misc ccsimulacrum scenes

“oh, hello,” a consciousness asks, and it certainly is conscious — you turn yourself around, via a clumsy half-spin, to meet eyes with whoever holds this raspy, drained tone.

the first thing you really notice is the eyes, honestly. they stare forwards with a quite neutral expression, although one of their eyes is angled a little sideways compared to the other. not that you really care — you’re very used to optical mismatching — though it gives them the impression of a constant grimace. brown curls cup their face like a semi-frame, the back of their hair significantly messier, to the point where it looks like that select part of it was perhaps struck by lighting. abstract scenes of meteors and midnight skies dot a striking suit of blues and golds. it’s an ironic hopefulness, it seems, for they carry themselves in a low bow characteristic of unrestrained fatigue. in a crooked grip, perhaps only functional thanks to the gravity of some stylish leather gloves, rests a sparking cigarette.

“i’ve never seen you around before, i don’t think,” they say, quietly. their voice is the kind you could probably fall asleep to. 

> answer.

you nod politely, confirming the question above in a manner most intuitive. “i only boarded a few hours ago. you are one of the first real people i’ve seen as of so far.”

“well,” they say, affixing a finger of their non-cigaretted hand upon their forehead. they whistle in a low breath, and then turn back to you. only their good eye remains open. “there are worse people to meet. can i do anything for you?”

> ask for their name.

“you could tell me about yourself. who may you be?”

“ah. demeter,” they say slowly, as if the process of introduction is something of a bygone habit. they pause to take in a puff of their cigarette, turning their head away to exhale. the action seems heavily engrossed in time waste. very strategic. “they called me a detective once. that’s about it.”

“they?” you point out, pointedly. 

“the world,” they say, turning back to you. “and once, because, well, i haven’t done much of anything in recent times.”

“what a terrible state of affairs,” you remark.

“indeed. but i’ve not fully lost my ways — who are you, and what is your purpose?”

“purpose. people around here have that?”

demeter shrugs, gaze falling back over to the outside pseudo-world. they stare at the shifting blur ahead, jagged streaks of white and pink and red and a dozen inbetween shades intertwining with blue-black gaseousness, thick purple fog melting across, combining, morphing until the space seems to transcend the human eye. you avert your gaze, leaving the staring to them. they seem more enthused by the display than you feel you ever will be.

“well, when you truly think about it, there is nothing without purpose. on the train that is exemplified beyond everything imaginable, even if the people do not realise it.”

smoke rises from their mouth, drifting off to join the primordial cyclone outside.

“the train is an escape, to put it bluntly. or it is a cavern of opportunity. and, or, it’s supposed to be. what made you come here?”

> confess.

they speak with such pleasant firmness that trying to keep a cover seems impolite, much less possible. besides, a feeling worms itself inside of you as they speak, one that makes you think demeter is comparatively very charitable.

you cough to clear your throat. decidedly.

“i am a programmer. i’ve come here to dismantle the train.”

“ohh. another one like this.” they mutter immediately. maybe it’s just the smoking, but demeter certainly seems to love staring away from you. regardless, in spite of what they’ve just said, there’s a certain… pitch in their tone, delicate and dragged with hesitance like molasses. albeit, undeniably, carrying a faint spark — one which you’ll call hope, you decide. seconds later they start to speak again. “at least there’s more to you. you don’t know how many people here come in with farces of victory, ready to fight or talk their way out of this place — it’s too empathic of a temperament. there’s preparation within you.”

“i’ve been pursuing stories of the train for the past few years. i dedicated myself to studying it, i will be honest.”

their gaze turns to you. you think so, at least. the glint in their glasses is the brightest thing about them. “ah. so you know of its dangers, presently speaking.”

you raise your hand, and along with it an eyebrow. you hope that looks just as cool and dismissive as you imagine it to be. “it’s impossible to enter in here without considering matters like that, in fact, i believe.”

by the doorway demeter stirs a little. they lean their head back, ever so slightly, and exhale again.

“you seem young.”

“i’m told so,” you confirm. “i’m nineteen, though.”

they grunt, which you presume is their personal stand-in for a laugh. although faint indignation presses itself into your mind, you don’t say anything. you feel it’s good to see someone so desolate-seeming find humor in your determination. you do too, sometimes, after all. 

“i apologise,” they say after a few seconds, which makes you take back everything you’ve just thought inside of your mind. “i just forgot what resolve like this encapsulated.”

> press on.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask.

“all the new arrivals in the past few years… well, whether they came here to help out or not, it’s all the same branched road, in the end — point is, nobody’s done much of anything. and you can tell, you know. they’re aimless! and if they aren’t aimless yet, it’s all up to time to make them just that.”

“so you deem aimlessness a plague around here?”

“that’s good phrasing. i do,” they nod past their resignation, a new light in their eyes. “in terms of that metaphor, keep your eye on your immunity.” they trail off as though wanting to elaborate. you wonder, quite briefly, whether that’s advice on objects to look out for. was there some kind of ill effect the train caused, or was demeter just fond of prose most purple? potential sickness sure would explain some attitudes here. 

but eh. you find deliberation of this sort quite useless.

“i don’t think i’ll be here long enough for anything difficult to seep into my blood in the first place,” you say, raising your chin with reverence. “i heed what you say well. but i estimate a week’s long stay at most.”

that’s when demeter’s cigarette goes out. they blow it out, finalised, and flick it off into spacetime. both of their hands free, they grip each side of their spectacles and lift them up, staring intently at you.

“well. i offer my best wishes then.”

“it cannot be done without a name,” you state. “call me dalisay.”

“well, to fix it: best wishes, dalisay.”

they turn away from you. their hands now occupy themselves in an crocheted crossing, no longer holding any conversational patience for you. 

you cannot help but wonder about… well, anything regarding demeter. they certainly seem quiet on that front.

well, there are other times.