Central Hall.
This was supposed to be the final stage of Jealousy, but at the moment it looked more like a ransacked secondhand furniture market.
The floor was a deep purplish-black, soft and yielding underfoot. Twisted stone pillars stood all around, with bloody entrails still dripping from them.
“A bit to the left… that’s right, even if you’re just a Hand Monster, you still need some professional decorum.”
Bastian was squatting amidst a pile of rubble, holding the Pharaoh’s Staff in his hand, fiddling with something.
It was a monster consisting only of an arm, with a bloodshot eye growing in the center of its palm.
That eye brimmed with utter despair. The five fingers clawed desperately at the floor, trying to escape this lunatic, but every time it crawled half a meter away, it was mercilessly dragged back.
“Lighting! Mind the lighting!”
Bastian shouted in frustration. He pulled a massive Brass Megaphone from his coat, its tail connected to a thin copper tube that extended into the void, destination unknown.
“Hello, hello? Sound check. This is Bastian Saint Croix, bringing you an exclusive ‘Hellfront’ report.”
He cleared his throat, his paint-smeared face radiating manic excitement.
“Family! Can you hear me? Montmartre brothers and sisters! Tell me you’re still awake!”
The Brass Megaphone crackled with static, then burst into a cacophony of voices, like a marketplace.
“We can hear you! This is so cool!”
“Is this for real? The vibe’s amazing!”
“Bastian! I want in too!”
“Settle down, settle down.” Bastian made a calming gesture at the Megaphone.
He grabbed the struggling Hand Monster, forced its palm into an “orchid fingers” pose, then set it on a stone that looked suspiciously like a skull.
“This is the masterpiece I found in Exhibition Area 16! The title is… The Imprisoned Caress!”
The Hand Monster’s lone eye spun wildly; if it had a mouth, it would be screaming for help.
“Don’t move! Hold that emotion!” Bastian snapped, slapping the Hand Monster’s “back of the hand.”
“Your gaze is all over the place! Focus! Convey the yearning to grope God’s backside!”
Hand Monster: “……”
BOOM——!!!
Just as Bastian tried to tilt the monster’s face to a forty-five-degree angle, the door painted with twisted musical staves was slammed hard from outside.
The door flew off its hinges, spun three and a half times in the air, then crashed against the wall with a loud smack.
Dust billowed.
A black figure emerged from the haze.
Vivian still wore that tattered maid’s dress, except the hem was now much shorter, exposing pale, delicate calves, and her hair was a bird’s nest of tangled mess.
“What a stupid door… it doesn’t even have a handle…”
Vivian grumbled, swinging the half-broken Lockbolt in her hand. She had just wrenched it off by brute force.
Looking up, she saw Bastian in the midst of his “performance art.”
And the Hand Monster pinned to the stone, being manhandled.
From Vivian’s angle, a grotesque creature perched on the stone, its enormous eye glaring hungrily at Bastian’s throat, as if about to pounce and tear him apart.
“Watch out!”
Vivian hurled the Lockbolt like a javelin, then charged forward herself.
“Whoosh——”
The Lockbolt whizzed past Bastian’s ear.
“Hm?” Bastian turned his head.
And saw a foot rapidly magnifying in his field of vision.
“Take this!!!”
Vivian, riding her sprint’s momentum, delivered a flying kick straight at the Hand Monster.
“Splurt!”
The pitiful Hand Monster, like a golf ball struck by a club, traced a perfect arc through the air.
It flew far, finally smacking against a Mirror with a loud splat, then slowly slid down, leaving a long bloody streak.
Vivian landed, struck a Wind Wave Minato Pose, and let out a long breath.
“Muso gadaga?” (Am I late?)
She turned to look at the stunned Bastian, dusting off her hands.
Bastian’s jaw hung open, as if the whole world had frozen.
After about three seconds.
“AAAAAAHHHHHH——!!!”
Bastian screamed louder than a slaughtered pig.
He scrambled toward the Mirror, cradling what was left of the Hand Monster—now just a smear of flesh.
“My composition! My golden ratio! My The Imprisoned Caress!!!”
He whirled around, eyes red as a rabbit’s, and pointed furiously at Vivian.
“Do you have any idea how hard it was to find that angle? That was its most emotionally charged moment! And you… you kicked it into a Pollock Drip Painting!”
Vivian froze, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“What? I was saving you!”
“It was my model!” Bastian beat his chest in frustration. “Every finger of it told the agony of existence! And now it’s just agony, nothing else!”
“I…” Vivian was a little lost for words.
At that moment.
Bang.
The scorched black wooden door on the right was pushed open.
A strong burnt smell flooded in.
Cicero stepped out.
His look wasn’t much better than theirs. The lower half of his flamboyant long coat was burned away, like a tailcoat gnawed by dogs.
But he still held an unfinished cigarette in his mouth, as calm as if he’d just had afternoon tea.
“Cough, cough…”
He waved away the smoke before his face, glanced around at the scene.
On one side was the frenzied Bastian; on the other, Vivian, rolling up her sleeves for a fight.
“Seems everyone’s lively.” Cicero flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out.
“Boss!” Vivian, as if spotting her savior, pointed at Bastian. “He’s gone mad!”
“That’s art! Art!” Bastian continued roaring at the Brass Megaphone. “Family, you tell me! This is sacrilege against beauty!”
The Megaphone erupted with cheers: “Nice kick!” “Do it again!” “That’s the violence of deconstructionism, Bastian, you just don’t get it!”
Cicero sighed and rubbed his temples.
“Art?”
Cicero strode over to the still-raving Bastian, looked down at the Brass Megaphone.
“What’s this? I could hear you howling from a mile away.”
“This is a channel to the soul! It’s—” Bastian began a grand speech.
Without another word, Cicero snatched the giant Brass Megaphone.
Then, in one smooth motion,
He clamped the wide end of the Megaphone directly over Bastian’s head.
Clang!
A dull thud.
Half of Bastian’s head was encased in the Megaphone, making him look like a big dog in an Elizabeth Collar.
“Mm mm mm! Mm mm mm mm mm!” (Let me go! That’s my microphone!)
“There. Peace and quiet.” Cicero clapped his hands, turning to Vivian.
Vivian tilted her chin in triumph. “I just went singing—too bad you didn’t get to hear it~”
“Singing?” Cicero raised an eyebrow. “That’s a rare treat.”
“What about you? You look like you just came back from the Funeral Home.”
“Close enough.” Cicero adjusted what remained of his coat. “Had a bonfire party—the crowd was a bit too enthusiastic.”
“Pop.”
Bastian finally pulled free, hair now a hopeless mess, a red ring printed across his face.
But he wasn’t angry.
On the contrary, he started signing enthusiastically at the two of them.
Left hand gave a thumbs up, right hand formed a frame, waving at them, silently mouthing:
“Per—fect—”
Vivian: “……”
Cicero: “……”
“I really want to give him a Lobotomy,” Vivian muttered under her breath.
“What sort of surgery is that? Did you make it up?” Cicero fished out his Pocket Watch, whose hands were spinning madly beneath the cover.
Cicero looked up, gazing at the Curtained Platform at the end of the hall.
There, a Golden Door was slowly opening.
Bastian, meanwhile, was still fussing with the Brass Megaphone, trying to photograph the red imprint on his face as clearly as possible.
“Family! The main event’s coming! Send your gifts now!”
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