Exploration, floor 3 c2
The Alterationist's scissors. Though its edges have dulled, it seems just about ready to snip into anything.
A decor stripped of its leather.
The couch is silent.
Dead birds and tapes lay about on the ground.
A fallen pillar, though it does not appear to be time's doing. Someone purposefully pushed it to the ground.
Most of the leather has been torn away. Some have what appear to be teeth marks on them.
The clothes inside the display stand are still well-preserved.
It's full of eyeb - things that were once eyeballs. It smells rancid - we can't use these.
A fallen pillar. It's only waist-high... Should be pretty easy to jump over.
<Meursault, can't we just leap over this thing?>
... I will make an attempt.
Meursault backed off a few feet from the pillar, stretched his arms and legs, then attempted a running jump...
... but immediately fell flat to the ground, as though something had tripped him mid-flight.
<... Sorry.>
Meursault dusted himself and got back to his feet, apparently unhurt.
A fallen waist-high pillar. Not even Meursault could jump over it.
Beneath the fallen podium is an Authenticity Certificate of Le Noir.
[Dear 3F Floor Manager.]
[In troubling times as these, where our Voice has fallen silent for reasons we are not at liberty to divulge, we of Le Noir desperately require your broadcast.]
[We implore you to visit Le Noir before even the very idea of trends becomes obsolete.]
... Well, the podium is vacant. Maybe Le Noir has successfully recruited it?
Or the Rouges have. There's no evidence suggesting it's sided with either. Don't overlook the possibility that it was punished for refusing to choose a side.
But I believe it would have had to decide where its allegiance lay. There's no such thing as true neutrality to the end.
An Authenticity Certificate of Le Noir. There's another next to it, then another. They must've sent several.
Someone destroyed this ventilation fan in an act of deliberate vandalism. The thick layer of dust inside it has been cleared away.
The ventilation fan is turning. The air around us feels slightly less stagnant.
The pipes that once relayed sounds lay tangled like threads.
An old die. No one seems to have played with it for many, many seasons.
A pile of vestiges and remnants from all sorts of things. Mostly clothes of Le Kaki, who simply floated by like buoys to the trends of fashion.
There is a pile of tapes in front of the broken pipe. After searching through it for a while, the same Voice that once spoke in Le Noir stores plays for a bit, stretching and dragging... until it falls silent.
There is an almost imperceptible vibration coming from the pipe. Upon leaning close to the opening, the vibration clears and turns into a voice.
[Dooo... As order... commandsssss...]
[Rememberrrrrr.... the paaaaaaaain...]
An ancient voice remains stuck in a cycle, pinned to the spot, and unable to leave.
It looks whole at first glance, but a closer inspection reveals that any parts that have been patched over with the Golden Resin have been pulled apart.
Shards of bone and globs of flesh can be seen between the cracks.
Clothing blanketed in a thick layer of dust, not a single thread of gold to be seen.
Mannequins that belong to Le Noir. Is it a Mannequin of the Grand Magasin, or is it a mannequin of the outside world? It doesn't matter anymore.
When both the golden hue and the rouge crimson have tarnished, what remains is a low-quality patch of leather.
The spools of thread are still well-cared for.
A dulled pair of scissors. The desire to snip-snip has all but disappeared.