too weird to live, too rare to die

Vulture : Did you know vultures can scream? You do now. Your ears ring as the bird flaps off into the sunset.

A hitman, an artistic conwoman, and a feline specialist walk into an outshed…

They had thought they really had began to truly understand what sheer, pure (hah!), unadulterated Fear & Loathing was when the all-consuming ravenous wrath of Ouryuu had entered their respective shuddering midsts, but it was clear now that F.C. Fan had all, all too much to learn yet.

This, their mind whispered to them, like a Goddess to a Mortal who’d overload like a dented hard drive should they ever hear Her voice at its full, shattering volume, this is It, Fan, you dumb rat, this is what it all means, all that wanderlust and all that prying didn’t even come close to blowing off the lid like this is, and this is only the beginning, really, so look goddamn sharp, look absolute! And really, that curdling hushed voice perpetually ready to burst and screech in kaleidoscope colour wasn't wrong; this was what they’d anticipated, wasn’t it? This was meant to happen, this show and tell of the adolescent melodramatical, this…whole thing. And now more than ever, their quiet was with utmost purpose, playing observant to this helplessly gargantuan terror. And it was important, wasn’t it? That they did. And that, that made them feel…it made them feel…

…Well, that was inherently a complex question, because as they watched the world crumble at the feet of the artist formerly known as Kris Tenshi and the Miyu Suzuki formerly known as an artist and the Mi-Ke who must surely have had one or two of their fabled nine lives shaved off by this salacious shitshow, they most definitely felt. But what, precisely? A difficult head-scratcher to surmise, so much as a modicum of truth be spilled like bloody guts. F.C. Fan, now, was elusive by design, but carried themself with much more emotional honesty than the likes of Farah Fujibayashi-Beauregard. Farah Fujibayashi-Beauregard, now, had slowly found themself systematically locking little pieces of themself from themself, one by one. When they left their dear Julie. When they’d met the Beldam, and when She cut away from them, taking a piece of them with Her forever. When the last Flame had flickered and burnt out. When Nanami Fan gave the bucket one last, final, resounding kick.

And when Seiji Ohara shuffled off the mortal coil, they supposed. (How much of them was even left? Ah, well. It was for the best. It had to be.)

But whatever might have came after that last residual felt…, it was irrelevant, now, all totally and utterly so. When the splinters spilt the tea for all doubters that remained, the time came to switch the votes to what the truth had shown. (They did not. They did not change their vote. They didn’t change it because they felt… they felt…oh, forget it.) 

Miyu Suzuki. They (well, not they, but you know) were correct. And now, she would die. So it goes.

Their gaze had been scanning between the three rotten and damned of the hour like some radar or security trap, but now it settled most squarely on the art forger, the most damned of them all. They were paying naught but full attention as she spoke her own reasoning. They listened.

And then, they responded.

“Ah, but of course, Sara-san!“ (damn, just as they had taught up a good nickname for her!) "Little else could it be, ‘sides that burning desire to keep your weak heart pumping still. Sure, maybe it’s not noble, but the kill rarely is, wouldn’t'cha think? They are what they are, in the remains of the day. The ol’ self-preserving instincts. Whether they bring us ‘round to mirth or misery– well, we reap how we sow. It rolls how it rolls.”

They let Gonzo run up to cling to their shoulder, giving their good boy a little scritch as they spoke some worthless words some more.

“'Sides. Don’t think many of us were opening our arms wide up to the prospect of a parchéd death like that. Now, me– the Reaper and I, we pass each other pre-tty amiably, when we graze on 'ccasion. I’m going to die in this place! Most definitely. But it’s all peachy keen. Never had much of a plan to grow up and go grey, me. 'twould be dreadfully dull if I went and got all old and crotchety and lost that fabulous edge of mine, don'tcha agree? But I’m all about the fast lane, see. As the Good Doctor’d say, it’s always better to be shot out of a cannon than squeezed out of a tube– and I agree. Sitting there, starving– I couldn’t've stomached a slow descent down under like that! No, siree– anything’s better. I’d reckon even whatever happens to you next’ll be better than what poor Kurokawa-chi and Daze-chi fell to.”

