Chapter Text
When Ryuuji Suguro was tasked with sorting through shelves and shelves of recovered documents from the library, he figured he would be looking at progress logs, mission documents, anything useful and informative, not… diaries, loose paper collected in bags for disposal, not miscellaneous letters or whatever.
But Lightning told him, "We got approval for everything, so we're going through everything."
Now, he's looking at a box of loose paper, pages torn from whatever notebooks or notepads, and there's eight more boxes of these. Eight more boxes he's left alone with, stacked neatly in one corner of his room; and it's miraculous he'd been able to take them with him.
"The air here can't be good for long," was what Lightning told him. "Take 'em home with 'ya."
And so he left, leaving his supposed mentor with a bag of greasy burgers to wreak every librarian's nightmare of oily prints, grease stains, and food scraps on old books and rarities. Ryuuji tells himself he doesn't care, but he does, because he wants to learn. He wants to learn from the best. He wants to learn from him.
Lightning was an unconventional teacher, that much he was certain, and if this was Lightning teaching him how to be a detective or something, then so be it. There's eight boxes of these miscellaneous notes, and he's got a day or two to sort through them until he finds something interesting, something noteworthy, something that'll make Lightning recognize and respect him, then he better get started now.
The first box he takes is full of notebooks, leather-bound and seemingly from the same manufacturer. These were probably notebooks of one person, but who? No name. No initials. Nothing notable besides the leather covers and the numbers embossed on the spine. Good. At least that saves him the time of trying to sort them chronologically.
He takes out the first one and starts flipping through the pages. There are no dates on most of the entries, but the handwriting is neat and elegant, as if these notes were rewritten from somewhere else. He didn't think anyone would write in journals or diaries this neatly or this organized. This box ought to be last now, he thinks, but he's got to start from somewhere, and it's better to start from somewhere organized than the mess that's probably in the other boxes.
He turns back to the first page.
Survival is an eight-letter word, and so is question. But there is no question about what can be found here. There is no question on who we are, what we are, or what all this is for, but there are questions there are no answers to. Left hanging in the air until they've grown stale, cloying like residue in the pipes and tubes, the stench sweet-smelling for no reason. Sticky. Cloying. Remind Facilities to replace the tubing for IB-026 and LU-003. They're leaking again.
He's never been big on mystery novels, and he thinks this reads exactly like one. Were these someone's actual notes or someone's hobby?
The questions without answers hang above us like the lighting fixtures. Fluorescent. Stark white. Blinding. Bright enough to see things, but not everything. Some things can only be seen through the white-yellow light under a microscope. Some things can only be seen if you're allowed to see them.
Are you allowed?
The word is underlined twice, and Ryuuji feels cold. An unfinished novel maybe? He turns to the next page.
Since childhood, we're taught to live by what our eyes see. Windows to the soul, they're called. Be careful what you look at, they warn. "Stare into the abyss and the abyss stares back," they quote. But what abyss? What darkness? Stare into the light and what does the light do? Blind you. Stare into the dark and what does the dark do? Stare back. Just. Quietly. Mockingly. Temptingly. The dark doesn't talk back, but what's inside it does. Sometimes. Remind Equipment about needles. What's inside the dark? What inhabits it? Who are we who are allowed to see it?
Then the next page.
But True Cross Academy
There it was.
But True Cross Academy wasn't a dark place. It was always lit. Brightly lit by fluorescent lights, stark white and almost blinding. There were only a few places dark enough, like red rooms and specialized conservatories. Everywhere else was brightly lit. A favorite place was the atrium across from the library.
"Was"?
The atrium was always lit by natural light, always nearly empty except for those who appreciate pretending to be fish in an aquarium, waiting to be picked out like those in the restaurants my family owned, the restaurants I would have inherited if it weren't for this. I liked to pretend to be a lobster in an aquarium, dressed in glum clothes, hand-me-downs in the family, but colorful enough to flaunt and be seen.
How does a lobster feel when it's about to be picked? I asked and I met the answer. It was no hand above, hovering with a net. It was a hand from the darkness. I will not tell you its name for it goes by many, but oftentimes, it goes by one. You might know it.
Ryuuji thinks he does.
The lobster that gets picked often does not know what's going on, but I did. I was the lobster raising its claws, quite literally clawing to be picked.
The word was underlined once.
The atrium was lit all the time, but it wasn't bright enough. Wasn't blinding enough. I am the lobster fascinated by the ultraviolet lights above the aquarium, otherworldly and alien, unknown and yet… familiar. Maybe the lobsters in restaurants already knew what was going to happen every time one of them is picked. I was a lobster, and I knew because it was given to me. It was offered to me. Silver platter? Of course. My choice.
