Pictorial Conversation in Two Acts

Act I

As the rod cells within my eyes begin to assume their role, as if in an instant, my surroundings become clear to me. I am in a dark receptacle of human artifice that could more easily be referred to as a frigid cave than anything remotely approaching a room suitable for habitation. Perhaps I was in perfect comprehension of this beforehand, but as my eyes narrow to better survey the "room," it feels as if the first time I had laid eyes upon this place. Is this spontaneous sensation of acute spatial awareness not thoroughly human? It is, and I follow it completely, drinking in the few objects that break the monotony of stone walls which surround me.

The room is, as previously implied, quite barren, and without a light source. There is a single door in front of me, half-opened, from which a faint stream of light emanates in order to provide the sole means of illumination present. It is pleasant to the eye: a rich wooden color, clearly trying to emulate a young pine felled in some miserable Hokkaido forest. Its design is western, with four evenly spaced rectangles appearing through indents on an otherwise flat surface. Its wooden form is, naturally, a repulsive veneer of plastic, paint, an assortment of adhesive compounds, and an unknown amount of unspeakable additions, yet still succeeding in thoroughly confounding the eye. What a wonder of science and commerce! The constant effort of hardworking researchers and artisans have allowed for the industrial manufacture of a cheap design indistinguishable by the populace from something of value. At the small price of destroying all faith in the inherent veracity of something, the state may swiftly build homes of mediocre quality, o miracle!

In response to this worthless and self-evident observation, I notice that my lips turn themselves upwards into a smirk. Having achieved a pleasant mood, I then decide to immediately stand up from the faux-wooden chair (likely coated in the same mixture as the door) upon which I am seated, so as to open the door further. Yet, dominated by the sloth which has seeped throughout my body, I decide against this course of action. Or rather, the decision was made for me. Why did I allow it to be made for me? Ever since that "awakening" which reduced me to my current state, I had feared the irresistible passions which governed my thoughts, and yet continued to remain their thrall. Here, in this building-

Suddenly, my rational chain of thought is smote by so many metaphorical swords, and a chill starts to settle in my mind. What building was this, and when had I entered it? For what purpose was I in this specific room, for that matter? For a few, terrifying moments, my mind yields only emptiness when searched for information, and I feel my Eyes shift restlessly in anticipation of an answer. Dragging it away from its brethren, the Eye of Information Gathering arrives in its appointed position. There is a chance that the relevant intelligence will have been stored by the Eye in anticipation of this issue, and hoping in the extraction of such material is my immediate strategy. In a few moments, a feeling of sudden revelation once again occurs in my mind, yet with the exact opposite result to the former. Rather than revealing lack of information, I recall what led me to this room.

Yes, I remember it clearly now: in the afternoon, I had been cajoled into attending the meeting of a "Demon Hunting Club" by a particularly irritating character, and during it, I was spontaneously invited to participate in some kind of mission. Supposedly, a large part of the actual members had other affairs at the same time, and I had appeared as a convenient substitute to perform this mission instead. My silence while recovering from the sheer spontaneity of this offer to my uninitiated self was interpreted as a sign that I voiced no oppositions to participating in the mission, and with childish haste, the meeting became a briefing. Apparently, my task was simple: I would merely accompany one "Nina Furio" on an investigation of an abandoned call center that had recently emitted a Demonic presence (it seems they could sense my Demon Eyes, and thus had no qualms with revealing this), and search for the Demon in question. We would search different sections of the building for the enemy, or enemies, in question, and call for the other's assistance immediately upon contact.

Strange as the events were, they at least had a legitimate reason for transpiring, and I thus sigh in relief. This proves to be a foolhardy action, however, as the dust of the room seizes this moment to prong and torment my unfortunate nostrils, causing their immediate expulsion in the form of a sneeze. In the performance of this reflexive action, my head is buried within the left sleeve of my suit (how I had found time to change out of that ridiculous uniform?), causing a shift in vision around ninety degrees to the left. Upon lifting my head, this new perspective allows me to be immediately greeted by the only other occupant of this dreary space.

