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Mahito found that art was a way for humans to speak without talking. Things too difficult to say to each other, they’d paint, sing, write, etc. It was the closest thing they had to peering into each other's souls.
Film was the easiest to digest as it offered a visual play-by-play of every moment. While Mahito lacked the ability to see souls through a camera lens, he could learn to connect the dots via body language. However, movies often lacked the depth that had made reading his favorite hobby. There was more room left to fill in the blanks, no sensory input to rely on for guidance. The written word was an exercise in nuance, and the challenge of it taught him much more effectively in the long run.
All forms of art had a place in his studies of the soul, as humans expressed themselves in many different ways. Even so, music was a subject that hadn't stood out much to him. He liked how the structure of a song could follow a pattern similar to a storyline, filled with rising action and climaxes, it was essentially just melodic poetry. But songs were often catering to the very short human attention span. Mahito felt looking into the medium was comparably unsatisfying, wanting more than rushed noise in the shape of a story. Yes, songs could easily get stuck in his head, and it's fun for a moment. . . but that aspect doesn't provide him with anything new.
If he thought about it too much, he only found it funny, the way people were so afraid of thinking in silence. Their thoughts and feelings have to be simplified, like how one spoon feeds a baby, both in how they share and how they ingest. And yet at the same time, music was somehow one of the more vague mediums he had come across. Still, he could never deny the power it held over other people.
He wanted to understand, born with a hunger for knowledge that never felt satiated, but for some aspects of humanity, there was an abstraction that seemed it could lie forever beyond him.
Mahito stood at the base of a concrete stairwell. Colorful symbols overlapping each other popped out against the dirty crumbling walls on either side of him, leading down to a thin metal door. He had heard of ‘underground raves’, but. . . had he been naive to expect that they weren’t literally underground?
The interesting looking woman he had been following around, clad in a gas mask seemingly made from beads, had disappeared behind the door a few moments ago. Apparently, this was her destination of choice. He heard bass thrumming distantly, shifting rays of of light occasionally shining out from underneath the slat.
This could be a fun adventure, but he didn't want to get his hopes up. It was probably nothing special. Just another place where humans would gather to drink and smoke and dance and forget, desperately seeking an illusion of freedom. He would’ve liked to pretend he was above such tactics, but the yellow smiley face spray painted on the door felt like it was egging him on at this point.
The second he entered, he was barraged with bright lights and music so loud he could hardly make out what instrument was being played. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he was met with a layer of fog that made it much harder to get around. People were bumping into each other as they danced gracelessly, packed tightly into the crowded space, yet no one seemed to mind.
So. . . this was their idea of ‘fun’, huh? Overloading their senses until they could no longer think or feel. It didn’t seem very appealing at first glance, but it was an interesting concept. Most humans would love a chance at enlightenment, but in the rare few Mahito had come across who had actually found it, that peace would have to supersede chaos and pain. Something like a nerve overworked into going numb, one could hypothetically dull the senses by pushing them until they snapped.
That yellow smiley face catches Mahito’s eye again, except- no, this time it’s in the form of a small piece of paper. It rests on the thumb of a man just a few feet to his left, and he watches as he partygoer slides it under his tongue before pocketing a small bag containing similar tabs. Ah. Well, Mahito knows what that is. Sort of.
Curiously, he circles the man, careless of bumping into people in the crowd as they surely wouldn’t think anything of it in this environment. He’s gotten quite good at pickpocketing, seeing as self transfiguration gives him even more precision and control to-- or the man could just start jumping to the beat and immediately lose all the contents of his pockets across the floor.
The people here seem. . . well, to put it kindly, which is an adjective Mahito is not typically known for, brain-fried. He nearly has second thoughts as he scoops up the plastic bag containing three more of the little tabs, a small black UFO printed across each one. Do the different designs. . . mean anything?
Perhaps he should do more research before taking on this kind of experiment. But at the same time, he’s already here, and the spirit of this endeavor was trying something new. He had wandered into this establishment without any expectations in mind, but now he had a hope of understanding this aspect of humanity. The reasons why people choose to 'relax' in such a harsh environment, the contradictory nature of overstimulation and peace-of-mind. He was never one to back down from pushing himself to the limit, after all, it's made him stronger in ways he never dreamed.
Admittedly, he’s also heard that LSD can make music ‘sound better’, whatever that means, and he’d like to see if that’s true. Either way, it’d be disappointing to leave now. If these people seem fine, what's the worst that could happen to him?
Mahito is a bit surprised to find the tab tastes like nothing. He had expected some sort of chemical tang, but all he tastes is paper, which isn’t the most appealing flavor profile, but he’s not complaining about it.