And then– a click of the tongue. A dramatic exhalation, a sigh of… something.

“Ah, but I must say, I’ll miss ya, Suzuki-chi! A richly crooked like you, I’d reckon hadn’t much love for some filthy, festering rat like me trying to sink their teeth where they don’t well belong– wouldn’t blame ya, much–” they chuckled– “–But I’ll admit, I had a bit of a soft spot in 'spite myself. High-class sleaze, it’s its own gaudy brand. Hope your Styxian journey down the rapids isn’t bumpier than you deserve.”

They pause, for a moment, as if to consider what they speak and thus forfeit to the air– and there’s something oddly and nakedly sincere in what they say soft:

“I hope Death nabs you fast. So fast that the thrill of the speed overcome the fear of the fatality. All the best. …Ah, but, one more thing–”

Man, this kid was too much. But it appeared they were not done– and for this last little bit, they approach closer to where she stands, looking both right and left before bringing their voice to a low hush intended only for Miyu to hear alone:

“…That, ah, red rose? The anonymous one they delivered until your lovely self during the festival? Courtesy of yours truly. Interpret that in whichever way’d let you rest most at peace. …Best of it to you, Sara-san.”

And with one last wry, enigmatic wink– they stepped back, letting her have her own space again amidst the intense emotion of the other students.

“No.”

{cw: starvation + brief emetophobia and mentions}

It had been a very long…sweet Mary and Marilyn and Heavenly apocalyptica above, they weren’t even assured where to begin with that. Where to even start to enscribe the sketchings of the very first letter of that.

They’d found themself dwelling most frequently on, of all things, a rhyme. The one from And Then They Were None (a classic!). The one about the ten little boys, who all died off, one by one. It wasn’t the first time it had percolated into the deeper crevices of their bottomless pit of a brain like some sort of perverse toxic stream, but once they had all had starvation and parchment cursed unto them by the sisters, it was oft all they could think of, as the days spiralled on endlessly into tortorous dead-ends.

And, of course, literal, actual Real Death.

Bang. Subaru Kurokawa, the mangaka. A fellow Seiryuu. Farah wished they could’ve been better friends. Seiryuu had now one more empty bed.

Bang. Deborah Daze, the carhop. She was so beautiful, and she seemed so feisty and fun too. Another thread sewn off unceremoniously.

Bang. And then, Mio Agatsuma, after days that felt like millenia for vociferous and sadistic gods. They could recall her fire when the motive had first been knoll’d. Now, snuffed down.

Three dead. Three real people, victims at the altar of Real Death. (God, it really was all awfully fucked.)

And then, a race for the food and drink they’d been denied, downing a solid eight glasses of water and a whole vat of ice cream, then upchucking it and not even giving a fuck. Then, investigation, in a murky x-gender bathroom.

Then, trial.

Farah– clad in a baseball cap, a hugely oversized loose camo jacket with absolutely massive pockets which two rats were currently happily inhabiting (yes, you heard that right), a sports bra, suspender shorts, and sockless and shoeless aside from having one of their stockings tied around a wound on their right leg which was clearly far too small to warrant such a big makeshift bandage– had, in this trial, mostly stood, stock still and perfectly silent. Still reacting, of course, for one could see them rock on their heels and their eyebrows raise and fall and their eyes light up and their tongue click…but, in terms of the traditional meaning of the word, they were “quiet”. Whatever that meant.

…Really, they were only surprised the tragicomic theatre that was onslaught now had taken this long to reach this level of “sweet fucking Hell in a handbasket”, because…well, these were talented teenagers with notions in a high-stake situation they were not possibly equipped to grasp in its full girth. The vibrant melodrama was inevitable. But it was the people that had it had caught upon in this particular wicked instance that had captured at their mind, and as their eyes bounced back from one to one to the other to all and all around, things were getting heightened.

And then, Mi-Ke took off their gloves. And then, as did Kris.

And then, they asked it of Miyu. And then…

When Kris reacted to Miyu’s declarations, Farah couldn’t help but react in turn, with an accidental loud slip of the tongue, a sudden, gasped, English:

“<BOO-YAH!>”

Shit. They forgot they were supposed to compose themself more reverently than that, here. Keep it fresh, Fan, keep it clean. Watch yourself. At least they’d managed to strangle the cackle that their brain was about to make.