It is unsuitably garbed, surrounded by a rectangular coat protruding from the wall: one which announces its occupant's presence with such misery that one would scarcely notice their existence. It is made of ideally-genuine wood, and the light shining upon it allows the eyes to notice occasional marks on the smooth surface, grabbing the focus of a bystander for the slightest moment before fulfilling its designated purpose of silently housing its current tenant. Well, it has failed in this role, for the presence of those marks raise a thousand inquiries. Are they the fruit of nature or man? If the latter, then is their existence intentional, or was there simply a lack of interest in mending the wounds? Whatever the case, all those shallow cavities gaze at me with the force of a thousand eyes, and I am obligated to look away before my mind becomes too engrossed with their hydra's leer.

Now facing only gray wall, my mind is now at rest, and I have no further concerns.

Reconsidering things, there are, in fact, numerous concerns.

The contentment I had felt upon recovering my grasp on recent events proves a mirage, as the weaknesses of that prior explanation fiercely reveal themselves. My recollection ends upon the explanation of this mission to myself, and the method through which I arrived in this room and in this position remains thoroughly unclear. If my goal was to search a section of a building, it is possible that I had already searched everything in the vicinity, found nothing, and decided to take rest in this otherwise useless location. Or perhaps the opposite is true, and I decided to rest here before commencing my search. Yet, whatever reasoning could be offered, it only causes a more pressing question to surface: why do I not recall or sense the outcome of whatever acts I had just previously performed? And for that matter, how was I sure that this place was actually the "call center" that was meant to be investigated?

With the last question, the chill I had previously felt returns with renewed vigor, yet my body remains unwilling to commit to the act of surveying the premises. It is almost as if there is some task I am expecting to complete...

Pursuing these questions will lead nowhere, or so I tell myself. Hungrily seeking some kind of distraction from this troubling cycle, my mind once again commands my focus to return to the object on my left. Gazing at it, I feel my vision narrowing, gazing beyond its "clothing" and on the main object, so that I am concerned with nothing else.

My eyes are immediately confronted by what appears to be a glistening array of light, dazzling one's sight until they no longer know where to look, or indeed what they were meant to look at. This is a rather harsh introduction, and I remain thoroughly unclear as to what the purpose of this object is. Further study is required. For a few moments, I merely take in the mosaic-esque pattern, and begin to look closer. It becomes immediately apparent that there is a pattern to the colors present, all three of them. Rather than forming a chaotic whole, each hue is deliberately chosen: only shades of brown, black, and white present themselves. They serve to produce the most peculiar impression, as if this object were drawn upon the side of a barrel. Drawn, I said, and my choice was deliberate, as this object is clearly nothing but a painting. Yet, what kind of painting is it?

In the instant before the mind forms an interpretation of something, one could offer an endless stream of explanations. To see something out of nothingness is human, and thus the painting's identity achieves nascence. Its surface is but a void comprised entirely of symbols, commanding the attention and interest of all who look upon it, and I concede to this order. Gather myself, I move to look closer still.

My previous analysis was made some distance away from the actual image, and coupled with the faintness of the light, it is difficult for my eyes to properly comprehend what it is I should be looking at. Is it not ridiculous how spending one's time staring at text and pictures makes it more difficult to do so over time, rather than the inverse? If anything, it should be rewarded by enhancing the vision of the elected soul, yet absurdity prevails (speaking of Calvinist terminology and absurdity...). Well, I am an industrious being, and I thus discover that turning fully to my left on the chair and leaning forward serves to correct all physical difficulties. Finding a clearer view, new details immediately achieve gestation.

As if by devilry, a striking face immediately appears out of that brown void, and declares this image to be a portrait. I immediately hunger for an explanation, yet how can one explicate the inexplicable? Very easily, in fact. Much as the choice of color was consciously crafted, so too is the portrait's Cubist composition. Alliteration aside - that one wasn't intentional -, the portrait is formed almost entirely out of straight, geometric lines, and their interplay produces several interesting effects: most important of which is the miraculous creation of a face.

The top-left and right corners of this image are almost entirely colored by a rustlike tone, one which spreads like a plague throughout those quadrants. Making swift advances from their respective corners and marching towards the middle of the portrait, it appears as if both "armies" of this color will join forces and launch an attack on its center, yet this incursion is thwarted by the sudden inclusion of two dark lines. These lines are thoroughly jagged, beginning and ending at random, yet they allow for the development of a space free from the omnipresent rust. This new space is well utilized, and the lines become part of two isosceles triangles, overlapping in the intersection of the two aforementioned quadrants. The inclusion of two wavelike patterns of white on these triangles, alongside their contrast with the light brown triangle directly below them, clearly reveal their identity as simple hair.

