theatrum mundi

“Neither,” Mao responds. “You learn it by living. Fiction is just a funhouse mirror of reality. Yours not gonna get a good look that way.”

“Aw,” he pouted, properly pouted. “But funhouse mirrors are the best!” He is a clown, after all.

“My collar is none of your damn business,” Mao says, truly exasperated at this point. Sometimes, it was really difficult being compliant with these kinds of people. No self respect, and they refuse to respect others.

“And did you watch some shitty movie about the double life pets lead to learn about that? I’m not necessarily impressed.”

“Of course, of course!” He said, childish grin back on his face, “I’ve learned everything I know from movies! They’re so much better teachers than real life, don’t you think?”

He flicked another bit of blood off his black military style coat. “Take this situation, for example. Blue robot turns red, a take over by and organization that calls itself NULL, cryptic offers. I mean, I don’t know anything about wherever you came from before here, but does that sound like something you learn about in school? Or from the movies.”

“Well, if I just keep jumping, I leave a trail, don’t I?” Mao says. “Can’t be stupid about it; you gotta jump only when it’s necessary.” He sighs. This guy was a real pain in the ass, and normally, he’d just leave, but now he was obligated to stay. There was no other animal he could jump to, after all.

“It’s hard to believe, but cats have personal lives outside of catering to their masters or pet owners, or whatever bullshit you’re on.”

“Necessary is often a matter of opinion. I, for one, consider “fun” fairly necessary.”

At the cat’s last comment he laughed, real and genuinely, or as much as anything from him could be called either of those.

“Oh, you’d be surprised how much I know about the personal lives of pets.” He didn’t shiver, but he could have. There was personal history there, and if he wanted to be dramatic (and for once, he really had no desire to be) nothing very pleasant. Ew, personal history. Gross. 

“Whatever you want, I don’t care,” Mao spits. “I’m in it for the long haul. Not for anyone else, but for me. Always have been.” All this thinking about morals and self loathing didn’t really interest Mao. He couldn’t care less, actually. Just some bullshit to make sorry ass excuses for yourself. But the cat frowns at the thought. Even if that were true, separating your emotions from decisions seems impossible for non Contractors. He sighed. Maybe he was being a little too rude.

“I guess it can be,” he mentions. “I don’t use it as much anymore, though. Ever since someone destroyed my human body after I jumped into this feline, I’ve been more cautious.”

“Oooh how selfish,” He mocked, all act, and an obvious one at that. Most people were plenty selfish, this one was just man enough - or cat enough - to admit it. 

He clicks into the next raid on auto and drops his phone to his side as it starts. “I suppose that would be annoying. There are some things that are probably easier with opposable thumbs. It just seems like it might be convenient, getting to pick whatever form best suits the task, and being able to bail if it got in the way.” 

She burst into giggles at the sight of more red staining the atmosphere around the two of them. She loved it, she loved this; her face flushed just as red as the blood pooling around both of their feet.

A squeal of delight left her– she just couldn’t help it.

She was either very committed to this game, or this really was a regular meal for her. Things were, after all, far more confusing than just the already messy spectrum of ghoul and human in this city. 

Mao frowns. He clearly wasn’t having any of this. “Listen, pal. I’ve been really tolerant of you so far, but if you don’t back off, I will scratch your face off.”

He sighs. “As for your question, I guess the answer would be both. The cat has its own conscience, but since I’m possessing its body, it’s normal bloodshed. I have to recalibrate myself so the animal’s brain doesn’t take over.” He notices a rat run by. “I could actually probably jump into that little guy, if I wanted,” he waged. “Don’t need to stay in this body.”

He waved one hand in front of himself, a mockery of a placating gesture. Only one, of course, the other was still tapping at his phone, multitasking as always. “Oh, no, please, not my cute face!” He said in just as mocking exasperation. It was clear the cat was not buying any of it, but that wasn’t going to stop him. Still, it was less fun without the audience interaction.

Furuta turned following the cats gaze just in time to see a rat crawl into a crack in a building. 

“Body hopping, huh?” He switched his gaze back at his phone, the raid having ended, as he navigates through the screens, keeping his face level in a mild disinterest as he does. “Sounds useful.” He even goes so far as to shrug. “Guess Mr. Kitty Cat is fortunate I have no intention on fighting then. Even if you do try to claw my adorable face to ribbons.”

She giggled with glee at the sight of the dismembered arm, standing up with an unnecessary twirl. Just as the man wearing a mask near her, Himiko Toga had a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps that’s why the two of them were able to get along so well in this strange, gory moment.

The blade was still in her hand as she twirled, yet, his query made her pause. Who should make the first cut? Himiko loved spilling blood herself, yet she was curious to see the way this man could do so, too. Her cheeks puffed up, fists curled and cupped her jawline. Decisions, decisions…!

“Hmmmm…”

She swayed back and forth, but just as soon as the shift in her body language began it suddenly ended. Leaning forward (and over the remains of the corpse), Himiko extended both her hand and her precious blade to the mysterious man. Her bright and giddy smile returned just the same, as if it had never disappeared in the first place.

