Act 2 Vol. 1 Ch. 1 Ep. 9: Good Evening, Mr. Orwell

...Anyone here?

"It looks deserted."

I don't see any customers, or even a bartender.

Maybe they're closed?

No, no. For this place is not a bar for customers.

A bar is a place to enjoy a drink, yes? And yet, beverages can be enjoyed nearly anywhere. Not simply at a bar.

The real intention behind this place is to revel in the social hierarchy, in a dark atmosphere with over-priced drinks that encourage a false sense of self-worth.

The logic of Signs that thrive within a consumer society.

So tell me? Do you wish this place to be a Tool? Or a Sign?

Perhaps you choose Sign. Then allow me, a mere customer whose entrance was mere moments before your own, to provide entertainment.

...It has been some time, has it not, dear Sensei?

But of course!

"Golconde...?"

"No, Francis...?"

Ah, yes. I must redefine myself to you. That is why you find the manner in which you must address me a point of confusion.

But of course!

Where can one begin in such an endeavor? Perhaps, if you are so willing, we may travel back to when we last met.

The Chroma's touch metamorphosed Golconde into Francis. And so it did transform his perception as well. He saw the world for what it was: a deconstructed genre.

In a contrived reality in which the composition of your lives no longer holds any meaning. Context, probability, all moot points.

He believed this teacher before him would sink deep into the abyss as an identity-less soul. As nothing at all.

But of course!

However, a story has never seen a protagonist quite like this one. Like you.

Perhaps even "protagonist" is an insult to what you become. The Sign, "Sensei"... You utilized it to its utmost capabilities, restoring the battered Text of this world into a story of academy life and youth.

And once the story shifted, so did Decalcomania's very way of thinking.

This world is more than a mere, singular genre. It holds a value much more inherent.

Of course, Francis himself was a mere momentary phenomenon.

For Decalcomania's voice itself was an essential component to the story! It was necessary to fill this hollow order, to create Authority!

But of course!

And thus, Decalcomania, enmeshed deep in the mires of inductive reasoning, absorbed propositions to its name.

Perhaps that concept is nonsense in itself. His name is homage to a great artist. Yet, it is now one developing the very argument which refutes his own existence.

Pardon. I've been reminded of an amusing story.

Some time ago, you had a meeting with a former colleague of ours, yes? From Gematria?

The Underground Dweller. The one who would spit on reality in favor of the codex, a rule book naught but he knew the machinations of. It was quite the simulation for us, one might say.

And yet, AND YET, the sublime again was but a Tool in your hands, Sensei. Yet another intervention of the meta, and another failed attempt to define that which we call our world.

The Underground Dweller's failure informed Decalcomania's reasoning. What power does illusion have, against the proper gravitas of reality?

And in this world, this reality, what is it that consumes Signs? Where the messages and writings of this world collide? Where both reality and illusion dance in tandem?

...Media. The answer to all is media.

The menagerie of media has spread the intricate threads of its webs throughout society's nervous system. A resting place for all that is, was, and will be, and a host that births Mystics. In this world, it is the power to define.

We need no longer search for correct labels to shakily impose upon society. I am the new consciousness, and I eagerly await the Signs you offer me.

"Are you Decalcomania?"

You speak of nonsense. Before a single existence, we are the Sign itself.

I am Decalcomania's episteme. All that he perceives and all that remains in his wake. I am the observer of reality for the existence it has become.

Desire! Art! Magnificence! A society of consumption inherently is one of desire. I, who may define, shall define myself again. Art can be art again, once twisted to one's purposes.

Good evening, Sensei.

Please call me Mr. Orwell.