Ryuuji thinks this was supposed to be a memoir.
We don't always get to choose what happens, that I learned here, but back then the choice was mine. The choice was made. I was a lobster with my claws up, and I was chosen. No longer would I be lingering in the atrium after hours, reading papers, tallying points, computing grades, waiting for something… different. Something exciting. Something more worthwhile than just education.
Ryuuji thinks he can figure out who wrote this, but wishes he'd find a name soon.
I was going to become a doctor, and not only in title.
That narrows it down to… maybe three or four hundred people from the True Cross Order.
Pediatrics, like what I studied. Handling children. Their development. Their health. Identifying diseases, illnesses, pain, and hurt. Healing them. A true doctor, just like what I wanted, not a doctor dealing with the supernatural. Curses. Spirits. Not all people understand that there are things beyond the physical world that exist. Demons. Spirits. Ghost. Ghouls. Creatures beyond just what there is in Assiah, that's one name they've given this physical world. There is also Gehenna, which also has its many, many names.
It's difficult to explain. Maybe some other time. Or some other book. My partner could explain it better, I think. He is more adept at technicalities than I am. More knowledgeable about that world than I am. Not that I dislike Gehenna, I just find it… unappealing. I'd rather stay where I'm bathed in white, white light, almost blinding. A red-orange lobster served on a silver platter, but at least I'm the center of everything. Like the sun. Like a god.
At the end of the page, Ryuuji finally finds a date and a name.
9 November 1958
It's not much to go on, but it's a date and dates are important. There's going to be a timeline for all this, and he supposes he'll be the one to make it. He flips through the rest of the pages and, trying to look for names and whether the owner of this–should he call it a manuscript?–work would ever reveal their name, but instead he finds names. A lot of them. Locations, too.
Nikolai. The Asylum. Sara. Romania. Cyprus. Johannes. Rosalia. Azerbaijan. Section 13. The Pit. Faust. Lucifer. The Order.
Some of them are familiar, and he lists them down, marks the pages, tries to form connections because he can't spend hours scouring someone's forgotten manuscript. He only half-doubts its legitimacy. He doesn't think it's as truthful as those records and documents Lightning insisted were "too much" for him.
"Wouldn't wanna bore 'ya with these!"
But that's what he's good at. Sorting information. Understanding data. He's better at working with objective facts than whatever these were. Notes? Fictionalized accounts? Journal entries? What if this was just someone's pastime, anyway? Then he would be wasting–
He turns to the very last page and finds, before the name, a sentence underlined twice in red ink.
And here, I will leave you with this message. It is by your choice to continue the journey like Dante in his descent, but I am no Vergil, or perhaps I have become like him now, as I have guided you through my experience, my time, my supposed life here in the Abyss, or to leave as I should have. Let the Abyss remain gaping wide, open and dark, and no longer swim in it. I have no charisma to persuade you of either choice, but know this and believe me.
There are no humans here.
Yuki – 16 September 1991
It doesn't surprise him that it's not the author's full name, but what surprises him is the character used, "snow", and he doesn't have to think too hard about where he'd last seen it. It's not an uncommon name, but it's a coincidence, a huge coincidence, that the same character is part of the name of someone he knows. People–plural–both he and Lightning know. But Yuki was a common name. He'd known at least six different people with that name his entire life; this can just be a coincidence.
It ought to be, Ryuuji thinks, because he's starting to get sick of adults lying. He starts looking at the covers of the rest of the notebooks, six of them in total, and sees no other name listed as the author, except for the last one, where the last page is torn out.
There are no humans here.
Ryuuji looks back at the first notebook and wonders what it meant, feeling a cold sweat start to form on the back of his neck. Was it a conclusion or a warning? The six notebooks are in pristine condition, as if they'd been kept protected. Was the author meaning to have them published? Where, the True Cross' Publishing House? He doubts they would get that far, if this were about something hidden and secret. Or were these journals just fictional? Somebody with too much time and deciding to get creative?
There are no humans here.
He looks back at the words and feels unnerved. As if… something was watching him.
There are no humans here.
He'd never been a big fan of horror stories, and it'd be best he moved on from these journals, start somewhere clearer like that box of discarded notes and crumpled paper.
"There's a sure reason why these were left behind," was what Lightning told him, but he doubts it'd be for anything other than to follow a disposal schedule that, apparently, hadn't been followed anyway because…
"…something stopped them, is all, and the question is what… or who."
Yeah. This was something really horrific.