Continued analysis shows that the light triangle forms part of a larger shape, one which almost resembles a pentagon. This shape is responsible for creating the face I had previously seen, and exhibits a distinctive contrast: white and light brown on its perimeter, and dark brown in its interior. Once again, geometric lines clearly demarcate either space, and give birth to even more shapes. These polygons within polygons are dizzying, and my eyes greedily take them in. A tilted white parallelogram and black trapezoid, placed at slight distance from each other? Clearly a pair of eyes. The small white trapezoid, and the black semicircle below it? A nose and smile. And the rich shade of brown below the pentagon which forms a right triangle and quarter circle, juxtaposed together by yet another line? Why, nothing but the chin. Thus is the trompe l'oeil completed.

From the face, a large part of the portrait may now be discerned. As if struck by a heavenly spear, my mind suddenly realizes that the black which dominates the center of the portrait is nothing but the suit of the man it seeks to portray. The ease with which clothing is portrayed in a medium as linear as this is almost insulting. The constant success of this style continues, and insult turns to injury when I realize that the two patches of white at either side of the image's lower half manage to successfully depict a pair of sleeves. And, one moment, what is that? There exist three distinct shapes at the bottom of the portrait, what do they aim to depict? They are, going from left to right, an oval, three parallel lines pointing south-west, and four parallel lines pointing south-east. Evidently, these shapes form the hands of the model with perfect ease. This is too much...

With an entire body suddenly appearing in full face profile, I am now left thoroughly lost as to where to proceed next in my analysis. It no longer feels as if I am merely entertaining myself by gazing at a portrait, rather, the portrait is now amusing itself by making sport of my powers of vision. For example, whatever could the maddening collection of squares in the bottom-left corner seek to convey? That would be a good point from which to continue my analysis.

Even more than before, there appears to be no reason for the transition between blacks and browns in the squares, with some of them containing two or three of either color in completely different locations. Frustrating conception even further, a series of five circles appears in the thickest conglomeration of squares. The first four are small and difficult to notice, but the rightmost of them is slightly larger and more sharply drawn. With a dark dot just above its center, and a line passing through its left-hand side, it gives the impression of a caricature of a human face, or perhaps that of a fish.

By this point, I am no longer surprised when yet another geometric form emerges right as the succession of squares ends, yet this one in particular has a very noticeable shape. Comprising of a circle at the bottom, connected by two thin lines to a larger semicircle at the top, and with a visible diameter completing that circle, it could not be anything but a wineglass. Why is a wineglass present? Could it be that this selection of squares and circles is trying to depict a table? If that were so, then a still life would be intruding with the portrait. And yet, perhaps it is not intruding at all, and instead forming a synthesis. Having become acclimated with the method of thought which governs this painting, such a possibility now seems quite likely.

One further strange detail catches my eye: this time to the right of the face. It is a small image of something resembling an arch, placed on a dark surface. "Surface" and "placed" are both words which are are quite clear in what they seek to depict, and so is this image. Its clarity is so powerful that the typical harsh lines found throughout the portrait are not present in this arch, making it appear as if out of a completely different style. It immediately evokes the image of a triumphal arch, such as the Romans of antiquity  would have used. No, that cannot be it, for there is a closer comparison flittering through my thoughts, one I cannot seem to grasp.

After an irritatingly lengthy period of time, I finally happen upon what it is that I was thinking about. This arch and its surroundings does not evoke classical imagery so much as it does that of the Moorish style. Yes, gazing it at, one is transported to an ancient palace of Muslim Spain, with rows of stately gardens, great arches which serve as gates, both physical and sp-

What is "Moorish?" How can a miniscule detail in a completely unrelated portrait summon images of a wholly foreign place to that of its subject? What power is contained within this arch, so as to have nearly begun a completely different dialogue. Nothing, for it merely makes apparent a constant detail which underlines this whole endeavor. The image of a an arch on a brown background and shade beneath has been, through whatever silent currents which govern the human psyche, been symbolically associated with being "Moorish," and thus is swiftly connected to all similar associations upon discovery, causing such a powerful vision as that which I had just felt.

