Street Performances Are a Little Embarrassing~ 1

I typed a note into the dedicated receiver of the Returnee Management Agency installed in front of my house: Convenience store, walk, going out.

Last time I put Official Dan to bed and slipped out without a word, but if I leave nothing at all in the log, the Agency starts nagging me again. It isn't that I'm afraid of what they'll say — it's just that I really don't want to face that middle-aged officer as he bear down on me with, 'Again! Again, again, you've left without authorization without writing a single thing down! This is a problem, Ms. Jaehee!'

Come to think of it, that man keeps texting me asking me to have dinner with him someday. Should I just pick a date and shatter his mind outright…? No. I'll restrain myself.

The hardest thing about being around people is the beginning. If I broke someone's mind every time they got on my nerves, I might one day turn into a raving psycho going, 'Oh my? Our eyes met in the elevator? Eek! Your mind shall be destroyed!'

They say the human heart is like a triangle, don't they? At first it's difficult and painful and sharp, but worn down over time, it goes smooth — smooth enough that even inhuman acts stop bothering you at all.

Anyway, stepping out onto the street, there were quite a lot of people today.

Veil… good. Wearing it properly.

Buttons… done all the way up to the throat.

My preparations for going outside were, once again, perfect.

The moment I started walking, gazes began gathering on me in an instant. No matter how hard I tried to suppress the charm that seeped out of me unconsciously, it simply refused to obey.

Fortunately, most people just gave me lingering looks of open admiration — 'Wow, she's beautiful…,''That veil's unusual,''Is she a celebrity?' — and moved on.

Occasionally, though, someone like the grandfather I met before would suddenly press money into my hand and…

"My dear,,, today I,,, so very wish to hold you in my arms,,, consider it,,, an act of,,, my generosity,,, surely you might,,, serve as this old man's body servant,,, for just one day,,, might you not,,,"

"…."

Hm. He really did show up again.

And this one was a different person from the gentleman I met last time.

I decided it would be best not to engage in conversation. Not to take his hand either. All I had to do was smile once.

"Hooaaagh…!"

At that, the grandfather let out a strangled gasp and stumbled backward. It wasn't a full release, but even a faint trickle of my charm was evidently more than an elderly human could endure.

Oh my. He isn't collapsing?

"…M-my dear, please, please…."

Please, what, exactly?

My, but this grandfather has rather formidable mental fortitude, doesn't he? The one I ran into before fainted on the spot, yet this fellow hasn't even lost consciousness and keeps pestering me doggedly.

Haah. In the end, I had to smile with my eyes and open my mouth after all.

"Go home."

"…Yes. Understood."

Only then did the Sweet Grandfather finally distance himself from me.

But how does a man who isn't even an Awakener have willpower that strong? He did obey me in the end, but the fact that he kept his reason even while meeting my eyes means his mental resistance is above an ordinary civilian's. Well… considering he's lived to that age, perhaps he weathered the Great Cataclysm and one disaster after another and came out the other side toughened?

Why he insists on directing that willpower at me, however, I have no idea.

Anyway, having sent the sweet — and more beast than human — grandfather on his way, I headed down into the subway.

Grandfather. Please spend the rest of your days wisely and peacefully, without troubling your fellow man.

And if at all possible, never cross my sight again. Let us make a pact to never, ever meet for the rest of our lives… shall we? Understood?

Fortunately, aside from the Sweet Grandfather, no one else came within a certain distance of me.

Among the vast majority of ordinary people, few are bold enough to suddenly strike up conversation with a pretty stranger and demand her phone number. Those who do are mostly the sort who trample other people's feelings and eat etiquette for breakfast. Mind you, they say such encounters occasionally blossom into something wonderful — but that clause has never once applied to me.

I boarded the subway as planned. Thankfully, it wasn't packed to bursting.

It was neither rush hour nor commuting time, so the car was nearly empty. Doing my best not to stand out, I stood in a corner and quietly caressed my violin.

"—Where are you going!?"

"—LeopardPenguin!"

"—There's no such penguin."

"—■■■■■■■■!"

Children's voices drifted up from the case.

A faint flicker of irritation at their mischief rose in me — but these poor children are the ones who never got to see the light of the world, who were dismembered by a psycho-villain criminal and made into a violin.

There must have been so many things they wanted to do, so many things they wanted to see. So here, I should bow my head a little. Children are this world's treasure and its future, after all.

"Today, I'm going out to perform."

"—Yay!"

"—Yaaaay!"

"—Are you going on TV?"

"—An idol, maybe?"