“You do it, okay? I want to see you do it,” her explanation was surprisingly honest for a request that included defiling a corpse.

He took the proffered knife remarkably gently. Whether or not this specific piece of metal held any kind of significance to her, he did not know, but it was clear from this entire interaction, that at the very least, this girl held a certain fondness for them.

He made a show (and everything was a show, after all) of feeling the weight and grip of the knife out. If he didn’t have one hand occupied with, well, a hand, he might have gone for balancing it on the tip of his glove. Instead, he brought it up to the eye holes of his mask and tilted it back and forth, letting it glint off the street light at the mouth of the alley.

Upon reflex, Hairu nearly brought Aus down upon the dark-cloaked figure she ran into– or, she would have at least tried. She did not realize that Furuta was both stronger and faster than she. Even though he quickly demonstrated their difference in strength by damaging just one tendril of the encroaching monster that was the horde of V agents, Hairu could only watch in surprise. She had been so preoccupied with running away that the thought of defending herself (or anyone defending her, for that matter) hadn’t come to mind. Her brain always chose the worst times to be empty.

There was so much noise– that was what she noticed first, once she could stop to actually think about what was unfolding before her. Her own heart beat in her ears, the sound of a chainsaw, Furuta’s voice, angry footsteps. There was just so much to take in, and yet…

“Reunion?” She could only parrot the words back to Furuta, blinking, her brain processing just a moment too slow. The agents of V, however, were not so kind as to let Hairu catch up. Another agent swung at her, and Hairu’s body moved on its own. Aus deflected the attack, and Hairu felt the reverberation from the exchange surge through her frame.

No, she thought, I don’t want this. I hate this. I hate you. She hated V, she hated the fear they incited in her. Why her? Why Furuta? Why couldn’t they be left alone? Her hands trembled, but they still swung Aus once more, easily slicing through the torso of the V agent that had tried to attack her only a moment prior.

“Get away from me!”

Before he could quip back, tease Hairu about him and her and V and all the tangled knots of vines they’d been climbing through all their short miserable lives, these recreated specters of their distant rotten cousins surged again. This time, as if she had needed the approval of Nimura swinging his chainsaw first, Hairu attacked back, sending the two halves of one of the withered husks of a flower falling in two directions, and spraying both of the slightly younger garden children with blood. 

He couldn’t help it, he laughed, laughed as Hairu screamed, blade raised. It was just. So funny. Everything about this was so, so funny. He held Rotton Follow in one hand, and swung it in a wide arc, sending another hat covered head from another black coat covered body. Cutting down half a ghoul with a chainsaw that itself is half a ghoul, wielded by someone who is two halves a ghoul and still, somehow not quite a whole one. Hairu, hilariously ignorant to at least half these jokes, turning a sword made by one arm of V on another. 

He swung around, chainsaw still spinning, and scooped the hat off the detached head with his free hand. If he put it on his own head, he half imagines Hairu would try to shove that blade right through his chest. She’d be right to, after all. He was more an agent of V than these replicas were.

Instead, noticing another alley branching off from the street they were being chased down, he grabs onto Hairu’s arm, knowing she’s more than capable of holding onto Aus with just one, and pulls her off to the side. No doubt a few of their pursuers will notice, but this will thin the herd.

He plops the blood-covered hat onto her head instead, restraining the mirth on his face as much as he possibly can. He’s sure its not perfect. He’s only human after all. Oh no, wait, he isn’t is he. That’s the joke. 

“I’m a Contractor,” Mao says, with disdain in his voice. “Take from that what you will.” Mao notices how sharp this guy was. He had to stay vigilant, if someone like him could already guess he was a body jumper. No body was his own after that day his human one was destroyed.

That was not the answer he was expecting. As a term to describe people-in-cat-bodies he was unfamiliar. It’s obviously some terminology he doesn’t know, that much is clear, but he plays it for the joke anyway. “So what, you build people’s porches and fix their plumbing? I’d like to see that.” They could make quite the profitable line of merchandise, cats with socket wrenches, and little tool belts. 

“But that still leaves the question unanswered. Let me phrase it this way,” he lets a gloved hand travel leisurely to his waist, where it rests on the hilt of the katana shaped quinque. Really it was just a katana, but made with a hefty helping of people parts. Ghoul parts were people parts enough, though hidden well enough that if you weren’t familiar, you wouldn’t notice. He flicked it open, ever so slightly, just enough for the metal to peak through.

“If we were to play around a little, would it be cruelty against animals? Or just normal everyday bloodshed.” He let the katana fall back down into its casing. “Just hypothetically of course. I’m in the middle of a gacha raid.”

“You would think that all talking cats are interconnected through a portal in space time, and that we all meet up at a “Talking Cats Therapy Session,” every week, where eating cat food all the time is a piss purr choice,” he jokes, sarcastically. Anyone can tell that the cat isn’t really amused to being compared to K’horii.

“Alas, it doesn’t work that way. What could’ve been…”

Oh, he likes this cat. Sarcastic, and right in with the jokes. Cute, too. What a good kitty. Ah, but he should clear one thing up first. 