This sensation is not unrelated to the portrait: in fact, it is critical to understand the means through which it exercises such fearsome power. In reducing the scope of human existence to simple lines, then connected by associations into a greater whole, it lays bare not merely the superficial, but internal nature that creates man. In this portrait, merely portraying what is objectively seen does not suffice, for that is not human nature. A creature wholly reliant out of associations and symbols, man would have no issue combining table and portrait as has already been done. Cutting through the thin veneer of two-dimensional analysis with almighty lines, this painting proves its primacy over all which surrounds it, and I am utterly enthralled in its wrappings.

	"Well, what do you think?" asks the man in the portrait, in perfect Japanese. Upon this question, he politely lifts his head up to face me, still preserving his smile. In opening his mouth, he reveals an abyss of dark brown, leading to unknown regions.

	"It is quite the work, I'm impressed," I honestly reply. Having been overwhelmed by the portrait, a shift to conversation about it seems perfectly natural.

	"Good, I had hoped it would be. It was my first proper collaboration with the Cubists, you know; in 1915, if I remember correctly. Until then, I was no radical Bohemian. Indeed, the maximum extent to which I tolerated all the self-styled 'artistic revolutions' that were happening around then was through supporting the Impressionists, for whose works I had been a staunch partisan. My mild interest turned to avid defense upon hearing them being declared 'outmoded' by the new cliques in Montmartre - but let's not devolve into reminiscences. The point is, this was my first commission from a Cubist painter, though who exactly it was doesn't much matter anymore. Anyways, why did you like it?"

So this was likely a Frenchman of the early twentieth century, now somehow across halfway the world and in a desolate room. This should be important, yet it feels as if a fog has set over my mind after this whole ordeal, and I can scarcely do anything but reply:

	"There are many reasons: the use of color to clearly define boundaries and figures, the sharp perspective of everything, the use of additional details to provoke thought; but what I most appreciated was the consistent form throughout everything. To reduce each aspect of a portrait to strict lines was something only a mind of that time could have imagined and drawn. It enraptures the mind."

	"Does it now? Perhaps all those are true, but for me, it provoked an additional response. Rather than solely impress, it also revealed, if you understand what I mean."

	"Revealed in what sense?" I ask, wondering if this figure could have experienced a similar series of thoughts to those which I had just felt after seeing the arch.

	"It revealed the truth of those times. Ever since the end of the last decade, I had seen people rabidly praising the 'contemporary' works which had been gaining traction in artistic circles. As you might expect, these works were not concerned with generally accepted themes and topics, instead trying to show a completely modern perspective of art, unconnected to precedent. Apollinaire and the Esprit Nouveau, the touring Russian ballets, whatever was going on in Vienna and Rome, alongside Cubism, of course; that kind of art."

	"I know of what you refer to, but how do they relate to this portrait?"

His smiles shifts to a neutral expression, and he stays silent for a moment, before replying:

	"It was because, at some point during the War, I had decided that the Cubists may have been right in some ways, and decided to have a portrait of myself drawn. I wasn't sure in what ways, however; at least until I actually saw the finished product. With that, all became clear. For years, I had always felt a slight malaise whenever looking at the fruits of the 'peak of society,' and a feeling that everything was simply building up to an absolute conclusion. A memento mori, if you will. After observing myself, drawn in that style, it was clear that only destruction awaited humanity as I knew it, and the War would see to it."

	"You became disillusioned with the society that led to the war, and gave up hope in it."

	"Something like that. All the hidden desires for destruction that were being revealed at the time through art were unleashed in the art of war, and in it I saw that forsaken world which led to them fall to its destruction: a new Babel. But even then, though it was struck down for its ambition and blasphemies, and even though I initially welcomed its end, I found that I didn't want to see it go away for good. Perhaps it destroyed the bourgeois life of my past, and annihilated all hope of a sane future, but I would have liked to see it go on just a while longer. In the end, my regrets and wishes left me with a simple question to answer: in a thoroughly devolved world, what purpose is there to carrying on?"

	"Faced with radical change to the society they knew, no one would remain unfazed. But even then, you still have to find some way to preserve old customs in a new environment. Perhaps the hope for a logical progression of history based on liberal principles died in the the First World War, but at least a part of pre-War society survived into the coming ages. If a familiar world is gone, at least the possibility for synthesis with old and new remains. What failed on a larger scale can still survive on a personal level, and you could have preserved part of that lost society through remembering it in the new one. Humans are obligated to proceed onwards even when something large ends, for there is simply no other choice."

