Actually—
Quite a ways back from the stop itself, in the corner of an open area near the park gate, sat a few hand-made benches. They were over ten meters away from the bus stop.
Ahh, I see...
It was because the bus stop was on a public road. Even if the park wanted to put benches near the bus stop, the city probably wouldn’t allow it. That’s why the park had to put their handful of benches so far away—they had to be on their own property.
Seiya trudged over to one of the benches. As he sat down on it, it let out a dubious squeak. Who had made these things? They looked very cheap; probably made by a hobbyist craftsman in his spare time.
Their edges were rounded, with the corners carefully sanded down. Consideration for the children playing nearby, most likely—just in case they hit their heads. Then, perhaps to entertain the children bored from waiting, they had painted sloppy art of the mascots on the wall behind the benches.
If you have time to make stuff like this, why can’t you keep the entry plaza clean? he wondered.
Still, their hearts were in the right place. It was a humble bit of consideration for the people visiting the park, just like those croquettes.
What was it that that annoying man—Kurisu Takaya—had said? Their visitors were idiots. And just minutes ago, he had said something else: If you spend too much time with losers, you’ll become a loser.
I can’t exactly deny it...
Yes, he couldn’t deny it. The man’s comments, regarding the business side of things, were entirely correct. Normally, Seiya would have joined him in a laugh, and that would be that.
The people of Amagi Brilliant Park weren’t putting in the necessary effort. They were getting what they deserved. They had no right to complain about what was happening to them now. And yet...
Why am I sitting here on this lousy handmade bench, feeling upset about the situation? Am I angry that they’re the kind of people who call visitors fools and other people losers? Am I just uncomfortable with the idea of a world where people like them can throw their weight around?
In two weeks, this park would close. That was a natural thing. But was that really okay? Was there really nothing he could do?
About ten minutes passed as his thoughts chased themselves around and around in circles. The next thing he knew, the bus had arrived. A few people were getting on board. He was close enough that if he started walking right now, he could catch it.
But Seiya didn’t. He turned away from the bus, and walked back through the employee entrance he’d come out of.
After closing that day, an announcement over business channels said, “Real cast, meet up in the rooftop garden.” ‘Real cast’ referred to residents of Maple Land (and other magical lands) who were working here in the mortal realm. Moffle was one of them, as were Macaron, Tiramii, and Sento Isuzu. Employees from the mortal realm were simply referred to as ‘cast.’
So the time’s finally come, Moffle thought as he tidied up his attraction.
Latifah and Isuzu had an important announcement for the real cast? It was sure to be bad news.
On his way to Maple Castle, he ran into Macaron, the woolly sheep-like mascot, who was Moffle’s longest acquaintance in the park.
“Hello there, ‘Fairy of Sweets,’” Macaron teased.
“Shut your mouth. You’re the ‘Fairy of Music,’ fumo,” Moffle shot back.
It’s a pathetic thing to still be doing at your age, they both seemed to be saying.
“Fairy of Sweets” though he may be, Moffle had no real fondness for sweet things. If pressed, he’d say he liked salami and such—at which point he’d be told that that wasn’t a sweet, it was a drinking snack.
Macaron styled himself the “Fairy of Music,” but he had no interest in children’s songs. His favorite genres were funk and rap—particularly American gangsta rap, with its graphic descriptions of sex and violence. “I popped a 9mm cap in a rival gang leader with my Glock 19,” or “Let me tell you about this hottie with big tits,” and the like.
“You got pretty wasted last night. Everything okay, ron?”
“Hardly. It’s all a blank after the second bar, fumo...”
Last night, he, Macaron, and another of their associates—the “Fairy of Flowers,” Tiramii—had gotten drunk off their asses at an after-work party. They’d started out the night with inconsequential gossip, but the subject had soon turned to the future of the park, and then the mood had turned bleak.
Moffle had blacked out shortly after, only to awaken the next morning in his kitchen at home. For some reason, he’d been lying flat on the floor, covered in cold spaghetti. Fighting back the headache and the nausea, he’d washed himself off and was about to head for work when he’d found an empty package of ready-made carbonara sauce in his mailbox. Where’d the sauce go? he’d wondered. Into my own stomach, he’d figured. It had been a long time since he’d gotten plastered that badly.
