"Overly willing to please, envious, obsequious... are those chunks? ...in the soul." The Presiding Deviless, the Carillon Compendium.
The group of thieves converse amongst themselves as the Presiding Deviless leads them to a set of stone stairs, so steep and narrow as to not immediately register as a flight of steps.
"What was the honey like? She just kinda went off about how he's all cynical and hates people while you guys were out of it. I didn't really pay attention." The Straightforward Sprinter asks those who took the honey.
It's the Dualized Gymnast who answers first. "It showed us his memories... of when his mom died."
"For real?!" The Sprinter asks in hushed shock, eyes wide.
"It imparted a fragment of his perspective... something I'd not thought possible." The Percipient Artist held a curious expression on his face, the kind that indicated to one that he was thinking of art, philosophy, or both. Given the context, likely both, though the blue-haired young man was always thinking about art.
The Ambitious Felinoid feels the need to warn the others. "We still don't know much about this place. Be careful."
"He knows we're here, doesn't he?" The Diligent Strategist notes the lack of stealth and absence of repercussions from this approach.
The Trickster nods, confirming this.
"We're headed to the Chequerboard Garden," the Presiding Deviless informs. "This is where penitents come to repair their curdled souls. Mind your step."
The Ambitious Felinoid has to do a little more than that, having to place his forepaws on the flat of a step and drag himself up for each. The other Phantom Thieves are stuck ascending on the tips of their toes. Only the Gymnast seems to have secure footing despite the agility afforded to the whole group by the power of their masks.
When the Deviless isn't looking, the Bereaved Navigator boards her little space-craft and bypasses the stairs entirely. None oppose this, though she does stick her tongue out at a few envious glances.
The Rebellious Trickster scoops the Felinoid into his arms, saving the poor biped cat-creature from his plight. He meows a thanks to his friend and keeper.
The Deviless speaks as they take the steps. "As curdled milk is sour, curdled souls are sickly, cloying, and saccharine to the point of immediate revulsion. These are the souls of sycophants and social climbers. Those addicted to praise, attention, recognition, and acknowledgement from any source they can get it."
Though no more than two dozen steps, the stairs leave all but the Presiding Deviless and Bereaved Navigator with an aching tension in their calves.
"...Is it possible that my own soul is curdled?" The Percipient Artist asks with sincere worry and concern apparent even despite his vulpine mask. Though it's true the idea that the Artist's own desires might be tainted had been a mortifying fear of his, one cannot help but sigh.
The Deviless gives him a long, smouldering stare. It is uncertain whether this is out of annoyance of his interruption or the focus required to answer his question.
Her response is one word.
"No."
The Artist gives a single, firm nod, then looks around.
As its name implies, the Chequerboard Garden is centered around a field consisting of black and white square patches. Devils stand on opposing sides, commanding penitents as game pieces, each wearing a pennant in one of three colors. Some not in play are seated at the outer edge. There's a couple of familiar faces. The Envious Administrator gazes wistfully at the party and its leader as he stands stock-still on a white square, pennant marking him as a white pawn. He looks even more pathetic than some remember him to be.
Opposing him is a red knight wearing a black suit under her pennant. The Volatile Attorney may be more even-tempered than she was in the past, but she's yet to impress on one that she's truly changed, and so cannot escape her role. The Diligent Strategist frowns with displeasure, but makes no comment. Though perhaps unfair to her sister, she understands why one would still see the Attorney as afflicted with a curdled soul.
A black bishop, the Artless Plagiarist, sits among the captured pieces, head held high with his hair corded up into an imposing tower. The Artist's gaze cannot meet the Plagiarist's yellow eyes and droops upon seeing this image of his former mentor.
"Envy. Frustration. A tendency to begrudge honours given to others," The Deviless continued once sure the interruption had concluded. "Some see these things as normal, natural even. In small measures, mortals can even argue that it's a reasonable response. But for those whose souls are curdled, these vices dominate their lives. They are never satisfied, often poisoned with jealousy and hatred for those who accomplish things they themselves will not or cannot achieve. In the end, they destroy themselves in their own resentment, lashing out at their betters. At that point, there is nothing that can be done for them."
The Rebellious Trickster finds himself meeting the Presiding Deviless' gaze. For a moment, he sees something beyond the brass-amber of her eyes, something brown and scarlet. As familiar as it is fleeting, but he refuses to believe it is no more than a trick of the light.
None of the others seem to notice.
The Gymnast glances at the others with a puzzled frown as they share a look she does not partake in, a memory invoked by the Deviless' words. She wasn't present for many of their adventures. The others do not explain.
The Deviless walks further along the garden, leading the group to the next display. The Authoritarian Representative stationed there causes a great deal of alarm. Much as how the young woman stationed at the Stunted Grove resembled the one whose heart held this sin, the older man here also bore a familial resemblance. The Grieving Heiress seethes his name, but he ignores the outburst. Most expected him to appear much later.