Their next words were a little more measured and moderate, but just about.

“And there's the rub, eh? So I was right on the money with tuppence leftover! Looks like my animal instinct’s haven’t failed me yet.”

They neither appeared angry or sad (they never did, really), but there was a definitely caustic edge to that sing-song voice of theirs when they spoke yet–

“Why, you are exactly the kinda man I always thoughtcha t'be, Tenshi-chi! Exactly the kind! Guess that old cult-watchin’ experience served me well. Let me tell ya, you were goddamn likable. It’s not a skill many think t'hone, but you got it sharp, my dear sir! But, see, no one’s ever that charismatic in their to-ings and goings without being at least a bit of an absolute motherfucker, see. You’ve got that kinda charm ‘boutcha. It’s impressive, mm-mm-hm! God forgive ya!”

(They could feel traces of that Beldam’s memory hang over their head as they spoke, now, but they supposed that only partially informed their suspicions. Tenshi, he wasn’t like Her. He commanded amiability in a way different, and it was less…well. Everything that had made Her, Her. They didn’t fear him in that way. It was apples to peaches, really.)

“But, ah– that’s not the thick of it, is it? I must say, I haven’t peeled my eyes atcha book of talents myself, but it’s a bit of a sidestory, ain’t it? Here’s the itch we gotta scratch first: which one of you killed her? You, Lucifera? Or Suzuki-chi? Or you, cool cat?” They swivelled towards Mi-Ke. “This is all fucked justice, really, but we still gotta answer it, even when we got multiple digits to pin the guilt on. If we wanna keep our heads clean on our pretty little necks, at any rate. So forget the scandal and salacious secrets for a smidge, pray tell, much as I absolutely love all that jazz and let’s…y'know. Get the goat we’re running for.”

They make eye contact with Miyu– their gaze is far softer to her.

“…Hark. Suzuki-chi. D'you…need some help? Over there? I’ll come t'blows with 'im, if that suits your fancy.” Yes, that is Farah considering fighting Kris. “…Butcha know what we need, here, yeah?”

White Flower Crown : It’s a lovely crown made up of white jasmines and daisies. uwu

Feather Touch [Spell] : A major spell that makes the target lightweight. How light is dependent on the strength of the spell. It lasts for a limited time.

7.

5

6.

17.

And Farah looks equally cool throwing it!

18.

NICE! A ring has been successfully thrown.

You feel a gust of wind brush past you. There’s a puff of smoke, and…

Murtlap Essence : A yellow solution made from strained and picked Murtlap tentacles. It soothes painful cuts and abrasions. One use only.

Goots (Geta Boots) [NPC Quest] : Oh…. oh, no, what are these? Combining geta and boots is a fashion disaster none should bear witness to, yet here they are in all their yellow-and-tan glory. Maybe… someone would like these?

In the frightening full front face of things both as illustrious and daunting as Real Death and Fucked Justice, caustic and illuminating writer F.C. Fan had largely stayed in a self-created casing of intense, watchful silence.

But it was not an unobservant suspension in silence, no no no, never fret or flutter at the fear of it being so! No, theirs were eyes which never stopped drinking up and in the details they could capture at a sweep, and clutched in their slender, nimble fingers was the ever-present pen with which they wrote as they saw it. (Three inkstrokes, and the truth– as-seen-by-Fan, for whatever slot that might count for.) This was how they had learned to live and thrive, many lifelets ago– as long as their heart kept a-knocking and brain a-buzzing, this was how they kept coming to grips and graps with the big wide wicked woeful world racing all ‘round them. When things got as thoroughly goddamn gonzo as they could– bang! Ding! Hey, presto! There they were, right on time with their finger on the pulse, without a doubt in the world of wherever else they might supposedly be 'sposed to be.

(Of course, things 'round here had likely quite assuredly had surpassed gonzo and had taken a magnanimous plane crash straight into just plain batshit, but ah, wasn’t that just the way, hm?)