"—Do a dome concert!"

"That, I'm afraid, is beyond even me."

"—■■■■■■■■■■■■■!!"

The moment I said it couldn't be done, they started sulking again, shrieking out screams steeped in curses and lingering grief. It's only bearable because it's me — if an ordinary person became the master of this Ego Violin, their mind would already have been eroded away, their body stolen by 187 children.

"What can't be done simply can't be. But who knows what the future holds — so I won't say it's absolutely impossible."

"—Big sis is an Emperor Penguin!"

"Thank you. Though I'm not an Emperor — I'm an Empress, you see."

Chatting idly with the children like that, I soon arrived at what could reasonably be called my destination. Normally I avoid crowded places, but today was the opposite.

Breathing in the city air, thick and stale with dust, I walked a little further until I reached the bustling district.

While Mapo District had sunk into an underworld of its own, this side had, thankfully, only grown more prosperous — new buildings rising one after another until it became a busy hub with an enormous foot traffic. A university sat nearby, so students abounded, and with residential neighborhoods adjacent, the streets never ran dry of passersby.

'Oh my, that sushi buffet is still here. I'll have to visit sometime. Should I invite Official Dan, or Uncle Michelson? Oh, a kaimak dessert café. That looks delicious. Milk is good for the body. Good for me, too.'

By the way — people do seem to be clustering around me specifically, and I don't think I'm imagining it?

"Wow…"

"Ohh…"

"Look at her face… can't see it, but she's pretty…"

"Sis…"

"You lunatic, you're a man."

After walking about fifty meters, a considerable crowd was still trailing after me.

Hm. Walking any farther seems pointless. Shall I scout out a suitably open space?

Ah, over there looks good. There are benches, and a small open area like a little park. Buskers probably perform there now and then. Usually busking happens on weekend afternoons or evenings, but I can see people setting up big speakers, amps, and electric guitars nearby — it really does look like folks preparing for busking or small performances.

Thankfully, it seems I'm first in line today.

Ah. I'm a little nervous now. All those eyes on me.

Awe, curiosity, fondness, love, affection — so many different kinds of gazes. Every now and then I sense envy or jealousy, but to me, all of it is love. All of it is essence.

"Who do you think she is?"

"A celebrity…?"

"Ugh, the veil's such a waste."

"Gorgeous even just from the figure, seriously."

"Idol trainee, maybe?"

"What an attention-seeker. Look at her, all bundled up just to go outside and play coy like she's not."

"Right?"

"Okay, okay, I get it, put the knife away."

"Hello? Public Safety Hunter? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠There's a crazy woman here about to go at somebody with a knife. Short, and she looks like she weighs a good 80 kilos."

Oh my, please don't fight.

Lashing out at the world with rage and hatred because you were never loved — it's a truly pitiful, sorrowful sight. I used to despise people who spewed nothing but venom, but thinking about it now, they're the ones who have never been loved and never loved anyone, screaming into the void. Sad, and deserving of pity.

"So today, I'll do my best to make it a good day."

Now then — what shall I perform?

The violin. Choosing a piece that people's ears already know is a touch difficult.

Besides, back in my human days I had zero knowledge of or involvement with music. All I have are my own hazy memories and feelings — and the racial value of the Succubus Empress, which applies a certain correction to everything beautiful.

'Ah, I remember now.'

The melody and tune that come to mind when you think violin.

The piece was decided. All that remained was to perform it. I snapped my fingers and summoned the violin.

All 187 children cheered. At last, they cried, we get to play. We get to sing. They rejoiced before the countless crowd.

And they whispered to me, too. Play now, they said — do so, and we'll wrap you in love.

Oh dear, Mr. Violin. That part we must correct. It isn't because of all of you that I am loved. It is because I am me that I am loved.

Lest my veil suffer the catastrophe of slipping, I steadied it firmly with one hand, then raised ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the violin to my shoulder.

Strings made from a girl's vertebrae settled into my grip, and the bow — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strung from a boy's leg tendons — came to rest in my other hand.

"Caprice No. 24 for Unaccompanied Violin, by Paganini. (Paganini Rhapsody on Caprice 24.)"

The piece that springs to mind at the very word violin — and the collective PTSD that makes conservatory violinists foam at the mouth and collapse at the mere mention of its title.

In the cool air, the melody began to drift on the wind. Like a living serpent, it would ride and coil through it.

And then it begins. In the most ideal posture, with the most comfortable and efficient bowing and fingering, with every technique a Succubus Empress can muster — and the sound I make opens not as austere classical music, but as an entwining, seductive melody.

