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paixaorpg2006-02-28 01:33 pm
poor-posture.livejournal.com) wrote in paixaorpg2006-02-28 01:33 pm
Entry tags:
hell can't be so bad. they have free drinks. [ Closed/Complete ]
Character(s); L and anyone else who wants to jump in.
Content; L's not-so-warm (and scone-less) welcome to Paixao.
Setting; Muspelheim gate.
Time; Thursday afternoon.
Warnings? None.
Well, he hadn't expected anything quite like this.
Most people read of Heaven in fairy tales and pictured a happy place up in the clouds with a big golden arch and angels. Most people heard the word Hell and envisioned fire and demons and pitchforks. Instead, L woke to the sight of fake glass leaves, fabric blades of grass, and an intimidating stone archway.
What an interesting little afterlife.
He had never been one to believe in Heaven or Hell, never been one to indulge in what he called fairy tales and false hopes. Believing in any sort of life after death - no, believing in general - was only a crutch, a thing to give people to fall back on when they couldn't find the answers. The detective relied more on logic, on having hard evidence. Even when he didn't - when he merely theorized - his claims never had anything to do with the supernatural.
And that had been his downfall.
For a while, L just sat there, knees tucked against his chest, eyes wide and studying the elaborate design on the gates. Hell is rather... anti-climactic, he thought to himself, biting his thumb hard. Or maybe it was Heaven? There were no angels, no shining little halos on people's heads, and yet this place didn't strike him as particularly hellish. Otherwise he would be sitting in fire... if he had to buy into those stories. He wouldn't be surprised if Hell was a happy land where "everybody knows your name" and the entire human race was wrong.
Maybe this was purgatory. Yes, that seemed about right.
Everything was fake. It had been the first thing he noticed, besides the gates. L eventually got to his feet and ambled over to the trees, running calloused fingers over the rough, imitation bark. Well, the plants were artificial, and there were no animals. People here couldn't get any food, but then again, who needs to eat when they're dead? The explanation was... reasonable (as reasonable as it could be in this very unreasonable situation), but it didn't explain why he had a sudden craving for scones.
It was also cold and damp, as though it had just rained. The weather changed here, just like it did on Earth. Whoever had created this purgatory was trying to create a comfortable setting for its inhabitants. And then it occurred to him that since fake plants had to be created, it disproved the theory of evolution.
Religious fanatics would have a field day.
Well, there was no use dwelling on it. He was dead now. Idly, he wondered if everyone had a different purgatory - if only his version of purgatory was artificial (and, unfortunately, scone-less) - but then, how could he see everybody else? He wondered if the people were made of fabric and stuffing and placed there so he wouldn't get lonely... so he tested that theory by sauntering over to the line and pinching the woman in front of him.
"What in the world?!" the woman turned as fast as she could, only to be met by a pair of wide eyes and a comically blank stare. Before L could explain, she took her purse and swung it into his stomach. "Pervert!!"
... I think she's real, he concluded, coughing and gasping for air. He found himself wondering how she died. Definitely not a murder; she could've defended herself with that three-ton purse, if she had to.
Now his stomach hurt too much to think of scones.
It took him a while to reach the front of the line. He had no watch on him, but if he had to guess, he would've said it took about a half an hour. At one point, someone behind him yelled: "We don't have all day!" a comment he found to be particularly amusing, especially when coming from a dead person. L approached a small stand by the gates and looked over at the man behind it.
"Name?" he asked. L blinked twice. It made sense that they recorded the names of everyone who passed through the gates when they died; it was like clocking in and out of work. One day he'd be able to clock out when the Powers That Be (he didn't know what else to call them, anyway) decided he could finally pass on. He leaned in, his dark eyes wide and curious as they scanned the long list of people who had come before him. A lot of people had checked in, but he didn't see anyone who had checked out.
The man coughed loudly to get L's attention.
Huh. Name. He was so used to code names and fake identities, and now he was... at a loss. He was dead. He didn't have an identity to protect, and yet for some reason he felt oddly compelled to call himself L and leave it at that.
"...if this is purgatory," he said aloud, more to himself than to the man in front of him. He poked the side of his face as if he wanted to put his finger in his mouth and bite it, but he missed. "And I am dead. Would you not know I was coming? Wouldn't you have my name?"
"Purgatory?" the man repeated. "You must be mistaken. This is Paixao."
Pie-sow? Some sort of foreign word, no doubt. Certainly not purgatory. L leaned in closer, his face just inches away from the other's, his finger having finally found its way into his mouth. "Then... this is not the afterlife?"
This only confused the man even more. Instead of answering him, he held up the long list of names and a pen and shoved them in the genius' face, along with a black metallic... box. "Write your name here, please." And, with the knowledge that this was not purgatory, but something else altogether, he finally wrote a big, bold L and stalked off with his new journal in hand.
What an interesting afterlife this would be.
Content; L's not-so-warm (and scone-less) welcome to Paixao.
Setting; Muspelheim gate.
Time; Thursday afternoon.
Warnings? None.
Well, he hadn't expected anything quite like this.