Just naturally, though, one as wordy-worldly as the ever-sparkly and coincidentally currently glitter-flecked Mx. Fujibayashi-Beauregard was hardly about to rest in the nest without so much as even a hushed chirp, and so they had to at least twitter a tad. 

On shoe size:

“Ah! Y'wanna know the flight of this sparrow’s foot, mm? Me, I’m a Japanese women’s size 23, if curiosity strikes a bolt in your brain 'bout that!”

On the reception of the information that it had been one Airi Inoue who had been Miyu’s mystery assailant, which was certainly news to them, if nobody else:

“…Wait, Suzuki-chi, are you sayin’ that it was Inoue-chi who gave you the whack back then? …Interesting, mmhm…”

And after that? Well, the great philosophically-coined phrase “great googly moogly, it’s all gone to shit” is what instantaneously came to their mind. 

But some things said into the great wide hellish confines of the trial room seemed to strike a chord with them more than others– and eventually, they shifted, and then they spoke.

“…'fraid a bird like me doesn’t have much in the way of branches to add to the bonfire blaze that haven’t already been cried out– just twigs. Most of 'em all burnt out and broken by now, much as truth can be really told. Still…is there even so much of a ghost of a chance the glitter from the stray sleeve could’ve been a shirt that glitters by design, could it? Or that anyone thought to give a look-see over everyone’s uniforms when they poked 'round the rooms? Guess not, guess not…damn and a half. Lady Luck won’t budge us so much as an inch…”

Goddamn, they were running out of precious time.

They had been doing their utmost, devil-be-damned most to dance to naught but the boisterous bang of their own drum through the murky tensity of the post-non-death-non-trial, but they already had an inkling or three that they’d all just end up right back here, with another call heralded by the two-punch of the Amemori-Kozlova siblings.

They’d danced, they’d pried, they’d beckoned for ghosts and hung from meat hooks, but the pendulum of foreboding had swung without relent and without care for the carnage it would inevitably cut through– ah, but wasn’t that life when you dug your fingernails down into the itty-bitty pithy grit of it all? There was no such thing as being too paranoid, in a world where your worst fears could come true at any split second. At any idle moment. Just when things were going so well.

And so, they kept their eyes peeled.

(Keep your chin up, Fan, and those senses sharp. You can never be too careful.)

Indeed, they could not. Soon, the sister-sister duo were deftly weaving for them the meat of the matter at their hands: a heads-and-tails. For the heads? There were dreams, reveries, paradise, bliss-boltered euphoria in the sprawling eternity of a land of sheer make-believe. But for the tails, there was unadulterated, unfiltered woe, all things snarling and sneering and scarring. All the things that go bump in your night, as it were. (god, they could almost see…) But this was one of those instances in which the odds were in their favour– Clan Seiryuu, after all, were the ones blessed with the chance to be encased in all fair and freeing. (A go on the merry-go-round in their very own lotus-eater machine, God bless ‘em!)

What even was the fields of Elysium to a rat like them? It was a question that begged at their door, really. Their dear Julie would be there, of course, by their side with her sharp tongue and reckless impulses and goddamn brilliant mind, and they would wrap her in the biggest hug their body could muster up, and they’d travel the world all over with Pops in tow. And their old gran’d be back on the bound, bless her, that mad, mad old bat, and they would…well. They just…would. (They swallowed down a dry, choked breath.) And they’d be free! Free, free, free, in every single sense that descriptor could hope to sum up, and it’d be goddamn wonderful– that is, if what they didn’t favour about the world to begin with was its dirt and sleaze, and how a paradise of their engineering would probably still be so hopelessly crooked and cruel and fucked, because that sludge was what they very well embraced, wasn’t it? What that even begun to say about them, well…it was what it was, really, they supposed. Perhaps it’d make them easier to hang tough.

Maybe. That was the neverending, permatacked disclaimer.

They flicked their cap upwards.