As he tries to tune in to the sounds around him, he wonders if it will even work. His body chemistry is closer to that of a human being than most other curses, especially his circulatory system, but that doesn’t guarantee anything. . . Maybe he should take more than one? How long does it stay in his mouth? Is he supposed to swallow it or spit it out?
An abrupt bass drop shakes the entire warehouse, rattling around in Mahito’s skull. The people whoop and holler, and it takes some self convincing to keep his mood light rather than annoyed. There’s not even a singer on stage, it’s not a live performance where one could show their respect to an artist for their hard work. It’s pre recorded, pouring from some oversized speakers and being overlaid with constant chatter from mindless primitives. One can hardly even hear themselves think in a place like this.
. . . . . . . . . . . . One can hardly hear themselves think.
The song changes, almost a carbon copy of the last song, to his ears, at least. Right. That was the point. Stop thinking.
He spots the woman from earlier, beaded mask still hung around her face. A smile creeps onto his features, wondering how she can breathe through such a contraption. How long did it take her to make that? He can’t help but giggle about it, how ridiculous she looks, how ridiculous they all look. He laughs until tears form in his eyes.
He could understand harmless fun. After all, even curses like to play games. But that's all it is. It's just a game. To humans, these fun little things mean more. It's as though they need to be kept busy 24/7, like the weight of reality is too heavy for them. Humans have everything at their fingertips, endless choices if they just apply themselves and make the right decisions, but most of them are too scared and end up wasting their lives away in some metaphorical hole exactly like this one.
A strange feeling is starting to settle into his bones as he wanders, snickering when looks between their faces, between gaudy and revealing outfits, between sweaty boys trying to impress their girlfriends. He finds a good vantage point at the corner of the room to study them. They’re all so stupid.
Despite their happy-go-lucky attitudes, they’d hate curses if they knew such things existed. If they knew what Mahito was, that he was here with them, they wouldn’t be able to dance and sing so calmly, bouncing and smiling amongst their friends. They have no idea the danger that surrounds them. And the funniest part is, they created it!
The thought makes Mahito laugh all over again. A warm feeling is tickling him from the inside, as though his nerves are suddenly lined in velvet. It spreads out from his spine to his fingertips, radiating as he laughs with his whole body. His teeth buzz. They’re so stupid. They’re all so stuuupid.
Mahito continues surveying the crowd, taking great joy in his internal mockery. Eventually, the mood begins to shift. His thoughts start to make more sense than they ever have before. It’s their fault. Humans. All of it, a cycle they’ve stuck themselves in, spewing fuel on their own fires. It must be easy for a person to hate another, but when it’s aimed back at them, they fold so fast. Such a childish display of ignorance. It’s all a game of poisoning each other until they can’t escape their own rot.
In a way, curses are a form of judgment. Mahito is karma, the embodiment of it. How could he be anything else? He is the spawn of their hate and fear, he can only give that much back. He doesn’t mind the blame. He’ll take their hate back any day, he revels in it now, knowing his place in their scale of suffering. But it’s such a dark joke. . . For them to create their own worst enemy. To hate so much that the universe decides to birth something to hate them back, an unwanted child rejected from inception that is destined to further the pain from which it was conceived.
A thin layer of sweat starts to stick his clothes to him. He’s forced to stop laughing, it’s making him feel sick. His train of thought feels like a thread on a ball of yarn, rapidly unraveling.
Humans. . . Curses. . . They’re an infinitely collapsing ouroboros, no one can escape without the other, a feigned idea of balance without unity that leaves Mahito with a special birds eye view that no one else can see. Decisions falling through their fingers like an infinite web, but it’s all a predetermined path that always leads to peace through suffering or suffering for peace. Born from human loins or not, curses do not act on the wishes of spoiled children, they are PUNISHMENT. Mahito is God’s wrath. Or maybe he’s God. And like god, imperceptible, the humans are left surrounded by consequences they can’t learn from, doomed to repeat their mistakes, no choice but to kill or be killed, those are the rules of life! Existence has destined them to be stuck in a never ending fractal pattern of self destructive--
This sounds really nice.
Mahito isn't sure how long he's been standing there. This new song feels different from the previous ones, and he can’t tell if it’s because it’s genuinely better, or just an effect of the drugs. It’s like every instrument can stand out on its own now, instead of a cacophony of noise echoing in a trashcan. The edges are crisp, HD lines pouring into his ears and he can only describe it as euphoric.
