The Museum of Oz (4)

In my urgency, I tossed The Angelus into the glass case with more force than strictly necessary.

"What are these people praying for?"

The moment the painting teleported inside the case, Dorothy began to speak again.

"A wish much like your own, Dorothy. They give thanks for having a home to return to, and they offer a prayer of harvest gratitude."

"……."

"They're thankful for the peace of their everyday lives."

"That's right."

For the sake of a safe success, I explained the meaning politely—despite talking to a child—careful and courteous.

Whether my explanation satisfied her or not, Dorothy nodded along at once.

"I love my home too. I love my friends in Oz so, so much, but even more than that, I wished to return home."

Sizzle—

"Gratitude for my family, and for the hearth that shelters me."

Dorothy's lines kept coming without pause, and the emerald fragment in the hourglass kept falling, grain by grain.

'There's barely any time left. Why is she rambling on like this?'

"My family. My home, Kansas."

As Dorothy's words stretched on and on, anxiety began to gnaw at me.

I was just about to cut her off and push for the quest success notification when—

"But this prayer holds two strands."

"…?"

Was it a chill in Dorothy's voice? Or had the temperature inside the museum dropped?

The air around me turned ice-cold in an instant, and I clutched my arms, shivering.

'I have a bad feeling about this.'

I prayed it was just my imagination.

"They are different from you."

"?!"

The couple's prayer in The Angelus was different from Dorothy's wish?

I looked up at the painting inside the glass case in shock, and as if to make absolutely certain I understood that my answer was wrong, cracks began to spider across it.

"You should have brought an exhibit with a single strand of prayer."

"Now, wait just a moment. A prayer for harvest and abundance could still be seen as connected to Dorothy's daily life—"

I thrust my hand toward the empty air where Dorothy's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠voice was coming from, hurrying to object.

But before the words had even left my mouth, the shattered painting crumbled to powder, frame and all, and vanished.

"The prayer… it has two strands. The prayer…."

Zzt—

Zzt—

Zzt—

Dorothy's voice, too, scattered like dust on the wind, fading until it was gone.

And then the sound effect I'd only heard when my stamina was nearly drained rang out, deafeningly loud.

The sound of paper tearing, like tinnitus in my ears.

Shhhhh—

"—!!"

The ink of the word Failed bled across the page, leaving a dark stain on the Leaflet.

It looked like blood spreading from a gunshot wound, and it made my skin crawl all the more.

'Hold on. No. That can't be right.'

This time, too, I had used my own knowledge to decipher the meaning of the quest.

I had thrown my whole body into it, and within the time limit I had even displayed the hidden exhibit—Dorothy.

"…Damn it all…."

My fingers… my fingers were beginning to come apart.

There was no pain, but watching the tips of my hands and feet splinter and dissolve into data—

'No. This is no time to feel wretched.'

I could not fade away that powerlessly, not like that man I'd seen in the Rabbit-and-Turtle quest.

I forced myself to keep the tears from pooling in my bloodshot eyes.

After all, the two fists I'd need to clench them away were already gone.

"AAAAH!! CURATOR! Get out here!!"

I was close to losing my mind entirely. My body was disappearing—that much was only natural.

Kneeling on the floor, I screamed like a man deranged, shouting for the Curator until my throat threatened to tear.

Because this tower loved a visitor who fought to the very end more than one who meekly accepted his final moments.

'That's right. This tower loves a human who thrashes and clawes.'

The Curator, who presides over the tower's exhibitions, was no exception.

A bundle of robes materialized in the empty air, and as the cloth unfurled, the Curator's figure emerged.

This was the first time I had ever waited for this torso to make his entrance.

[You denied it, and yet you were pleased to receive my acknowledgment, weren't you?]

"Shut up."

[Even knowing full well that the Docent is data built upon your personal memories—]

"I said, no."

[You didn't even glance at the Docent's Leaflet entry, did you.]

The Curator raised the lone human arm grafted onto his body and gave a dismissive shrug.

There was no way I'd grown arrogant from the Curator's approval.

'No matter what anyone says, there's no way I was swayed by a bastard like that.'

Even me—even someone who had always starved for other people's recognition. There was just no way.

"…Then explain it to me. Why was I wrong?"

[What meaning could an explanation hold for someone who is about to be dissolved and made into parts?]

Both of my arms had already dissolved into fragments of data and vanished.

My legs were barely holding their shape above the knees.

…Soon my entire body would come apart.

'The rate of decomposition isn't that fast. Which means I can still talk my way out of this—until the very end.'

"At least tell me why I failed. You owe me a chance to rebut the verdict, don't you?"

[A visitor attempting to contest the Museum's judgment. How unsightly.]

"Unsightly, am I?"

Begging shamelessly, whining like a child—none of it embarrassed me one bit.

My life was on the line. Who has the luxury of dignity then?

'Besides, I've already resolved to do absolutely anything to see my wish fulfilled.'

"Call it unsightly or whatever you like. I'll do anything. I'll throw a full-on tantrum if I have to."

[Throwing a tantrum will not change a failed quest result into a success.]

"That's exactly why I want to rebut it, at least. Why did I fail?"

'My body hasn't fully decomposed yet. Not yet—'

The Curator was an intermediary bridge within the tower's system, so I intended to sweet-talk him into somehow halting my dissolution.

And more than that—the reason for my failure genuinely didn't make sense to me.

I was just about to fire back—then why did you rule it a failure?—when the Curator seized the moment without missing a beat.

