Chapter Text
Tingen Station.
Klein was squatted in one of the train station’s bathrooms, getting his final things in order. The past day seemed like a haze, and all he could feel was the burning feeling of sadness. A small smile stays on his face regardless.
He gave a cursory glance over his old clothes one final time. The funeral suit was new and neat, making it empty of any memories. He appreciated the thought, but he wished it had gone to Benson instead. Klein wanted to mock it, but he couldn’t find the right words to express his grievance.
Instead, he neatly folded it up, getting ready to send it above the gray fog. However, he paused, realizing that not all of it was new. The vest was one he had worn occasionally. It was still new, but he had worn it a few times earlier to replace his older one. The buttons matched his older suit better than his old vest.
And, notably, there were still things in the pockets. Klein quickly took everything out, secretly hoping for something worthwhile. Yet, all he found was a cheap fountain pen and a crumpled brochure.
Disappointed, he begrudgingly shoved them into his own pockets. He then quickly sent the old suit above the gray fog. Klein then quickly pretended to finish in the restroom and then began to wash up at the sink.
When Klein looked up at the mirror, he couldn’t help but stare back at his reflection. He was clean of dirt now, every little hint of him even being near the graveyard washed away. Klein knew that there was nothing left to connect him to his own coffin.
However, he still felt granules of dirt beneath his clothes, and soil caught underneath his nails. He imagined himself back in the suit he just hid, his hands crossed and eyes closed. He shivered, as if a cold breeze came by. He used his Clown powers to remain impassive. He dispelled the illusion of his own creation, looking down at his hands. There was no dirt under his nails, and his skin was warm and flush. Nothing about him implied death.
When Klein looked back up at the mirror, his reflection stared back at him. He is terrified of it. He imagines raising a revolver to it and shooting a bullet directly into its heart. He realized that he missed; he shot the left side, and his reflection’s heart was on its right side. It is not Zhou Mingrui killing Klein Moretti, nor is it Klein Moretti killing Zhou Mingrui. Zhou Mingrui does not kill Zhou Mingrui and Klein Moretti does not kill Klein Moretti. His past self does not shoot his future self, and his future self does not kill his past self.
Klein blinks, forcing himself out of his stupor. The sink had been running the entire time. He shuts it off and quickly leaves the restroom, realizing he had spent a few too many minutes reminiscing. He turns and heads to his soon-to-depart train, quickly getting his ticket checked and sorted.
He finds his seat and quickly settles in. He knows that right now the only thing he needs to do is continue on. His introspection can be saved for later moments, when he has the genuine time (he also feels that this time will become very, very sparse).
He glances out the window, before quickly looking away. He forces himself to stare at his hands, instead. He used his Clown powers to remain impassive. The train had yet to depart, and the knowledge that the land outside was still Tingen, his home, felt a bit too much right now.
Soon, the bell whistles, and he feels the train lurch as it begins its journey. He still does not dare move his gaze. He instead lets his mind go blank, despite his nagging feeling of not being safe yet.
Klein is paranoid, scared that, somehow, someone will find him. This paranoia is almost comforting. The thought that no one would ever find him was much scarier. He was afraid of never seeing those he loved again, and that every connection he would have now would be superficial. His past self was already a mask, how many layers would he obtain? Being locked up as an undying monster, cursed and hexed, almost had merits over that. At least, then, those he loved knew he was alive. They had the choice to visit him, to fight for him, to care for him. He knew that it was not an option, though.
Klein’s only option was to go forward. (To run away.)
He finally glanced out the window, unfamiliar lands greeting him. He was no longer in Tingen, instead, the city of hope was on his horizon. He clung to that hope, knowing that it was uncertain. He sighed a breath of relief, intending to forget these worries. Klein absent-mindedly rubbed the side of the right armrest, trying to brew a plan of action.
However, whenever his stage of the plan tried to go past ‘reach Backlund,’ his mind always drifted away. His train would reach Backlund’s station, he would walk out the doors, and then he would leave the station. Anything else past that seemed ineffable. He restarted his plan, to reach Backlund, leave the station, and then drew another blank. After repeating the cycle a few times, he gave up on trying to plan anything.
He would have to force himself to properly plan later, but for now, he had an entire train ride to himself. He had a small breath to himself before he truly had to change for the future.
Klein stretched out his arms, forcing him to break his introspection. His hand brushed against his pocket, and he remembered his few memoirs of home. His face became animated for a brief second before he forced it back under his own control.
He slammed his hand into his pocket, desperately taking out the pen and brochure. He then realized that might be a little too emotional, so he used his Clown powers to control his actions as well.