My companion's expression now twists fully into a grimace of displeasure, as he immediately makes his reply:

	"Synthesis does sound like the perfect method of surviving through change, does it not? Unfortunately, it proved ineffectual in my case. I suppose it would be useful to inform you that this portrait was also my last commission from a Cubist, as I had already fallen on hard times during the War. My living had been made as a salesman of classical and medieval antiquities to the wealthy, a large amount of whom were upstart Junkers, and this would ultimately doom me."

	"Shortly before the Order of General Mobilization in France, I had sent one of my agents into Germany to sell a particularly rich cache of medieval Saracen art from Anatolia to a young Turkophile baron. Incidentally, he had established a rapport with me, and had also requested some of my best Impressionist paintings to be sent for the purpose of an exhibition in his nation. 1870 and all that still applied, but given the possible revenue this could generate, I chose to look aside. I was investing quite a large amount in a successful negotiation of the artifacts and the gaining of patronage, and naturally, the commencement of hostilities made retrieving my capital quite difficult. They were seized as 'enemy goods,' and I was soon ruined. In the chaotic years which followed, I had to make do with whatever means possible, yet the constant desire to have a modern portrait made remained in my mind."

	"Eventually, once a windfall arrived, I caved in and made my commission. Of course, this only led to the crisis which I just spoke about. Now, perhaps I could have made peace with the end of my old life over the years, and perhaps I could have truly achieved synthesis, but I was unable to. In 1920, I was felled by the Spanish Influenza, passing on with a penniless body and unanswered question. Well, I say passing on, but it seemed my desire to reconcile myself with the destruction the past years had wrought upon me was too great. Thus, my soul remained trapped in the portrait with caused my malaise to attain such power, unable to find solace in the presence of Our Lord. Through this lens, I have seen the devolution of our world continue, yet my soul's mentality has remained rooted in those years after the War."

	"You said 'First World War,' and I have seen its continuation: it did nothing but confirm that acceptance would not have ended my suffering. And yet, this confirmation only meant that I would remain trapped like this, and that I was too far gone to find peace by myself. Eventually, this portrait was bought by some rich man for cheap, shipped overseas, and eventually forgotten in this room. I cannot find peace myself, and thus must rely on the charity of others. I ask, no, beg of you to slay me and assume my position in the portrait. Then, take up my burden and find a solution to the conundrum that reconciles my past with the present, so that I may truly rest in peace. Perhaps this request is sinful, yet through the penitence I have performed over the years, I hope that it will be forgiven in the eyes of God and his Son."

All of this was said rather quickly, and I was unable to provide a response to anything said, yet this spirit's words remain resonant. After having gazed so closely at the portrait already, I was in the indulgent and susceptible state one enters upon constant contact with something evoking the Sublime, and this explanation and plea practically send me into aesthetic raptures. The fog around my mind thickens, and being moved, I give my reply.

	"If I were to, hypothetically, accept your wish, how would it be realized in the first place?"

The spirit responds by reaching his right hand somewhere slightly beneath the frame, raising a curious object to the forefront of my vision. It is in the same style as the rest of the painting, comprising of two main sections: a grip and a sharpened end. It begins from the bottom through an oval shape, neatly stretching upwards until interrupted by a line which in and of itself is part of a right triangle. Both possess a dark brown hue, and are thus contrasted by the larger triangle which sprouts out of this grip. The glint it emits immediately informs me as to its purpose, for I am now gazing at a dagger. Slowly, the spirit extends this armed arm (what wit!) out of the frame, and says,

	"Take it, if you please. Then, strike me in the chest. That will suffice. A vacancy that will immediately open in the painting, which you will fill, freeing me from this Atlesian burden."

Finally finding sufficient cause to stand up from the chair, I am now directly before the dagger. For a few moments, I gaze at the bizarre hand holding this weapon, preserving its geometric appearance even outside the confinement that once held it. In fact, I am about to begin committing myself to seeing the requested act through, when an external aura cuts through my thoughts, disrupting the dullness which had seized them as well.