[But inside the storage room, The Angelus said this, quite clearly.]

[What do they pray for. The strands are two.]

The strands are two.

It was an enigmatic statement, admittedly—unlike the earlier lines that connected intuitively to the required object.

Still, because I knew what the couple in The Angelus was praying for and what it meant, I worked through the inference quickly.

"So I interpreted it as harvest and peace! Isn't that what it meant?"

[Why do you presume to decide their prayer according to your own convenience?]

"……."

[You have been solving these quests using the knowledge you accumulated over the years, haven't you.]

At the Curator's words, my pupils wavered violently.

Would the answer have been different, if I'd activated the Docent and looked up the information on The Angelus?

[No.]

[In any case, Visitor Kim Jisan, you treated only one of the two established interpretations of The Angelus as gospel.]

[Even without arrogance, the outcome would have been the same.]

'Two interpretations of The Angelus?'

[It's simple enough to look up. Allow me to Docent-ize this piece of my knowledge for you.]

Shhhhh—

"Ah!!"

There had been an interpretation like that. Of course…

All this time, I had simply assumed that what stood between the couple in the painting was, naturally, a basket of potatoes.

[And so you failed to choose the more intuitive exhibit—one that truly matched Dorothy's wish.]

"Ha."

The moment I heaved out a sigh, the Curator—apparently deciding I had conceded defeat—crossed his arms.

He was spectating my final moments from the most smug posture imaginable.

[Still, as I said, you performed better than I anticipated.]

[Visitor Kim Jisan.]

[Please do shine as a part of this tower as well—]

Become a part subordinated to this tower.

The seat of that dancer who had spun and spun until her makeup ran down her face—that seat was now to be mine.

Or perhaps I would splinter apart and become one of the Curator's arms.

'Ahh. I'm scared.'

In the end, the tears I'd been holding back began to pool at the corners of my eyes.

But what frightened me more than becoming a part and suffering forever was this—

'In the end, I'm dying as someone who was never any help to my parents. Right to the very end.'

Maybe things would have been different if I hadn't shied away from art, if I'd read a few more books.

Or if I'd been born with that genius that let my brother see through every art form at a glance.

'If it were him, with that boundless imagination of his, he could have reasoned through a dozen different hypotheses.'

Wait.

'Hypotheses. …Hypotheses.'

"The certainty is incomplete."

[…?]

At my muttering to myself, the Curator tilted his severed neck.

That's right. His puzzled reaction alone made the attempt worth it.

"The child's death was never confirmed by the artist himself—it's nothing more than a hypothesis."

[…….]

"Even if it's a famous hypothesis ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and opinions are divided, shouldn't you design a quest that properly honors the painter's intent?"

[Interpreting art by faithfully following nothing but the artist's intent is not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠art at all.]

"Weren't you the one who said quests must be solved on the basis of objective information?"

[…….]

What was it they said—even thrown into a tiger's den, you survive if you keep your wits about you?

I yanked the Curator's contradiction out into the open and kept prodding at it without mercy.

I could not stop talking. If even a moment slipped by, my body would finish dissolving before I knew it.

"So which is it? Is the correct answer to this quest the artist's intent, or the reader's interpretation? If both exist, then shouldn't you accept my interpretation too?"

[…….]

The Curator's frame trembled, and plaster dust began to sift down from beneath the hem of his robes.

I had never once seen the Curator—always perched above every visitor—shaken like this.

"How unfairly must the visitors who failed quests by choosing The Angelus have felt, all this time?"

[Do not insult the tower, Visitor Kim Jisan.]

"You should have just never put The Angelus on display in the first place. If it can't exist without your personal opinion backing it, then it shouldn't get a say before the tower at all."

The tears that had clung to my eyes had long since dried, and I was glaring at the Curator with a venomous gleam.

[But it was your failing that you brushed past the meaning of 'two strands' without properly considering it.]

'Your failing.'

In other words—he was admitting, to some degree, that the fault was partly his own.

Summoning the last of my strength, I twisted my lips upward into a sneer.

"That's right. I understood your sloppy hidden quest sloppily, so let's call it even and square."

[…….]

"Will you give me a chance, Curator?"

And for the finale, I even asked in polite, mock-courteous formality.

As I bombarded him with an unrelenting barrage of words, the Curator stood utterly motionless for a long moment.

Angry? Impressed? Or laughing at me? He simply stood there, so still that I couldn't even begin to guess.

'Answer me. Now.'

By now even my upper body had dissolved into fragments of data and scattered into the empty air.

All that remained was my neck and my head.

'Hurry up, come on! Damn it…!!'

And then, at last, the Curator injected his voice into my ears once more.

[Arguing against a system the tower built long ago changes nothing—you are, after all, merely a visitor.]

"!!"

[There is nothing you can change. Do as you've always done. Submit.]

Son of a— The Curator had regained his composure and was mocking me again.

Was my body simply going to dissolve completely, just like this?

'I refuse.'

"But the one who makes the judgments isn't you—the employee—is it?"

[?!!]

At that moment, the motion that was converting my body into data and tearing it apart—stopped.

Bzzt—

Bzzzzt—

As if my words had been the flare that fired it all off, noise erupted throughout the museum.

Along with a deafening racket, the space around me pixelated and shattered.

Startled, the Curator turned his head to scan his surroundings. It was no theatrical gesture—genuine emotion was written into the movement.

Shhhhh—

An error—in a tower of omnipotent power.

The system and I alike stared up at the Leaflet, both of us frozen, faces blank.