Chapter Text
Isn’t it quite interesting that a ‘hero’ rarely exists in theatre? A figure chosen by the narrative, bigger than life. And for the few that do, do they not fall?
Is it because by nature, plays are smaller than the audience? Because one’s eyes cannot see a reflection of life and self in a too vast mirror?
Or is it because heroes do not really exist in our minds? A reflection cannot show something that isn’t there after all.For our imagination is too limited for it to be believable-
The sun was still high up, but Opera O, even at age six, could tell by the air that night would set soon.
The trees stood tall, not in a scary way, but also not in the way he knew. Like if the table in his bedroom was moved to the left, but with the whole forest.
He was lost, he had to finally admit. It was a really stupid reality that Opera wanted to avoid, but somehow he had gotten lost in the exact same forest he visited every day. He crossed his arms together in a scrunch with a scowl (a pout to anybody else, but that’s something the foal child didn’t have to know), as if that could force history to be fixed. This had to stay a secret, until the end of the universe. Maybe even more.
He was so caught up in sulking that he almost missed the sound of soft whistling. Ears swiveling, Opera fell silent. Through the bulk of leaves rustling, there were only hints of other stuff. Low pigeon croaks, trills and chirps of crickets and other grass bugs. And also….
One of his ears twitched, the one on the left. A quiet vibration, just barely hearable in this distance, but definitely rising up from the ground. That was all it took to convince him. But first. Opera grabbed a nearby stick. If he left behind a trail like Hansel and Gretel, there was no way he would get lost again, right? Besides, the world was round. If he kept walking in a straight line, he'd get out, eventually.
-but that's a silly claim. Monomyths exist everywhere, in every legend. In nearly every story that we have created, A Hero’s Journey is present; the call of adventure, the crossing of threshold, the trials and ordeal, then the road back with the hero transformed.
Then why does Jose shoot his beloved? No recompense for sweet Cio-Cio san? Could Don Giovanni’s story even be called a ‘journey’?
It was after around a one and a half cycle of humming all the songs he knew when Opera heard the sound of water. A lake? Or a river maybe? (He actually wasn't quite sure what the differences between the two were.) He'd never come across something like that in his past walks. It wasn't like there was a big change in his surroundings. A duskier green tint, but that was because of the setting sun. Probably.
A turn here. A weave between tree trunks there. A little drop in the ground that Opera caught before he could trip.
It was already darker when Opera could see the shimmering of water. It was a very tiny pool, no, a puddle? It was something else. Between a bundle of rocks a stream flowed onto it, like a mini waterfall.
A ‘pond’. That's it. Probably?
Opera sat near the edge, stick a bit carelessly dropped nearby. He'd never seen a body of water so small that it could all be seen in one look- other than a bath, maybe. The ocean was only ever about 5 minutes away, from his house, from the streets, from the school. And those seemed to stretch out forever, no matter how much Opera ran alongside. Rivers (or were they lakes?) were the same, but smaller. It took him an hour running along one to see where it would stop, before his parents put a stop to it.
Another pout. He was still a little mad about that.
It was also quieter. Not in the way of outside noises, like seagulls or cars. Like the water itself was silent. He found himself holding his breath. The green, black, orange grey of the rocks and dirt and water. the smell of the still surface, of wet earth and stone and plants.
It felt magical, so much like a story book. But which one?
Opera’s vision suddenly smeared; ears popping with a twitch as a huge yawn came through. He rubbed his eyes. That was weird. It wasn’t nearly close to bedtime yet, it couldn’t be. There was still light, pale gray reaching through the green of the leaves. He stood up, stretching all the way to the edge of his tippy-toes. There was nothing he could see though, except the leaves. With everything covered, there was no way he could tell if the light was from the moon or the sun.
Palms clutched onto the legs of his pants. They felt damp, in a cold way Opera O didn’t like at all.
Where was he?
Where was everyone?
It's so quiet, so suddenly dark..
And he was alone.
…
‘I'm scared.’
I'm scared
I'm scared-
I'm really really scared-
...
Grass and dirt scratching his knees.
His chest was acting in ways that scared him, going up and down and up. It was too tight, breaths squeezed out of him as gasps.
It hurt. Something burning hot pushing out from the corners of his eyes. Blindly he somehow lurches forward, and falls. It knocks what little air Opera had in him, and for a second everything goes black.
Thoughts hazily form: ..Is this how he was going to die? ..With no one around, in the dark?
I don't…
That's not how I want it to…
….
..
.
Water. Opera opens his eyes. His hand; it was over the edge, right above the pond. The slick cold must have cut open the haze. If he was a little closer, would he have fallen in?
He struggles to get back up, at least to his knees. Water… The back of his throat feels so dry all of a sudden. Still bleary, Opera leans forward, over the edge.
Then he sees ‘it’.
Just for a second; shining, in the water-
A field of perfectly trimmed grass, so open that the edges couldn't be seen
Specks all around the audience seat, roaring overwhelmingly, with praise, with applause
The air buzzing, filled with upturned grass, dirt, sweat, and blood
And in the middle was a figure, shining so blindingly-
Still completely blind, he could see-
The cape flutter
The figure tremble
An outstretched hand-
And a smile.
Uma musume. They are born to run. They inherit otherworldly names, and are inspired by dreams most dramatic and wonderful. Now they run ever forward.
What do you believe to be a ‘hero’?
Years later, in the setting of Tokyo International Airport:
Crowded is a very unimaginative understatement. Packs and packs of people fly in every direction, carrying with them the sound of chatter and luggage wheels. It all has an air of vague musty excitement, that fatigue can't seem to kill.
Screens dot the walls, listing gate numbers and boarding times. On one of the screens is an interview of the winner of the most recent Shuka sho, a heart-rending beauty with tears flowing from her eyes. Her smile is enchanting, and it forms a small crowd.
The exit opens, and frigid winter floods the area. The flow is strongest here; an entourage of vehicles being the to & fro of the waves. All under a steely gray sky..
At the center, as if parting the crowd, stands a lone Uma musume.
“Ha-hahahahaha! Witness the curtains rise, on the overture of the centurial overlord!”
The hero's story begins now!
So pay no mind to the slight green tint on the overlord’s complexion!