The sound of an opening door causes me to turn my head towards the source of this intimidating energy, and I am faced with a titanic suit of plate armor, colored the deepest black. Its design is intricate, even by the standards of such vestments, with a grotesque face appearing on the helmet, and patterns resembling fish scales appearing as regalia on its shoulder sections. Upon getting a better look at the source of this energy, I am struck by an extraordinary sense of power coming from the one beneath the armor, and I immediately pull my pistol from its holster (when had I found time to rediscover that in the detritus of my home?) in order to sufficiently prepare myself in case they are a threat. From the armor, a quiet, feminine voice emanates, and I hear the following with some difficulty,

"There you are. Have you found anyth- !"

From my recollections of the meeting which led me here, I infer this voice to be that of "Nina Furio," and she swiftly notices the irregular behavior of the portrait near me. Her response is immediate, as I see her armor twisting with an uncanny malleability in order to allow for the growth of a Demon Arm. The spirit, sensing hostility, does not take kindly to this, and he interrupts the transformation by throwing the previously proffered dagger at Nina with blinding force. She reacts to this with sufficient haste to just avoid the projectile, flickering for a moment before appearing in the upper-right corner of the room. In response, the portrait immediately releases a tentacle comprised of joined shapes from the depths of his painted confinement, thrusting it as a sword towards the armored warrior.

As she ripostes with her fully-activated Demon Arm, I am left unheeded in this chaos for a moment. Could it be that the spirit believed that I would aid him in this encounter? Whatever its desires were, the presence of Nina already challenged the confusion that had been present throughout my mind ever since first observing that painting, and watching the escalation to conflict breaks through it entirely. The fact that I nearly agreed to imprisonment in a painting until I solved a vaguely worded question in a vaguely worded way becomes fully apparent, and I make up for this dreadful misstep by swiftly wheeling my pistol towards the painting.

Inserting my Demon Aura into the weapon, I squeeze the trigger and release a concentrated burst of fire directly aimed at the portrait. It soon hits its mark, but has strangely little effect. I then recall that Warped Spirits such as this only feel harm upon being struck by an attack with harms their soul, and I had therefore just wasted my first shot, with the chance for a swift conclusion to the battle vanishing alongside it.

The spirit's eyes shift and spin madly as it gazes simultaneously at Nina and I, and it responds to my surprise attack by utilizing its energy in order to make the frame levitate. Tearing itself from the wall, an especially sharp cone sprouts from the frame's head as it charges towards me. Much like Nina, still facing the polygonal tentacle, I am obligated to use my Demon Aura and teleport out of the way. Leaving a shadow clone behind, I am now at the entrance to the room. Through the help of my Demon Aura to strengthen myself, I manage to tear out the dagger lodged into the wall with my unoccupied left hand. Perhaps it will come in use later.

In this time, Nina has been fending for herself admirably, but the sudden release of a rhombus in her direction manages to strike her arm. Thankfully, her armor manages to prevent any serious damage from being incurred, but the spirit immediately follows up on this opportunity by foully expelling three further tentacles to accompany the previous weapon. It appears that our foe possesses boundless energy, as it immediately releases an equal number of appendages towards me.

Slightly before this attack, I manage to activate the first useful Demon Eye I could find, this being the All Eye of Shroedinger. Immediately do I become aware of what path to take in response to the encroaching tentacles, and following it, I perform a particularly risky maneuver. Creating a shadow clone, I give it enough energy to conspicuously teleport somewhere, fooling the spirit into assuming that I escaped somewhere to avoid the attack. The tentacles swiftly change their trajectory to attack this shadow clone, and I silently move into the ideal position for a shot.

After crouching down, my Demon Aura allows me calculate the perfect trajectory to strike not merely the tentacles, but the part of the portrait from which they are extending. At first glance this appears to be an impossible shot, which would reassure the portrait that I am simply a shadow clone meant to distract, thus allowing me to comfortably charge my Aura into the pistol. After providing enough energy to dispense copious amounts of firepower, I pull the trigger and release a burst of several large plasma bullets. Seemingly headed towards the wall, I use my Demon Aura to manipulate them into ricocheting towards the cluster of tentacles, sinking into them and meeting little resistance. Plasma is quite effective against spirits.

My attack manages to sever the offending tentacles from their origin, and it appears Nina had a similar idea to myself, as she somehow manages to cease existing with a Demon Eye in order to avoid the incoming attack. This is quite effective, despite her having been already locked in combat, and she reappears in a more advantageous position to launch a glowing strike with her Demon Arm, sundering the tentacles targeting her. It is a technique similar to what the Demon "empress" I had met in the morning had used, interestingly enough.