“Kehehe…the mind of a man is awful malleable, ain’t it? Plunge into the deep-end dive of your own make-believe, and getting drenched in your own delusion is mighty easy indeed, wouldn’t y'know! It’s a skill for your pocket– if your good ol’ guilty heart can never quite gulp down the idea embracing your own down an’ dirty, it’s the only yellow brick road left open to pass through! It’s a simple slippery slope to slide, if you’re ready to skate it. Not a need in the world to deal in shank and shade to get it in your sticky fingers, if y'ask me.

…But, ah– that’s just a rat’s bite of the situation, y'know. At the ends of it all, it’s all but…fear, and machinations. Don'tcha think?”

And with that– they were off, verbose as ever.

You feel a gust of wind brush past you. There’s a puff of smoke, and…

Banana Outfit : It’s not just any banana outfit. Said banana is scandolously peeled to reveal a leopard-printed bra paired with a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses.

“…Well, I think the hat is salvageable but the rest needs some work.”

There was a pesky question that the writer known commonly as F.C. Fan had wrangled with for quite a time: in a world of the deluded, what even was the truth?

It had been playing on their mind since the wonderful world of whimsical warlockery had promptly (and, perhaps, predictably) turned wicked and the succeeding motive was announced; maybe indeed for even longer than that. Oft a time they had loudly announced their disavowal of the truth of objectivity, and now they found themself pontificating it even more so. Was their truth the same as another’s? How wrong was wrong? Did right and wrong as declared by laws and legalities even matter, in the universe of a person with conviction? If you met a man convinced cows were part of the same species as geese, and if absolutely no words or facts or books waved in the air could convince him of the popularly accepted facts, was the obvious truth even worth considering? What the hell did it all mean, really?

Lovely Lord and lilting ladies above, this world really was some bullshit, with or without magic and bewitchery added in. But here they were, in this world of bullshit, surrounded by teenagers hotly debating the worth of drawing blood in the name of a deathless woman.

They clicked their tongue. Well, might as well add their two cents, eh?

“The system truly is tightly and thoroughly fucked, my fellows and folks, but blood begets more blood.”

Their eyes swam through the room, looking at the various clanly individuals with a…thoughtful look. Not quite serious, but not quite amused, either. Mysterious, in its own way.

You feel a gust of wind, and the hansatsu being pulled from your hand. There’s a puff of smoke, and…

Hoou-Young Myung Plush : Out of the machine pops… a medium-sized plush, depicting a youkai! AAA… or rather, aww? According to the tag attached, this one in particular depicts a hooh, a firey bird (not to be confused with Suzaku). This one is very elegant and expensive-looking, with piercing brown eyes and resplendent yellow plumage.

“Like, wow! Did you know those are supposed to only appear in times of prosperity? This must be a good omen!”

“…I ain’t so sure it applies when it’s a stuffed animal.”

Hm. So, introductions were afoot, were they?

In that case, it was time. Time, that is, for them to pitch in their own unique little brand of–ah– wit. In a sense.

(Look fresh, Fan! Keep ‘em on their toes.)

A short, sharp whistle came from the mouth of the young blonde in the suspenders, who could currently be seen vigorously rocking back and forth on their heels; their paperboy hat may have partially obscured their face, but any curious peer who so happened to be standing near could see with ease  the mysterious, distinctively wry twinkle in their eyes. Their lackadaisical aura was unmistakable– but, for now, their face was set in a mockingly exaggerated serious grim line, one hand stroking their chin and the other repeatedly running up and down the thick strap of their bulky satchel, as if strumming some ancient figurative guitar.

(C'mon, just let them play at their games for a slice of time, won’t ya?)

“Giving our grand intros, are we? Mm, mm, mm…that’ll have to cost you, I’m afraid. I’ll tot up the calculations, and…bang! That’ll be about six-fifty-six, give or take a bit of interest, here and there– or, if worldly costs aren’t quiteyour preferred method of exchange, perhaps a kiss or two on the cheek will seal the deal, mmhm. Offers are for a limited time only, mind you, so make it swift, won’t you?”

They let their comically drop-dead-serious expression hang in the silence for about two seconds, give or take– maybe three seconds, if you’ll dole out a bit of generosity to the sprightly enby currently being curiously, exceedingly extra, here– and then…a smirk. A snicker. An unmissable glint in the eye, betraying all to their lovely audience.