"Wow."

"What is that violin sound…"

"Goodness…"

The theme.

The familiar notes rising and falling — from commercials, from classical compilations, from somewhere or other, everyone has heard them. The crowd's attention sharpened.

Then came the first variation. It opens at a blistering tempo, the rising and falling passage splitting into three sections, each hammered out in rapid flying staccato — notes bounced off the string at the tip of the bow.

"Ohhhh…"

"Whoa."

"The sound… the sound… the sound is…"

"Incre… dible…"

As though strumming a guitar — yet never overdone. Soft, and effortless.

Then the second variation: the bow flashing back and forth at speed, evoking the breathless desperation of an adulterer fleeing his wife.

Hehe. Putting it that way makes it a little funny, doesn't it.

"…Hahaha."

"PWAHAHAHA!"

Had the crowd synced up with my emotions somehow? Everyone was laughing. A crowd laughing along to a violin melody — what a strange sight.

And yet they couldn't tear their eyes off my performance, which stirred a faint sense of superiority in me.

Then I pressed down fingered octaves. The third variation begins.

Gripping the strings until my fingers nearly split, very slowly, very tenderly — the cantabile passage, played as though singing.

The fourth variation. The fifth. A section of violent ascent, the melody that began at a third climbing all the way to a tenth. Any violinist would probably cough up blood here.

The crowd's eyes went glassy. There — isn't it beautiful?

But I'm perfectly fine.

Me, playing the violin. Isn't that beautiful?

If I fumbled a note or made a mistake mid-performance, that would not be beautiful. And what is not beautiful must never, ever happen to me.

That said, I don't remember this piece in its entirety, so my subconscious can't carry it through to the full version. Next time I really should study the score, give it a listen, maybe even practice.

It was a shame the music would end incomplete, missing its middle movements — so I leapt straight to the eighth variation.

Chords demanding triple stopping — drawing three strings in a single stroke — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came one after another. Strongly. Brilliantly, powerfully. The strings shuddered as if they might snap, but that's all right.

For me. And for these children. This moment of playing is pure joy. We won't be cut short by something as trivial as this.

Oh, and did you know?

Paganini was born with fingers that bent the wrong way. Because of it, no one but he could play the pieces he composed — which is why rumors spread that he had sold his soul to the devil.

Naturally, I'm fine. I am a Succubus Empress, after all. Anything that looks beautiful, I do supremely well.

Next, the ninth variation. Continuous chords of left-hand pizzicato — fretting the notes with the left hand alone, without the right hand's help, and plucking the strings at the same time.

Especially this part.

With a single hand, I plucked the strings as if to snap the fingerbones — treating the violin like a guitar. No, far more fierce and springing than any guitar.

Without pause: the tenth variation, the eleventh. Repeated arpeggio chords. Leaps spanning four octaves.

And then the performance raced to its close. The finale. The twelfth variation.

Arpeggios in unbroken succession, resolving at last into a radiant major chord.

Whether the people were enthralled by me or by the melody, they froze mid-step and held their breath. The street fell silent as if under a spell, and only the violin's solo voice cried out its near-scream of a melody into the stillness.

Every single note was a human heartbeat.

And my fingers and the strings were tearing that heart apart, limb from limb.

"Finale."

An ending like sparks leaping from a flame.

The performance was over.

"……"

The midday street went quiet.

A bustling district where — conservatively — hundreds of people were passing at any given moment had become a library. The passersby, the street vendors, the restaurant owner and the aunties working inside. The man and woman who'd been quarreling moments ago. The poor woman who'd been reaching for her knife.

Everyone, everyone, went still.

Hehe. How fun. I can command people's love. Their awe!

'Mmm, and by the way, this tastes… rather nice. Fuhuhu…'

The children seemed satisfied, too.

The hushed crowd. The dazed gazes. Awe, love, fondness, respect, curiosity — everything came flooding toward me.

The children must have felt it as well.

I lowered my body in a quiet, graceful bow. I wasn't wearing a dress, and yet, as though draped in a gown of transparent silk, I caught the empty air delicately at my fingertips and bent at the waist.

My deepest gratitude, to every soul who lent me their ears…

"Thank you for listening to my humble performance."

Only my voice spread through the bustling district.

It was a silent moment, as though time itself had stopped.

"…What do we even do…"

"Ah…"

"Let's move our busking spot…"

"Let's just skip today. I can't possibly go out there now…"

Ah. Every other band and singer preparing to busk has lost their will entirely.

I'm so sorry.