The simultaneous destruction of his additional appendages certainly displeases the spirit, as he cries out in a terrifying, thoroughly inhuman voice. Despite the ghastly effect of this cry, it is apparent that the spirit is momentarily weakened, having expended so much energy in launching a ceaseless stream of attacks. Any decisive action must be made now, and suddenly, a very dangerous question appears in my mind. I pause for a moment to consider it, but make my decision, and bring a very particular Demon Eye into action. Swiftly approaching Nina, I whisper for her to distract the spirit for a minute, while I prepare a conclusive attack. This she does, but I am so preoccupied with maintaining constant eye contact with the portrait that I fail to recognize it.

While I prepare, my mind is increasingly filled with resentment towards my enemy. Having already been in a generally confused state upon questioning my presence in this room, this spirit in his accursed portrait decides to take advantage of my seeking distraction to find a way to further his own intentions. And what are those intentions? Finding a resolution to a problem while absolutely refusing to accept any compromise in perceiving of the world. For a self-proclaimed peddler of antiques, he has shown nothing but a willful incomprehension of the inherent ravages of history on all things, defending himself with nothing but shallow sentiment. And because of this, he has attempted to convince me to enter the prison of that portrait on nothing but a wish. Let his petty wish be damned by all the demons of Hell, and let his fate rest solely in the hands of the Christian God.

Having attained sufficient power to end this farce, the Eye of the Released Witch fully activates, but I do not use it just yet. Nina is currently directly in front of the floating portrait, fending off his attacks in order to solely occupy his attention.

	"You will want to get out of the way now, this will be dangerous," I call out, and she silently teleports out of the room.

The Warped Spirit's frenetic gaze turns towards me, but he remains still for a moment, likely realizing the capability of the Eye I currently have activated. To his credit, he reacts stoically, only questioning,

	"So you would deny me my final wish?"

	"If you had possessed the sense to give a clearer explanation, perhaps something could have been done."

	"There is nothing further I can do by now to oppose you, do as you wish."

I do not respond, and instead begin to recite a chant that will fully activate the power of the Eye:

	"Faust's bargain has been struck once again, and I bear its consequences. The clock strikes midnight, the sky has darkened, the wind howls, and time runs short. Make your excuses, your pleas, your demands; it will change nothing. You entered the world from nothingness, and will to nothingness return. Now awaken, Eye of the Released Witch!"

Whirling to life, the Eye gazes deep into the essence of the portrait, past even the lines to which it had reduced all things. No, it looks at somewhere deeper within the spirit, and whatever it does there, I do not know. What I do understand is that it is quite effective, for cracks in the portrait silently begin to appear from some unknown source. Unsmiling, the Warped Spirit continues to look at me, with all its intrigues having been thwarted, and it continues to do so until a large tear suddenly manifests. This tear rips the portrait in half, and it falls to the earth once more. The destruction does not cease, as every part of the canvas which made this wretched painting continues to tear itself apart, until what once imprisoned the spirit now lies as a fine powder on the floor.

I turn towards the door, and open it. Nina enters the room once again, investigating the meager surroundings to determine whether the enemy is truly beaten. Satisfied, she removes her helmet, revealing an exhausted and flushed face, perhaps a consequence of that ridiculous armor she has adorned herself with. It is then that I realize I do not feel splendid myself, and I collapse backwards on the chair. Having survived the entire combat, it is a testament to its utter absurdity.

	"You could have called for help earlier," Nina remarks.

	"I would not have been able to, for the spirit had placed me under some kind of glamour."

	"If you say so. Goodbye," she says, immediately turning to leave. A character of few words, to say the least.

I watch her exit, then sigh with utter exhaustion. Putting a hand in my left pocket, I then notice a piece of paper in it. Had that always been there? Perhaps I had simply become adjusted to its presence, and did not notice it. Yes, that must be it. Regardless, I pull it out to read. It appears to be some kind of small note:

"To whom it may concern,

I should hope that you've dealt with your enemy by now. Apologies for all the trouble: I had a completely arbitrary reason for you to face a completely arbitrary threat, so nothing could have been done about it, truly.
You know, I was initially planning for you to stare at the painting so hard that you became a painting yourself (I read a story like that some time ago), but then I remembered that given the circumstances, there are certain expectations I should follow. Not randomly killing off characters for entertainment is one of them.
Anyways, this is the last time you'll ever encounter me (directly, at least). I'll go back to making sure the plot proceeds as normal, now.