Melodies aren’t that hard to predict once you start to see the patterns, but the build-up hits differently now. It rises in his chest, as though it could physically lift him up in the air. Floating. His eyes fall shut. He’s only been to the amusement park once with Geto and the others, but the sensation is reminiscent of a roller coaster approaching a steep drop. Every electronic buzz from the speakers ionizes the air around him, zapping into the floor as the beat quickens. His heart is in his throat.
Bass shakes the earth again. Something explodes deep inside, rippling through him. It’s catastrophic and invigorating. His soul feels like it’s melting and reforming over and over again. Where it’s usually a surface of water barely rippling, there’s now a ball of plasma inside flickering wildly.
The lights above them time up to the music, enhancing the sensations at every angle. He laughs again, a delirious and breathy exhale. His opinion of the medium may have been forever changed, he won't really know until he's sober again, but in the moment, he feels he's had an epiphany.
He’s been using art to explain emotions, but music actually seems to express an emotion better when you forsake analysis and give up on understanding it. You have to feel one with it, and whatever that drug was made of, he now feels he could practically fuse into one of the speakers.
In fact, as he stares at the speakers, they begin to change. The black mesh lines try to dance, just a slow waltz at first, until they swirl and merge into each other. The harder he tries to focus his gaze, the more it moves.
He reaches out to touch it. It’s a pleasant texture to run his fingers along, tickling him as it vibrates with the notes. He catches sight of his hand then, the patterns in his skin are melding in a similar fashion. The seam of flesh at his wrist seems to wiggle, while the staples holding him together glint like diamonds. He turns his arm over to see fingerprints becoming low tidal waves gently crashing into each other. It calls to mind imagery of Dagon’s domain. The warmth of the sun, the water on the horizon. . . All the people here then, this is their version of that domain?
Mahito dances. It’s a performance that leaves much to be desired. It’s clunky and awkward, the movements are exactly what one could expect from someone who’s never tried this before. He’d have some shame about it if he wasn’t invisible, and if he wasn’t busy experiencing some technical difficulties with reality at the moment.
It’s like swimming on land, but the feeling flows right through him instead of around. Lights continue to burst above as the music swells again. All the people around him in those stupid gaudy outfits look almost beautiful now, a sea of vivid colors tessellating and breathing in a large hive.
Another rise, this time he’s prepared for it and lets it overtake him again.
The thick thrum of bass shatters like glass. The perspective of his vision begins to tilt, as though the room is much smaller than it was before. The people are closer. So close. . . In this room, at least, there’s some peace. Funny enough, if all humans could connect to each other like this, he would’ve never been born.
The song changes again. This one is. . . . . heavier. It’s faster right out of the gate, and the sound of it is somehow dirtier . Grungy as it is, the energy of it thrills him.
The boy with the hallucinogens is now dancing with the girl in the mask. Mahito laughs. He wonders how the man will react when he notices the bag is missing, if he’ll get angry and lash out, and perhaps the girl will lose interest in him after such a display. He wonders how the bottom half of the girl's face looks, maybe there’s a reason she wore it tonight after all. He chuckles again.
These are two complete strangers, and though Mahito probably knows more about both of them than they know about each other, there they are. Free to connect with each other for a moment on a complete whim under an empty warehouse.
The song starts to build. The sound is so thick, it’s suffocating in a delightful way that makes his head float.
Mahito gets closer, watching inquisitively as the two of them begin to exchange bracelets in some sort of ritual. How interesting. . . The behavior seems well rehearsed, yet they still appear to be total strangers to each other. Mahito quickly chalks it up to just another one of those human rules from the only guidebook he can’t seem to read.
It's funny, being in this crowd, he almost forgot that they can't see him. It's like a two way mirror, the way that he can study humans and their culture, but never truly be a part of it. Something new always shows up to remind him of what he is. And what he isn’t.
The bass hits. Quick flashes of color strobe across the room as the crowd decides to ‘whooooo’ for it again. Mahito giggles. Under this lighting, the boy and girl look like a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes all blending into each other to form one being. It feels like something is being rattled loose inside of him. Ultimately, he’s dancing by himself, but he's enjoying it.
Mahito’s laughter takes even himself off guard, bursting out in hysterical cries. He loses it, it's surely the loudest he’s ever laughed at anything. He can hardly hear over it as a few nearby whoops turn into shrieks, some partygoers watching as the girl in the mask explodes into viscera beneath Mahito's palm.
His mind, with a newfound appreciation for composition, tries to imagine the foley. Without the music, without the laughter and screams ringing in his ears, one could probably hear a gorey splattering sound, overlaying plastic clink-clink-clinking as the loose beads disperse at his feet. Mahito is struggling to get the transfiguration right in his current state of his mind.
Who cares, he thinks. It’s not about building skill right now. It’s about having fun!