Klein stared at the pen in hand, trying to decipher its origins. It was a cheap fountain pen, most likely bought when its original owner had forgotten their own. He never thought of himself as a kleptomaniac, but he also knew that he would never buy a pen like this willingly. It was a little ugly, the tin body slightly rusted and bent. The nib itself looked cheap and prone to snapping.
He remembered a benign interaction between him and Captain Dunn. Captain handed a document for him to look over and sign, and Klein hadn’t brought his pen with him. Surprisingly, Captain had one on him, and let him borrow it. After he signed the document, Captain Dunn walked away, then walked back for the document Klein signed, walked away, and then walked back for his coffee. The pen remained with Klein.
Klein fondly looked over the pen. He wanted to give it a light-hearted chuckle, but his paranoia reared its head. He used his Clown powers to remain impassive. He lampooned, “Captain must have rubbed off on me. I kept a shitty pen this long, just because I forgot about it?”
He set the pen down on the windowsill, keeping careful watch of it. He didn’t want to lose it, but knew it shouldn’t be a part of him anymore. He reasoned that if it somehow fell down and rolled away, he would simply let fate take it. His careful watch betrayed this. His own experiences with mysticism kept him wary, what if someone used it to divine about him? He still grasped onto straws, so desperate to have something to mourn with.
He then unfolded the brochure that came with it. It was for a play Melissa had suggested, but the time to see it came and went without any real plans being made. He remembered that Benson had a conflicting event, and neither of their salaries could reasonably afford tickets. They had summarized the entire event with a ‘maybe next year.’ Klein’s heart felt heavy remembering it. There would be no next year. At least, there would be none with him in it.
He briefly read the summary and was somehow surprised that the play was completely original. There was no “inspired by Roselle’s work” to be seen, and the plot didn’t resemble anything he had seen before.
For some reason, it seemed so strange to him. He knew that this world was not his own, and that it had its own culture and life. However, seeing it so clearly, especially after the recent disappointments that Roselle’s name had brought, made his dissonance clear. He realized that despite his aversion to the idea, he had still used the ‘fake world’ idea as a crutch.
“...Protagonists of the era, huh? I shouldn’t be so full of myself!” Klein mocked himself, turning to the next page. A slip of paper fell out.
Klein quickly caught it, surprised and wary. He was afraid of it being a coincidence, and his previous paranoia of being found surged again. He held it in his hands, before stealthily performing a divination of its danger. The pendulum swung counterclockwise at a fast pace.
He felt relieved and then unfolded the paper. On it, was a poem:
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
Klein blinked, internally chuckling. It was obvious who the culprit was. He wasn’t sure where the poem was from, but he only knew one person bold enough to do something like this. He lampooned, “Really, Leonard, you could be using this tactic to give girls your number! Instead, you gave your colleague a poem?”
Klein remembered half-heartedly mocking Leonard about his plagiarism, the discovery of Leonard’s complete lack of sophistry still recent:
“There is nothing wrong with memorization!” Leonard snapped, finally giving into Klein’s banter, “Eventually I’ll pick up on it. Every poem has something I can learn from.”
Klein raised his eyebrow, chuckling, “And then what, become the greatest poet alive? A second Roselle?”
“Yes!” Leonard exclaimed, not at all understanding Klein’s joke. He lacked the context for it, anyway. Leonard then brightened, a lightbulb going off in his head. He said, completely forgetting that Klein was an ex-university student, “How about this? I expect an in-depth analysis by tomorrow. We’ll compare notes and then... And then see who writes the better poem after!”
Leonard grabbed a spare leaf of paper and quickly wrote down a poem. He then handed it to Klein, who received it with a smirk.
“Of course, dear professor. Surely, in this situation, the teacher knows more than the student. Professor, how many quatrains are in a sonnet? I’ve forgotten the rhyming scheme, could you remind me?” Klein lampooned. Leonard’s face fell, clearly not remembering what a sonnet was. It was also possible that English sonnets didn’t exist in this world, but Klein had faith in Roselle’s ability to plagiarize.
Klein reread the poem, a fond feeling settling in his heart. He collected his belongings in his hands, giving them a final glance over. The pen, the brochure, and the paper all rested in his hands. He knew he should destroy them, these scrapbook memories.
However, when actually faced with them, he couldn’t dare do such a thing. The paranoia deep in him couldn’t overpower his humanity. He reasoned that they were trash to anyone else and that he had a way to hide them forever.
He sent them above the gray fog, hiding them deep.