#mukuro01

The man saying those words is dressed in a black coat maybe a size or two too large, a pair of leather gloves, and a blood red cravat at his neck. He’s grown quite fond of toying with whatever expectations this ensemble gives people, and if it’s not broken, no need to fix it. There’s enough that is broken to deal with. Like the windows and televisions in Golden Ward.

He’s not in Golden ward himself, and the TV he’s watching in this cafe, set to a low volume and with subtitles streaming below the newswoman’s face - is working fine.

It’s a cafe in Archimedes ward, decor torn between trying to evoke the same vaguely mediterranean feel of the surrounding area and the basic utilities of a modern cafe - a few small tables and chairs, trash cans, and the TV in the corner currently showing the news of some weird cat creature and his totally derivative little game.

“Those balloon things don’t even explode they just… move around? That’s both lame and cheating.”

The coffee here is as stuck between styles as the rest of the place, deep and bitter - meant to be taken with sugar, though his cup has none - and served with the grains still at the bottom. But its served in the large utilitarian sizes and disposable material of a quick stop coffee shop. Neither one thing nor another. That fits the man sitting there, flitting his gaze between the news and his phone - temporarily switched from gacha grinding to this cities social media.

He lets out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “This thing is taking itself way too seriously. Really, what kind of lines are those. Tropes are fine, but show some awareness.” He huffs. “And whats the point of breaking all the windows before you even start. People are supposed to do it themselves in panic, otherwise its just fancy set dressing.” The man continues, talking to the creature on the other side of the TV who in no way can hear him. 

The owner of the cafe says nothing, didn’t even react to the new story on the TV. Maybe, as an NPC, he’s just programmed that way. All these months later and it still amuses him to be in a place where that is so literal, instead of just a very apt metaphor to describe most of Tokyo. Or maybe this is just the normal human reaction anyone who thought they’d lived in a place like this for years would have. To ignore death and suffering and cat monsters taking their university drama credit way too seriously.

Not that Furuta is complaining. He’d come to this shop specifically because the man behind the counter wastes no time with pleasantries - just hands you the order, gestures vaguely at where the cream and sugar sits, and goes back to whatever else he’s doing. No smile, no conversation, no recognition the next time you come in, sit next to the window, and down a giant cup, not even bothering to filter out the grounds with your teeth.

“Catculator,” he mutters. “Really.” He takes a deep drink from his cup and then looks inside to see whats left - not much, maybe a few swigs, grounds included. He places the cup on the table, sliding it against the laminated surface drawing out the noise of it.

He’s not the only one whose come to this cafe today, of course, he’s simply been talking to the TV anyway. And most of them had done what most people do. Kept their heads down. Most of them.

Without any real warning, he leans his seat way back until it’s balancing precariously on only two legs, putting his head right over the table of the person behind him. He’s never met her before, but she’s been watching him so closely for the last few minutes, it’s almost like they’re old pals by now.

He looks at her upside down, and smiles. Ah, maybe from her point of view, it’s a frown. Well. Everything’s relative. “I know my hair is beautiful, but don’t just stare at the back of my head like that, I’m dyyyiing to know what you think of all this.”