Most people read of Heaven in fairy tales and pictured a happy place up in the clouds with a big golden arch and angels. Most people heard the word Hell and envisioned fire and demons and pitchforks. Instead, L woke to the sight of fake glass leaves, fabric blades of grass, and an intimidating stone archway.
What an interesting little afterlife.
He had never been one to believe in Heaven or Hell, never been one to indulge in what he called fairy tales and false hopes. Believing in any sort of life after death - no, believing in general - was only a crutch, a thing to give people to fall back on when they couldn't find the answers. The detective relied more on logic, on having hard evidence. Even when he didn't - when he merely theorized - his claims never had anything to do with the supernatural.
And that had been his downfall.
For a while, L just sat there, knees tucked against his chest, eyes wide and studying the elaborate design on the gates. Hell is rather... anti-climactic, he thought to himself, biting his thumb hard. Or maybe it was Heaven? There were no angels, no shining little halos on people's heads, and yet this place didn't strike him as particularly hellish. Otherwise he would be sitting in fire... if he had to buy into those stories. He wouldn't be surprised if Hell was a happy land where "everybody knows your name" and the entire human race was wrong.
Maybe this was purgatory. Yes, that seemed about right.
Everything was fake. It had been the first thing he noticed, besides the gates. L eventually got to his feet and ambled over to the trees, running calloused fingers over the rough, imitation bark. Well, the plants were artificial, and there were no animals. People here couldn't get any food, but then again, who needs to eat when they're dead? The explanation was... reasonable (as reasonable as it could be in this very unreasonable situation), but it didn't explain why he had a sudden craving for scones.
It was also cold and damp, as though it had just rained. The weather changed here, just like it did on Earth. Whoever had created this purgatory was trying to create a comfortable setting for its inhabitants. And then it occurred to him that since fake plants had to be created, it disproved the theory of evolution.
Religious fanatics would have a field day.
Well, there was no use dwelling on it. He was dead now. Idly, he wondered if everyone had a different purgatory - if only his version of purgatory was artificial (and, unfortunately, scone-less) - but then, how could he see everybody else? He wondered if the people were made of fabric and stuffing and placed there so he wouldn't get lonely... so he tested that theory by sauntering over to the line and pinching the woman in front of him.
"What in the world?!" the woman turned as fast as she could, only to be met by a pair of wide eyes and a comically blank stare. Before L could explain, she took her purse and swung it into his stomach. "Pervert!!"
... I think she's real, he concluded, coughing and gasping for air. He found himself wondering how she died. Definitely not a murder; she could've defended herself with that three-ton purse, if she had to.
Now his stomach hurt too much to think of scones.
It took him a while to reach the front of the line. He had no watch on him, but if he had to guess, he would've said it took about a half an hour. At one point, someone behind him yelled: "We don't have all day!" a comment he found to be particularly amusing, especially when coming from a dead person. L approached a small stand by the gates and looked over at the man behind it.
"Name?" he asked. L blinked twice. It made sense that they recorded the names of everyone who passed through the gates when they died; it was like clocking in and out of work. One day he'd be able to clock out when the Powers That Be (he didn't know what else to call them, anyway) decided he could finally pass on. He leaned in, his dark eyes wide and curious as they scanned the long list of people who had come before him. A lot of people had checked in, but he didn't see anyone who had checked out.
The man coughed loudly to get L's attention.
Huh. Name. He was so used to code names and fake identities, and now he was... at a loss. He was dead. He didn't have an identity to protect, and yet for some reason he felt oddly compelled to call himself L and leave it at that.
"...if this is purgatory," he said aloud, more to himself than to the man in front of him. He poked the side of his face as if he wanted to put his finger in his mouth and bite it, but he missed. "And I am dead. Would you not know I was coming? Wouldn't you have my name?"
"Purgatory?" the man repeated. "You must be mistaken. This is Paixao."
Pie-sow? Some sort of foreign word, no doubt. Certainly not purgatory. L leaned in closer, his face just inches away from the other's, his finger having finally found its way into his mouth. "Then... this is not the afterlife?"
This only confused the man even more. Instead of answering him, he held up the long list of names and a pen and shoved them in the genius' face, along with a black metallic... box. "Write your name here, please." And, with the knowledge that this was not purgatory, but something else altogether, he finally wrote a big, bold L and stalked off with his new journal in hand.
What an interesting afterlife this would be.
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Ryoma sighed; he didn't stop walking, but he tilted his head up to stare at the large, fiery structures as he passed them. It was a terrible shame the man hadn't the sense to actually watch where he was going; most of his attention was focused on the Muspelheim gates or the dull throb in his right arm, where he had been shot.
So of course he hadn't made note of the smaller figure wandering in his vicinity either. He was too short, or too hunched over for a tall man like Ryoma to notice - and consequently, he ran right into him - the collision point, ironically enough, was his wounded (but bandaged, thankfully) shoulder. Immediately, he let out a string of curses in Japanese and curled back instinctively, looking over at the other who had been as unfortunate as he.
Luckily for L, Sakamoto Ryoma was not a hostile man. Rather than hauling off and giving him a good punch in the face - like any other man who had such a gruff appearance as he - he forced a smile instead and coughed, nodding in his direction a bit. "S-sorry 'bout that, kiddo. Better watch where 'm goin' next time."
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"Now there's a thought. What if this place is where ya go t'die..." He glanced off to the side, thoughtful, for a moment... and then looked back to L, grinning and shaking his head, as if he were amused with the proposition. "I was'n under the impression that thissus'at kinna place. Y'don't hurt in heaven, do ya? An' y'd feel a lot more pain in hell."
Ryoma bit his lip a moment. "As fer me, the las' thing I remember b'fore gittin' here is gittin' shot in the arm," he said, nodding down to the bandaged wound with the ripped off sleeve. "I don' think that'd a kilt me, though. And considerin' I jist came from one'a the hospitals 'round here... well, I really dunno what to make of this place. I think it's America, if y'ask me. The guys who shot me were white folks. I imagined they'da a captured me n' brought me here t'slave me.."
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"Hmmm... shinigami? Sure. Aren't those the gods o'death from all the children's tales?" A brow quirked again. "Waiddaminute, you ain't suggestin' this's got anythin' to do with those dumb stories, do ya? Everyone knows they're there jus' t'scared the kids inta bein' good for their parents. 'M pritty sure there's a more logical explination fer this all."
The samurai took a glance around the area once agian, as if that would provide him with the answer. Unfortunately, it didn't. It just made him more confused. Apparently this boy, who dressed in western clothes, too! didn't even know what this place was. And Isaac hadn't either...
Maybe it was something spooky.
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But that was assuming they were there for a reason. Sigh. L's conclusions didn't help much at all, and Ryoma was not even sure if he really wanted to wonder too hard about it anymore. They were here and that was that.
Finding himself quite tired now, he opted to plop right down beside L and cross his legs awkwardly, giving a sigh. "All in all, I dunno what to make of this place at all. I think maybe we jus' needa try to make due 'til somethin', whatever it was that brought us here, decides to go on 'n throw us backwhere we're s'posed to be..." That said, Ryoma was silent a moment, before becoming curious.
"Say, what's your name, boy? And where you come from?"
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And what a strange name. "L," the samurai repeated, blinking. "Interestin'. Well, ya kin call me Sakamoto Ryoma! The man who is going to revolutionize Japan!" he proclaimed - rather proudly, at that. L was a smart man, he'd probably recognize him from Japanese history, of course. Sakamoto Ryoma was a name that had gone down in the books, after all - he was the reason Japan opened up to modernization and expansion.
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At the question, Ryoma lifted a gloved hand up to his chin and scratched it thoughtfully, dark eyes wandering skyward (or, in this case, domeward - he suddenly made note that that elaborately painted sky was indeed quite fake. Shame he wasn't observant enough to figure that out before, but then again Ryoma was primitive in comparison to the other inhabitants of the city) and he thought.
"I do believe it was 'bout... I'd say... 1862? I'unno, I don' really pay 'ttention t'that kinna stuff anymore. I kin tell ya I'm twenny-eight years old though!" L was smart, right? If Ryoma was twenty eight now, he'd of had to be born in 1835. According to history books, that was indeed correct.
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Whoever was doing this certainly was good at psychology - Ryoma wouldn't even begin to entertain the idea that any of this was caused by magic, of course. He didn't believe in that kiddy stuff.
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The genius was very fortunate he ran into as man as kind as he. Ryoma had made note, from the looks of things, about 80% of that 2% of people who could think in this city weren't exactly the most friendly folk in the universe.
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Unfortunately for them, no one was allowed to exit the gates once they came inside - and only those crafty enough could get past them. They'd find that out when they tried to get there, though.
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Narrowing his eyes, he stared sternly accross at the gates. Glancing down at L, he didn't reply, he just quietly muttered, "Let me try this," and moved forward - walking right up to that guard. "'Scuse me, sir. But Imma have to ask yer permission if'n ya--"
He gasped. The guard gave him a sharp punch to the eye. He just thanked the powers that be that he hadn't had this glasses on. But the punch was quite forceful; he even stumbled back and had to regain himself, lifting a gloved hand to rub at his eye. "I giss that's a no, huh," he replied bitterly, and coughed quietly, turning slowly back to L, making sure to step away from that damn guard...
"I s'pose we ain't gittin' outta here that easy."
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"Anyways, don't worry about it, kid. I'll live. But the thing is, now what're we gonna do? We could plan a way to git out, but I thinks we might need ta git a little bit more used t'the city b'fore we really start on it. But believe you me, I rilly am startin' to want outta this place..."
He sighed. "You got any money on ya? We might as well look fer a place to stay, or somethin' to eat."
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He sighed. "Ergh. Sounds like we're mighty screwed. Guess we kin jist find a place t'go 'n maybe they'll let us work fer somethin' to eat and a place t'stay... cuz I ain't got nothin' on me at all." Without giving L time to make an input, he began to walk, rubbing his blackening eye underneath the pink-shaded glasses on his face.
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