Perhaps fortunately, his station has no honey, but the devilish Representative has with him a seven-headed bird. The bird is black, save for its battery of red-crested throats and its black eyes have a mysterious green glow to them. It perches on his extended forearm and leers at the masked group. Its gazes shift between them.
"An illegitimate bastard has no claim to his father's legacy or estate," the Representative speaks. "Those who aim too high and fail to know their place are easy to manipulate and control. When the upstart learned of his father's name and position, he grew resentful and envious." A sinister smile lights his hellborne face, his tinted spectacles flaring in the dim light. "That lowborn whelp would do anything to reach his father, furious that someone with so much power and control could birth him and abandon both him and his mother. Yet despite his rage and indignation, he was nothing more than a subservient puppet that died once his strings were cut. After all, he'd always wanted what he couldn't have. To be special, to be wanted, to be held in high esteem. If he could accept that he deserved no such things, if his soul wasn't so curdled and debased, if he tried to make his own place in the world rather than chasing revenge, perhaps he could have done something with his life." He strokes the bird beneath the chin, touching the edge of its red throats. "Instead he ate up lies and compliments, always seeking more, following them to his grave. This Parabolan Warbler and the Fingerkings it hosts can show you how his curdled soul heard praise."
"What's a Fingerking?" The Compassionate Model is not afraid to ask questions, having realized that the Authoritarian Representative was playing a part that would not harm them, despite what they knew and what one believed of the man in reality.
This knowledge did not stop the Representative's gaze from being piercing and the depths of his voice menacing. "They're the serpent-kings of Parabola, the world of dreams. Duplicitous and manipulative, much like someone we all know. But they won't harm you. Not here."
None dared ask further questions before the Warbler spoke up. The Authoritarian Representative beckoned the Phantom Thieves to gather and listen. Fearing entrapment, the Navigator held back to secure an escape if needed. This was allowed.
The bird had seven heads, each with seven voices, all melodic and hypnotizing. Utterly intoxicating. The voices overlap, speaking over each other, yet there's a clarity in some of the words, in intention, in feeling. Phrases and compliments can be picked out, the voices enticing one to listen closely.
"Maybe you're useful for something after all. You'll do all of his English homework from now on." The voice of a caretaker, despite the lack of care taken, seeing an advantage in an unwanted charge. It fills one with relief and pride. For now, at least, there is no pain. Just keep being useful.
"He's cute. Well-spoken too. Maybe him." A different adult. A positive evaluation. The correct response is a "thank you," and a smile. Cute and well spoken. These are things that are wanted. Be cute and well-spoken for long enough and become wanted.
"...This is... acceptable." An annoyed voice. Some other caretaker. Someone who had been scanning for any flaw to pick apart and punish and found none. Acceptable. Acceptable means no punishment. Just continue being acceptable. Everything will be alright.
"You know a lot, huh? I wish I knew things like that." The voice of an awed child. A feeling of superiority from being better than a peer, from being an aspiration. A small taste of power. The power of having something someone else does not. Knowledge.
"Good eye. I'd have missed that myself. Good thing you're here." A voice that didn't spend enough time to know how one's presence is not always seen as a good thing. A reminder that there will always be a place to go, even if there's nowhere to stay. A sense of security, or something close to it. Still useful.
"You're mature enough to make your own choice on the matter. It's up to you. But I'd be delighted if you worked with me." Delighted. What a wonderful word. The voice of a woman, someone's mother, at their first meeting. A few wonder if they've heard this voice before. In a desert? At a cafe? But the other voices soon drown it out.
"The readings are good. I think your results are promising. We've made a lot of progress." The same voice from before. Promising. One wants to hear that voice again, full of respect and pride.
"It seems my trust in you was not misplaced. I had my doubts, but you carried out the assignment perfectly. Welcome to the team." A more menacing voice, laced with danger. The Representative's voice. A voice of power. Trust and respect from someone like him is more valuable than many treasures in the world. The reassurance soothes the nerves, dampens the guilt. A major goal, a milestone achieved. Just erase every last trace of remorse.
"We'd been stuck on that one, but you solved it in a day. Geez, kid, you're really something else." A policeman's voice. An awe one didn't expect from an adult. So what if it was based on false pretenses? So what if it was a lie? A lifetime of basking in this awe wouldn't be enough.
"You. You're going to be helping me from now on." The Volatile Attorney has a temper to be reckoned with, spares no sympathy and tolerates no incompetence, except, perhaps, from herself. To be chosen by her is to be recognized as having skill, real or otherwise. Her curt words are a ringing endorsement, especially in front of others.
"Hey, that's him! Let's get an autograph." Recognition. Fame. