Lucifel's Ideal World, v.2

[idolpro]

—The world is ugly, he once declared.

Chaos is inevitable in this world. Pure good can’t be achieved, and pure evil breaks down. And these two extremes are always incompatible with each other. There is still some evil in a good world. That is how the world is, and it is what continues to create ugly things. Evil sneers at good, and good rages over evil. But, in a world where good and evil oppose each other, there is a group that is far more numerous that always appears.

That is ‘grey’. Neither good nor evil. A group that drifts through life haphazardly and merely exists. They don’t believe in goodness and are simply proud that they aren’t evil. Even though they affirm evil acts, they deny evil intentions. They happily say that ‘I am not evil, I am a good person’ and pardon all forms of cruelty.

They kill people while sneering. They kill people out of contempt. They kill people as part of a game. They use the excuse that they can’t restrain their desires—That’s how humans are. That’s how the world is.

Yes—this world is extremely ugly. Neither dyed by good nor fallen into evil. Unable to decide on a color, the wills of people continue to waver. As long as such evil intentions and such foul-smelling corpses aren’t destroyed.



The world will surely continue to rot eternally.

While wrapped within a curse-like fog in darkness frozen to its core.

He thus concluded.

Powers are off.
Corruptions are off.
Carry-on Weapons are not available.
Other carry-on items are available.

Comments

PHONE INSTRUCTIONS & CARDS

[maidenheaven]

『』 (body dysphoria, self-harm/feather plucking, eating disorder/saliva in blacked-out text)

[maidenheaven]

—You could not think of yourself as anything more than ugly.

In human terms, you were aware—by sole virtue of your likeness to your brother alone, and by sole virtue of the praises you were given—you were aware, yes, that this appearance was acceptable. Even with your scars and your marks, your blemished skin, some would even go so far as to call you beautiful—

But you could not say the same for yourself. Beyond what was skin-deep, beyond your outer appearance, you could feel with disgust the blood that coursed through your veins; the faint, unpleasant pulse against your forehead and the back of your skull; skin touching skin, thin packaging for the flesh and meat underneath; the strain of your eyes; the beat of your heart, thudding so loudly you could hear it behind your ears; your lungs as they pumped desperately; the beads of sweat on your brow that only grew with the pain; your throat and lips parched, a terrible reminder of the single need your body still has left. You still remember the lesser need—you still remember how your stomach twisted and craved, how the offending organ threatened to eat itself alive if you didn't find sustenance, how your traitorous mouth would grow moist to the thought of entertaining the demands of your greedy body just for a few hours of peace only to start all over again before the sun even made much headway through the sky. That hateful need, that base instinct—if you never had to consume another thing besides air and pure water again in your lifetime it would still be too soon.

In this cage that you so deeply resented, of course you could not stand to endure another humiliation. If only it was painful—then perhaps you could grin and bear it, but this was no injury; it was only insult. The white, white wings that sprouted from your back—you did not need to be told its likeness resembled the silhouettes of the heavenly messengers; your silhouette reminded you just fine—they weighed heavy on you, yet beyond the initial growth which you hardly remember there was yet to be very much pain whatsoever.

If it were painful, then you could say, "This is painful," and be understood; but it was not, and you could not. The pain was in your heart, in your sense of self; you could never call this body beautiful, nor could you ever understand this body to be anything beyond ugly, but now it was, to you, grotesque—and more than anything, you knew. Not one person would understand.

When you returned you spent a long time in front of the mirror, dragging your fingers through to pluck and tear—not pointlessly, of course.

You only needed enough to grip, so that when you took the sword to your back, you could have a better handle on the invading appendages—so that you could hold them properly when the blade went down.

[ When you open your eyes, you find yourself floating in a sea of nothingness. To call it a pitch-black void would be ignorant of the fact that you can see yourself, as though your body produced its own light—yet, despite your surprising visibility, you'll find yourself lacking in color, as though someone ran you through Grayscale.

You only need to wish for it—then you may leave this void.

What do you think of?

A place of comfort?

A place of familiarity?

Somewhere, anywhere, far away from this place? ]

『A Place of Comfort』

[maidenheaven]

[ You stand in front of a Japanese-style house. Though quaint, small in size, you can sense the liveliness; even if you couldn't sense it, you could surely smell it in the air, the scent of cooked food wafting through the open screen door and into the open air.

There is a small garden and a pool, and river stones line the paths from your feet to the house.

Beyond this place are trees and other houses, ultimately leading to what seems to be the city. If you were to take the opposite road, you could go to the ocean cliffside.

From the distance, you can see what seems like a snow-capped hill, with a bright light. ]

『A Place of (Un)Familiarity』

[maidenheaven]

[ You stand in Tokyo-F. . . or, maybe not.

It's certainly modern Tokyo of some sort; the skyline is different, insofar as government buildings are completely missing—the Game Tower, for example, is just gone from your sight—and while there are a few tall business buildings, they seem to be for malls and shopping centres and areas of business. Otherwise, the only other tall buildings seem to be for residents . . .

. . . Of which there are many. This might be Tokyo, but this isn't Imeeji's Tokyo—there are people everywhere, bustling and chattering as they walk around, or in some cases, bike around. There's strangely no sight of cars anywhere about, nor any indication that cars even really exist—there aren't any parking lots or garages, for example.

Well, it's. . . time to explore?

You see a path running snaking down to the ocean cliffside, as well as to a house nearby it.

From the distance, you can see what seems like a snow-capped hill, with a bright light. ]

『Somewhere, Anywhere』

[maidenheaven]

[ You reach the cliffside by the ocean; the seasalt affronts your senses, overwhelming in the scent and yet bearable all the same. The waves crash under you, pulling from the rocks to retreat and start over again.

A man sits on a bench nearby, large sketchpad in hand as he paints; he's engrossed in his work, desperately moving his brush as though if he moved it fast enough he could catch the wave before it returned to the sea.

You can take the path from the cliffside down to the city. From here, you can see the path splitting off to a house as well. . .

From the distance, you can see what seems like a snow-capped hill, with a bright light. ]

『Heaven's Grass』

[maidenheaven]

[ You stand at a white-capped hill with a bright light. Something is at the top, there—something with purpose. Something that would grant you purpose.

As you climb to the top of the hill, you realize—it is not snow that caps the land here, but rather, an impossibly large field of white flowers. There are hundreds here—no, surely thousands—and as you step through, you see the flowers spring back up as though they were never stepped on at all. These flowers are varied for the most part in terms of species—poppies and daisies are plentiful, as are anemones—but the lion's share of flowers are the roses. ]