave the Art Gallery entirely, would you?"
"Heh heh heh. Who knows? Give me total freedom and I might just get bored and walk right out."
"No. That will not happen. You are more 'complete' than either of us realized. If anything, cast you out of the Art Gallery entirely and you would find some way to return."
"Honestly. There's no fooling you, is there?"
If the Brush ever suddenly banished me from the Art Gallery for good, I would almost certainly thrash and claw my way back by any means necessary — just as it said.
After all, how much time — how much, how much, how much — had I poured into this place?
Thinking of every work I had made, every work I had yet to make, and the Great Work I would one day complete, I simply could not allow myself to be cast out.
Even if it meant killing the Brush to stay.
Ah — and if I killed or subdued the Brush, wouldn't the Art Gallery become entirely mine?
"…I have a rather ominous feeling all of a sudden."
"Heh. It's nothing. More importantly — shall we try a real outing for the first time?"
"To open a passage to Earth, you must return to the Art Gallery."
"Perfect timing, then. It's been so long since I've gone back to Earth — rather than return covered in dust from chasing artworks, I ought to dress in something I've been saving. A proper triumphant homecoming."
I spun my parasol in lazy circles and made my way back to the Art Gallery.
It was time to prepare for a long-overdue return home.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A group of people in head-to-toe black — utterly at odds with the clean, mystical atmosphere of the corridor — marched through in combat boots.
At a glance they looked like nothing more than rude interlopers who had no business being there. Their true identity: the Baekho Team, a specialized tactical unit trained by the Paranormal Management Bureau to handle anomalous threats.
Crossing the corridor, they halted before the door on the far side and radioed out through the comms units mounted on their visors.
"Baekho Team 1. We've reached the door."
"Command? Operation ready. We breach on your signal."
"Not a single rat in sight."
"Copy."
BOOM!!
The instant the operation began, the Baekho 1 Team Leader kicked the door in and stormed through with his subordinates.
"Surrender and you will not be handled roughly! If you intend to yield, get on the floor and put your hands behind your backs!"
"You've finally arrived."
A response so composed it bordered on leisurely — the complete opposite of the Baekho Team's atmosphere, guns poised to spit fire at any second.
The interior evoked a grand theater. Seats packed with people in varied attire, their faces concealed, filled the house to capacity. And on the stage stood a man in a lavish white court-noble outfit embroidered with gold, a golden mask covering the area around his eyes, receiving them with absolute composure.
The Baekho 1 Team Leader — who had come expecting to face ordinary full members and apprentices of the Art Society — took one look at the man on stage and cried out his identity in shock.
"The Chief Director?!"
At the shout, the Chief Director regarded the Team Leader who had recognized him and spoke.
The crimson drapes drew back. The actors took their places.
The people began to perform, each according to their role, each following the script.
And they would continue — until the moment the stage brought down its final curtain.