																											Your most humble servant,
																											Sir The Demiurge, Esquire"

I gaze at the note for a moment, utterly confused. Why is this Demiurge character using a feudal ran-

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Act II

I awaken. Through the somnolent veil which clouds all sensation, I slowly become increasingly conscious that my head is resting on some kind of warm surface, despite being in a sitting position. Seeking to further investigate this unusual phenomenon, I open my eyes, only to see a large tuft of blue hair persistently blocking all efforts to gauge my location. Thus, unwillingly, I move my head slightly to analyze the surroundings, and soon come to realize that my head is resting on someone's shoulder. The person in question is a female of diminutive stature that does not appear particularly perturbed by either my prior presence or recent awakening, with her eyes remaining focused on some kind of story. Not looking away from this engrossing tale, she says the following,

	"I was waiting for you to wake up. You must've been tired: you feel asleep right after the meeting began. Same with Nina, coincidentally, though she got up and left a few moments ago. Once you leave, I'll close down the room for the day."

It is a perfectly clear explanation. I certainly must have been tired after all the exertion of this day; what with the pilgrimage to this institution, the various ensuing interactions, and then the mission to find that Warped Spirit afterwards. Now, hold on one moment...

A feeling of dissonance worse than anything before it spreads through my form, as I realize that I am currently in a situation that cannot exist temporally. That mission was supposed to occur after the meeting had concluded, even my memories revealed that much. My memories, yes, that would solve everything.

	"I have still not fully awaken, kindly give me a moment," I hastily explain, raising my head from this figure's shoulder, as I reach back into my mind to find the Eye of Information Devouring.

Reassured, I look into the stored memories within, and find... nothing, not even the faintest recollection of the meeting which led me on the mission. That should be impossible, as I clearly remember recovering those memories, and yet they are now absent. Is this some kind of trick? However could this impossibility have occurred?

Suddenly, I recall the mysterious note I discovered at the end of the whole incident. While most of it was thoroughly incomprehensible, whoever wrote it clearly understood everything that transpired, and treated it in the lightest manner imaginable. Regardless of all the effort and danger of the mission, it was reduced to nothing. Is this lightness why there was no explanation for "minor details" such as how I actually arrived at the facility, and what I did beforehand? That must be it, but then, is not the whole scope of experience I have bore witness to reduced to nothing but a dream?

The spirit was called arbitrary, so what are the consequences of this "dream?" Have I truly put an end to a Warped Spirit, or was every action that I undertook, even those when I acted of my own volition, merely a source of entertainment?

Out of everything, the last question makes me the most uneasy. Halting to consider it for a moment, I stumble across a possible answer to it. It is merely an interpretation, but to me, in this moment, it is utterly convincing.

Was the purpose of that whole "mission" and the subsequent awakening here merely of reminding me of something? Yes, that must be it. It seeks to state that, whatever acts I perform, novel as they might seem to me (arriving her, for example), in truth I am merely controlled at the whims of some other presence. Be it Sin, a "Demiurge," or something else entirely, I remain utterly impotent and consigned to a fate already sealed. Thus, regardless of what I do, my mind will remain as tumultuous as now, and forever stay away from all company. Do I desire company? Upon hearing that another had also recently awoken, did I hope to find someone with with to share this ridiculous series of events? At this point, I have no choice but admitting that I do, shameful as it may seem.

Well, regardless of my hopes, the progression of events speaks for itself, and thus nothing can be done to avoid this comical existence. Consigning myself to my fate, I let out a sigh, straighten my uniform and bindings (both of which are now present without any trace of my clothes in the dream-mission), and turn towards the girl once again. This time, she looks up from her text to face me.

	"Will you be leaving, then?"

	"Yes."

	"Alright. Oh, and also, I forgot to show you this," she says, pulling out a form from a nearby drawer, and handing it to me.

	"It's a form to officially join the Demon Hunting Club, fill it out if you'd like. I know you didn't actually see a meeting, but I hope you consider it anyways."

	I stare at it, and am suddenly seized with the desire to tear it in half, but instead reply,

	"I will join."

And thus, utterly fatigued from this miserable day, I stand up, and turn to leave.