That's Just... How It Is

For a while after, we had to kowtow at the edge of every line of seats, our heads lowered to every passenger while our firm grip held a business card up like an offering to the gods.
It's nothing as glamorous as flipping open your wallet to reveal and FBI card or journalist ID then having the ocean of layman badges usher you in with awe.
This was the kind of paper-printed and laminated last resort kind of card, a big 'sorry for the trouble' rather than 'we're here to solve the trouble'.
In the end, Char had arrived with the simple, clean finishing blow - the jar of perfume, a sacred object with dregs of memory clinging to it - as always, and everything went back to nice old calmness and reason.
Well, not entirely.
Solving one of these issues - doesn't mean much.
Putting one restless soul on the road towards peace - it sounds apathetic to call it a day's work, but it was the start of a longer journey for them, and the end of a small bump for us.
From its position pinned down below Sorrow, there wasn't much room for struggle.
Forgive me for being a little slipshod in my descriptions and even lazy in my enthusiasm.
My back's aching from this prostration and shuffling.
Sunbeams had begun to trail their fingers along the railing and doorframes, catching itself against the convex decorations, the bright golden metal shimmering with light. All around us, the banal interior of this carriage was, momentarily, shifted into a place of memory, just like the sprawling verdant fields showered with lilacs that rushed past our windows.
Soon, we would be making a stop almost a quatre of the way from our destination, and we hoped that those ashen dregs of that monk would be able to peacefully move on through those grasslands and up into the mountains.
"Seriously, at least tell us beforehand."
"It looked like some insane person had found their way onto the train..."
"But really, what kind of exercise was this? Do your higher ups know what inconvenience you've caused?"
"Hahaha! No no, I'll be sure to censor your faces. Hey, I can tag your organisation, right? Isn't it technically private and not a government sector?"
Half of these comments were made by people too rich to really care about any of these complaints, royalty of money-royalty from the outskirts, their only real purpose to let of some steam and scold us like we were children.
I don't know if I prefer the genuine pissed-off nature of the less fortunate folk that have had their clotheslines tangled up while we struggle to catch an Ai-Aosagibi, or the acid-tongued high-schoolers that glare and stab at us with insults for crashing into them after chasing down some fiendish monster prepared to barrel straight through them, to this.
"Thank you for saving my family!"
Really, all this nonsensical negativity is really pushing... 
...eh?
To my left, like an audible fata morgana, a mirage of positivity in an ocean of rough, hot sands of negativity, something pierced my earlobe with lightning speed.
When I turned, I found Sorrow crouched down, head up, locking eyes with a small girl sat neatly in her mother's lap, cushioned by her flowing emerald dress. On all sides were suitcases piled on top of each other, and the seat where a father should have occupied was instead taken by some bystander who was awkwardly pushing his glasses up against his thin brow.
"Nonsense, it's you that needs thanks. All that trouble and not even a peep? People would surely have panicked if they heard a child scream, it's just natural instinct. Thank you for staying strong."

Beating down mercilessly, so much so that I at one hazy point felt my brain melting and looked around me in disbelief, convinced I had taken a train to Algiers, the oppressive afternoon sun was boiling me alive.
Ahh, now I understand how meat feels on the grill.
All that life imbued within that piece of delectable wagyu, all for it to not even be able to scream in frustration beneath the flames, or more like above it.
Mhm, that's right, from now on, every piece of grilled meat I eat will be a testament, a celebration of their suffering.
That lunch I walked out on, with that extra guest whose furious hatred for me was something best left for the epilogue, hopefully as a small gag that paints me in a positive light, a humble victim of circumstance who nonetheless apologies with heart, was also boiling at the back of my mind.
Sitting on the hardwood row of seats ahead of me, comfortably cloaked from the sunbeams but nevertheless soggy with sweat from the unbelievable temperatures scorching the atmosphere like some cataclysmic event, Char, Sorrow, and the doll-girl cooled themselves with some cheap fans we had purchased from the station convenience store. The girls fanned their skin so ferociously that their hair, stuck on their foreheads and necks with the sticky glisten of sweat, flapped languidly up and down, while Sorrow's fan seemed to be attached to a mechanical arm with the way it maintained its steady, slow pace with such consistency.
"Well, it's over! The final catastrophe is here! All this for nothing!" Char was wheezing to her side, while the doll-girl bore her eyes into me, not exactly looking through me, but more like into my flesh and bones, hoping to plant the seed of her hatred there and let if fester and burst.
Doesn't she know that hatred's only good for poisoning your own garden?
I wonder of Princess Mononoke is basic imprinted knowledge, just like what apples are or what a cherry-boy is.
More like, hasn't she got the artificial memories of Patlabor or Evangelion inside there somewhere?
"Doll-girl, do you know what a cherry-boy is?"
With that, Sorrow shot a wary glance my way, and Char's eyes became flushed while her eyes visibly perked up.
Nope.
Nothing.
Her glare is permanent, I guess.
Everybody resumed their usual positions after a while.
They could at least humour me.
The person that gave up the shade so that one of them wouldn't have to boil alive - they could at least let me forget the unbearable heat for a while!
Well, whatever.
I should be cursing the attendant, no, more than that, the people who run this place, even the architect, for having such little space in the main station.
Stuck under the bus stop like this...
Don't they know how awkward it is to hurriedly cross your arms or explain that you're not waiting for the bus every time one turns the corner!
My arms are permanently crossed over my body in an X position now.
The only words I've heard from Char are that I look like some failed Kamen Rider experiment who can never get past the 'X' part of the transformation pose.
Although, it's not like I don't understand that we did this to ourselves.
Nobody wants troublemakers around, let alone ones from an organisation that is-but-isn't-really government sanctioned.
"Almost time" Sorrow announced, standing up and checking his watch.
"Almost time for an apology, I think".
Eh?
"No, looking again, it's way too late for that."
Huh?
"Graaaahhh!"
Haaaaaaaaaaaa??!!!
With timing that made me believe none of this even mattered, because at the end of the day, a la Gintama system, all gags meant nothing and this world would reset after every set of jokes, Claris pounced on to me with a scream that almost sent me into a coma from the overbearing sound and heat.
Now, don't get me wrong, anime's not always unrealistic with these kinds of interactions, in fact, the overdramatisation is just a way to really convey the emotions and feelings that the characters are going through in a more impactful fashion, but with one of these gags, the clawing weight of an almost full grown woman, whose skin is coated with a sticky film of sweat and nails sharp enough to dig in and push out little bubbles of scarlet, is too much to bear.
With a crash, we fell backwards on to the grass.
And now, the line that we're waiting for.
"So much for that epilogue."

Part 1: Departure END