“Moffle, you did nothing but talk about Latifah, ron.”
“Did I, fumo?”
“Part of it was about the curse, but then some stuff about her kissing the kid chosen by her revelation... you just went on and on and on... You were in tears by the end of it, ron.”
“Moffu,” he swore. “Was I?”
“You were,” Macaron said sympathetically.
“Well... I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble. I hope you can forget whatever I said, fumo...”
Macaron patted Moffle lightly on the back. “Moffle. We don’t mind it when you get drunk, because you never speak badly of people. When you’re drunk, you only speak well of everyone.”
“Do I, fumo?”
“You even said the kid had guts, ron.”
“I doubt that. I’d never compliment that little wimp, fumo.”
“Well, feel free to think that, ron.” His wool quivering with squeaky laughs, Macaron boarded the elevator to the rooftop garden, and Moffle followed him. Five or six other members of the real cast ran to catch it, and soon, the elevator was packed.
“Um... Moffle-san...” a girl with butterfly wings on her back addressed him hesitantly.
This girl, who wore a very revealing dress, was the fairy, Muse. She did a musical act in Sorcerer’s Hill, the same area where Moffle worked. She was a very hard worker, despite her youth.
“Yes, fumo?”
“They don’t usually call us all out together like this. Do you think... it’s bad news?”
The elevator fell deathly silent. Everyone was watching Moffle’s expression closely. Moffle was a veteran, related to Latifah, and had connections to the Maple Land royal family. His response would determine the mood of the rest of the real cast.
He glanced at Macaron, but his friend—who at once seemed to have intuited this, but also didn’t want to be bothered about it—just nodded back as if to say, “It’s up to you.”
“...I haven’t heard anything, fumo,” Moffle finally said.
“R-Really? But...”
“Well, it’s probably just what you’re expecting, fumo.” Those were his last words on the subject. When the elevator arrived at the top floor, the people on board filed out into the rooftop garden.
Once the anxious-looking Muse and the others had moved far enough away, Macaron whispered to Moffle, “Moffle. You could have handled that better, ron.”
“You’re one to talk, fumo. You shouldn’t have put it all on me.”
“I know... but the young people are counting on you. You can’t be so cavalier, ron.”
“Sugar-coating the situation won’t change the park’s future, fumo.”
“Maybe not, but...”
The two proceeded into the rooftop garden.
Maple Castle’s rooftop garden was as beautiful as it had ever been. Most of the real cast had assembled by now, and nervous whispers could be heard here and there. It wasn’t all people born in the fairy tale-like Maple Land. Some had come here on transfer from other magical realms.
Moffle and Macaron staked out a corner of the garden and waited for the conference to start. Tiramii, the lecherous Pomeranian mascot, arrived soon afterward, and sat down next to them. He said, “Hey, good to see you guys, mii. You think tonight’s the night we throw in the towel, mii?”
“Probably. Well, 30 years isn’t a bad run for a failing amusement park, ron.”
“Not 30 years. It’s 29 years, fumo,” Moffle said in a strained voice.
This park, founded on the abundant wealth of the bubble economy of the 80s, would have been thirty years old next year. That would never happen, now.
“Attention! Attention!” A feminine voice echoed through the garden.
Sento Isuzu, dressed in the park’s uniform, was shouting down at them from a terrace one floor up. She was looking down on the cast in the garden like an actor on a stage.
“Attention, cast of the glorious Amagi Brilliant Park! First Princess of Maple Land, descendant of our nation’s founder, Slim, Priestess of the Revelation, and our esteemed manager, Latifah Fleuranza, will now speak! You will give her your full attention!” Her voice was penetrating, yet stately. Had the audience been members of the Maple Land military, they likely would have straightened their uniforms and stood at attention.
But the real cast around Moffle was unimpressed.
(She thinks she’s so hot...)
(Is now really the time for pomp and circumstance?)
(She’s just going to announce that we’re closing...)
There were a variety of reactions: some whispered, some grumbled, and some spoke up unashamedly. The brunt of their quiet antipathy was directed at Sento Isuzu.
Of course, that stood to reason.