“So,” he says, rather casually for the situation, “are you a cat who can talk like a person, or a person who looks like a cat.”

He was more than happy to take this joke and run with it. It’s just that he knows where he stands on cats and he knows where he stands on people, and those stances are a little incongruent.

“Or is that considered an insensitive question at the Jellicle ball? In which case, please imagine I asked it anyway.”

“Oh, shut up,” Eto spat, having no desire to hear another word from Furuta. 

They had exchanged enough passive aggressive words back and forth several times in the past. She was far too aggravated, far too enticed by the prospect of smashing in that annoying expression Furuta was wearing.

She knew that that chainsaw was really a quinque, despite its ridiculous form; really, what went through some of those stupid investigators’ minds?

Just as expected, Eto jumped backwards in order to avoid the strike of a chainsaw–something she wouldn’t have ever expected to do before now. Using her kagune to balance on either side of the hole, Eto clicked her tongue in annoyance. 

The wire cable was quite close, but she knew that if this was to continue (and it would), she would far better with more space to move about. So, with a grumble and a curse, Eto’s kagune moved her up, out of the hole and away from the clown that she knew would follow her.

“Awww, where are you going?” He said, continuing to smile. “It’s been so long, I thought we could chat!” He called up from inside the pit.

She was too much like him though, as loathe as he was to admit it, (when he wasn’t making a joke about it) and he knew if he didn’t follow she’d just run off and find some other hole.

So, with the generous support of his current patrons, he bent just barely at the knee and jumped. The big half-ghoul reveal was over, so he might as well not hold back. 

He landed easily, though he added in a bit of a stage stumble at the end. Then he grinned up, an absolutely and totally intentionally wicked grin. It was an homage to someone or other, he was sure. As was his chuckle, which rolled into a proper loud laugh. A hint of madness thrown in, just for spice. “Oh man, ghoul’s strength sure is wild. No wonder they make such good toys.” Before he’d finished the last word of the sentence he’d jumped again, without the little bend of his knees this time, just straight into the air, chainsaw whirring, as he came towards her.

“Let’s try this!” 

Mao instinctively lets a sigh out. He didn’t mean to blow his cover so quickly, but his theatrics just weren’t interesting. Still, it’s better for him in the long run to endure it. Worth the possible information, if anything.

“You do realize cats can’t talk, right?” He points out, aware that his cover his blown. “I’m pretty sure everyone knew that, but I guess it’s part of the fun to look stupid sometimes. Can’t blame ya.”

“Whaa??” He starts in on a bit, out of habit. “A talking cat??” Then he lets that mask drop, metaphorically, and shatter on the floor. He narrows his eyes, a completely different expression on his face than moments ago. It’s almost serious, but a fake serious.

“It is, in fact, part of the fun, Mr. Cat.” He pouts, just a little. The self-aware commentary was only fun when he did it. He leans against the edge of the alley, and shakes some blood off his glove. “One really must make one's own fun, with these,” he waves his hand around, a few specs of red still left to fly off the ends of his gloved fingers as he does, “little activities.”

“Huh?” She was confused by his question, but still listened. She practically hung off his every word, even if she didn’t fully understand each one. 

If the average person couldn’t protect themselves, then perhaps it did make sense for those like herself (and in her mind, Furuta, since they were so obviously the same) to fight. Yet, Hairu frowned, clearly thinking over what he said. She didn’t want to fight, to be the reason for anymore bloodshed, whether it was with ghouls or not. Was this an exception? Or was helping people get to safety enough?

Hairu had lots of questions, and opened her mouth as if she were to voice one, but nothing came out. After a pause, Hairu looked down, not wanting to meet Furuta’s eye. Who was she to question him? She was the one always making mistakes, after all.

“Uh… yeah, I guess…”

Oh dear. He really had let this toy get broken pretty badly, huh. Well, she was more of a hand me down, from family, as it were. Still. What a curious expression. If this had been one of their rare non-combat classes, he might understand. But Hairu had always excelled at combat. 

The idea of her trying to play any other kind of role was funny. So funny it was almost interesting. Oh, he could imagine his little baby cousin in a policeman’s uniform, standing at a police box trying to tell people how to get to the nearest station. 

But the idea that she hadn’t immediately jumped from protecting people to fighting meant dear old V’s brainwashing might not have been as airtight as they thought. Well, obviously, but if Hairu could slip its grip, even in death, that was quite the blow against it.

It might not be airtight, but clearly it still had some kind of hold. “If you aren’t out here to fight,” he gestured to what was obviously a quinque in her hand. He could smell the dead ghoul bits within, otherwise, he wouldn’t have put it past this place to have given her a very nice briefcase, just as a joke. “That might get in the way.” Consider it a bit of cryptic life advice, from a big cousin. Or a clown. Not that she’d think too deeply on it. That wasn’t a thing she was made to do. And if she ever willingly gave up her Arima’s quinque replica, he’d have to make himself a Kaiko dummy just to laugh in its face.

“Well, I best be going,” he said, turning to go to wherever he was next needed to defend some game flag or another. It was starting to rain here. He held a gloved hand casually in the air. “Do try not to slip.” This time.