The boy comes next, an easy target still frozen in shock with the girls blood painting him head to toe. A wash of crimson swirls and drips off his skin gorgeously, like the wavering reflection of an ocean sunset. Wow. Maybe for his next adventure, Mahito should try painting?
With a tap on the shoulder, the boy warps down into something truly strange, even for Mahito’s usual creations. It hardly has any features left at all. Can it breathe? He throws his head back and laughs again, loud, long, maniacal cackles until the mist in his eyes comes back. Oh well! It probably wouldn’t have lived long anyways!
The panicked shouting around him grows louder, flowing outward through the crowd. It should annoy him, but in his ears it harmonizes perfectly with the music still blasting from the speakers. Observing the transition from peaceful dancing to running and shoving creates new ever-shifting patterns in his vision that are even more captivating than before.
He bites his lip, dilated eyes like saucers as he titters over the new expressions they all wear, how quickly they’ve all changed! The way these happy people now push each other out of the way, pile up at the door and trample one another! Their paradise was an illusion after all, so easily taken down by fear, like blowing on a house of cards!!!
They’re not scared of him, though. They can’t even see him. They’re scared of what he can do to them. What they can do to themselves.
He cracks up again, it feels like his soul is trying to resonate out of his body as the sound howls from his mouth. His arms shoot out violently, stretching and bouncing off the walls in all possible directions for as long as they can go as he transfigures every person in the room within seconds. The force of it is explosive, many of the people rendered into geysers of blood and flesh that spray over Mahito like an ocean breeze. Drugs or not, the breathtaking sight of guts reflecting chromatic rays of light as they fly through the air is an experience of pure awe that seems to last forever.
The few humans that survive transfiguration are once again, not his best work. Some attempt to crawl forward, but their bodies quickly succumb to what they’ve been put through. Smeared lines of dark red that lead up to their corpse are now the only evidence left behind of how far they made it.
Mahito's throat and stomach are sore. The sound from his chest starts to quiet, slowly dying out into a contented sigh. He stands there, panting, playing with the blood that drips down his body to puddles on the floor. The music doesn't stop playing.
He dances.
Mahito had stayed in the club for another 4 hours. It wasn’t unusual for him to be gone for long swaths of time, Kenjaku had in fact encouraged this independant behavior. But when word came of a few sorcerers spotted roaming in the area, he sent the others to ensure he doesn’t run into any trouble.
Of course, any time Mahito wasn't running into trouble, he was the one causing it.
He was brought back slumped over Hanami's shoulder and laid out in a disheveled heap, caked nearly head to toe in blood, pupils as full as the moon. Kenjaku couldn't help but laugh at his current state. Apparently Jogo and Hanami had found him lying on the ground, making bloody snow angels while a few Jujutsu High students had only just arrived, stunned and confused.
The battle was a short one. Not that the curses wanted to run, they were almost always up for a good fight. Except, something was very. . . off about Mahito, and he was behaving in an erratic way that was eloquently compared to a ‘rabid squirrel’ by Jogo. He had charged at the students with even more speed and vigor than usual, cackling like a witch and gnashing blood stained teeth like he was trying to bite them. It wasn't very long before they ended up making a break for it, and from the testimonials, Kenjaku can’t blame them.
“It would seem you had a very big day.”
Mahito can only give a delirious chuckle in response, gently rolling onto his side.
"I don't mind a little fun. But don't you think it was a bit reckless to take out a whole club at once?" He asks, watching Mahito play with a small empty bottle of some kind. "Things could have gotten more complicated if the students had decided to pursue you."
Mahito sits up, tossing the dark bottle into the air to catch it.
"Nahhhh. Don’t worry about the sorcerers.” Mahito giggles in a tone that gives him away.
“. . . Mm. What did you do?” Kenjaku asks with far too much smug amusement.
“That guy with the smiley face paper. . . I found this little bottle he dropped. . . I think it's what he soaked them in to get high.”
“Very observant.” Kenjaku commends. “So. . .?”
Mahito yawns, lying out flat on his back, clearly exhausted from his ordeal.
“Fog machine.” He mumbles.
"What's that?"
"Put it 'n the fog machine." He slurs out.
. . . It doesn’t take long for Kenjaku to piece together the information. Admittedly, the idea that all the sorcerers in the room had been subjected to a healthy hotboxing of aerosolized LSD from the moment they entered is quite hilarious, alongside its convenience. It's likely they won't be able to 'pursue' anything for at least a day or two.
However, Mahito was also in the room for quite some time. None of them can truly know how this will affect him or how long it might stay in his system, someone should really be put in charge of monitoring him for the time being. . .
". . . Jogo?" Kenjaku calls out.