Post by Yaksha Dokuja on May 17, 2019 23:32:39 GMT -5
The people of the Rukongai had, in their own perverse way, a sense of pride and propriety. Even in some of the worst slums, people found a way to look down on others, and to cling to whatever tiny things they could find to give themselves a sense of status. In a world of blind, they would still be seeking to brag about their sharpened hearing. And so it was that the citizens of Inuzuri, widely agreed by the Soul Society to be one of the worst examples of a slum they had, had taken great steps to paint and trim their territories with a fanatical vigor, ensuring at all times that they had separated their own tiny fraction of the world from the rest of it. Even when people were stuck ten to a home, and even when food wasn't a concern, they still took the time to polish what little they had until it was gleaming, even when that little was a purloined wooden spoon, or a sake jug left carelessly strewn about.
It was really quite fascinating, in a macabre way. Today, in particular, the citizens were beginning to argue over a smoking pipe that had been discarded by a shinigami in their last passing visit. Two families, one headed by a man who looked as if he could've built a house of his own in the middle of a forest, the other headed by a woman who resembled the kindly old grandmother taken straight out of Hollywood's classics, were squaring off, even now careful not to tread foot on anyone else's yards. The fact that said yards could be measured with a piece of hair was irrelevant to the topic; there were some things that were simply Not Done, and one such thing was to drag others into your conflicts. Whether they sided with you was always a toss-up, and even if they did it was an implicit understanding between everyone living in the district. Even in the absence of coin, even when there was nothing to barter but yourself, there was no such thing as a handout. Asking someone else to perform an act of charity was tantamount to admitting your life as a human being had ended; that you no longer carried within you so much as a shred of value.
It was shaping up to be a great and mighty scuffle, perhaps even one bad enough to need the intervention of a certain shinigami. Perhaps there exist worlds where people end up in the same place, with no real idea how they got there, or what they are meant to be doing there. Perhaps every case of forgetfulness is simply a person being in the exact right place, and the right time, and simply the wrong up or down. The world spins on could-bes, after all. Imagination is a powerful tool, which is a lesson the Rukongai citizens learned very quickly. Chiefly, they learned that it was one of the best, and most effective ways to get yourself killed. Perhaps elsewhere, it was fun or amusing to think to yourself what something could be.
In Inuzuri, thinking about what an enormous purple-and-black gash appearing in the sky could be was about as evolutionarily advantageous as asking yourself what could be causing you to urinate blood. The possibilities, however droll, were simply not worth any serious consideration. Fossil fuels were not really a concern in the afterlife, particularly when the Fossils themselves were still walking around, knocking on your door from time to time. The idea of a sun going supernova held no real dread when you were aware that other concerns, ones you would -absolutely- have time to think about and do something about, were always lurking nearby. With wide eyes and pale faces, both families went scrambling towards their respective homes, gibbering to one another. No child was left behind, no sign of their presence, by the time that a single white shape extricated itself from the opening, falling to the ground like a teardrop. The sky was already mending itself, as Yaksha Dokuja stretched his arms and legs, and then began to look around, somewhat helplessly, before scratching at his cheek.
"...Do they really not even have directories? I know a globe is asking a bit much, and a census is just silly. But couldn't they put up some road signs, at least? Or roads even?"
It was really quite fascinating, in a macabre way. Today, in particular, the citizens were beginning to argue over a smoking pipe that had been discarded by a shinigami in their last passing visit. Two families, one headed by a man who looked as if he could've built a house of his own in the middle of a forest, the other headed by a woman who resembled the kindly old grandmother taken straight out of Hollywood's classics, were squaring off, even now careful not to tread foot on anyone else's yards. The fact that said yards could be measured with a piece of hair was irrelevant to the topic; there were some things that were simply Not Done, and one such thing was to drag others into your conflicts. Whether they sided with you was always a toss-up, and even if they did it was an implicit understanding between everyone living in the district. Even in the absence of coin, even when there was nothing to barter but yourself, there was no such thing as a handout. Asking someone else to perform an act of charity was tantamount to admitting your life as a human being had ended; that you no longer carried within you so much as a shred of value.
It was shaping up to be a great and mighty scuffle, perhaps even one bad enough to need the intervention of a certain shinigami. Perhaps there exist worlds where people end up in the same place, with no real idea how they got there, or what they are meant to be doing there. Perhaps every case of forgetfulness is simply a person being in the exact right place, and the right time, and simply the wrong up or down. The world spins on could-bes, after all. Imagination is a powerful tool, which is a lesson the Rukongai citizens learned very quickly. Chiefly, they learned that it was one of the best, and most effective ways to get yourself killed. Perhaps elsewhere, it was fun or amusing to think to yourself what something could be.
In Inuzuri, thinking about what an enormous purple-and-black gash appearing in the sky could be was about as evolutionarily advantageous as asking yourself what could be causing you to urinate blood. The possibilities, however droll, were simply not worth any serious consideration. Fossil fuels were not really a concern in the afterlife, particularly when the Fossils themselves were still walking around, knocking on your door from time to time. The idea of a sun going supernova held no real dread when you were aware that other concerns, ones you would -absolutely- have time to think about and do something about, were always lurking nearby. With wide eyes and pale faces, both families went scrambling towards their respective homes, gibbering to one another. No child was left behind, no sign of their presence, by the time that a single white shape extricated itself from the opening, falling to the ground like a teardrop. The sky was already mending itself, as Yaksha Dokuja stretched his arms and legs, and then began to look around, somewhat helplessly, before scratching at his cheek.
"...Do they really not even have directories? I know a globe is asking a bit much, and a census is just silly. But couldn't they put up some road signs, at least? Or roads even?"