“Kehehe! Just kiddin’, just kiddin’! Only pulling your respective legs, ladies, gents, and lovely x-gender folks. I wouldn’t leave a buncha first-timers like you lot completely in the dark! Lend me a slice of credit, won’t ya? Tell you what: this time only, I’ll give you the one-two on this old rat, completely free of charge! Take note, folks! You don’t get this kind of offer from me every day, let me tell you.”

Pushing their hat up out of their face, they clicked their tongue, making a little finger-guns motion at their companions of the day.

“Look sharp. Th’ name’s Farah  Fujibayashi-Beauregard– but that is a bit of a mouthful, ain’t it? Alphabet soup’s not always for everyone, you know. So, if double-barrel big guns leave you without so much as a gulp of Gaia’s good air, then you can just call me F.C. Fan. So, think of it that way, and you can take the pick of your fancy. You could say, “Fan-san, Fan-san! Where on Earth did ya get that from?”, or “Fujibayashi-kun, Fujibayashi-kun! What in the world’s coming outta your gob now?”, or even, “Beauregard-chan, Beauregard-chan! That doesn’t even make any sense! Who even are you, anyway?”. I’ll tell you who I am– Farah Fujibayashi-Beauregard-Fan-san-chan, of course! …Ah, I am babbling a tad, aren’t I? Apologies, apologies! This goose has a tendency to gander at the best of times, I’m afraid.

Anyway…I s'pose you’re wondering: who is the mouse at the controls over here, eh? Well…I’m what some would call a “gonzo journalist”. But me, now, I prefer to think of myself as, ah…a keen lone observer of this blue watery abyss we call our good ol’ planet Earth. I’m a bit of a free bird in spirit– but I grew a tad weary of the big blue skies, so I fled from the flock and went my own road! The seediest crevices of the sleaziest cities are where I build my nests, the outcasts and misfits and just plain dangerous are what I call my pack. Social-critique, self-satire, and self-insertion are the names of my game– but I don’t go dealing in the traditional absolute truths. Human emotions, human experiences, human stories– that's what matter to this old squawker. You ask me, the total truth without trepidation is the most dangerous commodity in this world of ours– throw it around without any smidge of consideration, and you’ll find yourself in hell and a half in a handbasket, says I.“

(Those who currently found themself within hearing distance of the gonzo journalist currently holding the floor may have by now deduced that “TL:DR” was not a concept that Mx. Fujibayashi-Beauregard held to a particularly high degree of reverence.)

“…Still, we have all the time in the great wild world to hop and skip onto that discussion, kehehehe! A rare bit of truth be told, it’s an adventure to be chucked into the nouveau with every one of you strange ol’ scoundrels, my comrades and contemporaries, well and truly! Here’s to hoping this is well and truly it, eh?”

“It”? What?

…And, to that vague, curious closer, it appeared that Farah was content to follow it up with naught but a cheeky peace sign and a vivacious, lively grin– a full-set of squeaky-clean, shark-like pearly whites, raising about as many queries as they answered.

It was gonna be a year, alright.

—

{{HI!!! I'm Shiny (though you can call me whatever you like), I go by any and all pronouns (defaults are she/her and they/them), I’m from Ireland and am thus in GMT+0/1, and I’m playing Farah Fujibayashi-Beauregard, SHSL Gonzo Journalist! In case you’re unfamiliar with the term, gonzo journalism is an energetic, first-person participatory style of new age journalism characterised by a manic, sarcastic, often humorous prose, which is written without any claims of objectivity and usually involves the reporter as part of the story via a first-person narrative, and is more focused on delivering an emotionally honest narrative than an objectively honest one like traditional journalism.

Farah also goes by any pronouns, and both you and your character are free to use any pronouns you like for them! I’ll mostly be using they/them for the sake of consistency. In addition to being a gonzo journalist, Farah is also what they like to call a “continential drifter” (AKA, since the age of 11/12 they and their dad have been travelling around the world from country to country, never staying anywhere too long) and a daredevil (AKA a reckless fuck who loves to do dangerous, adrenaline-pumping activities and will gladly rope your OCs into these as well). They’re a lot, in other words.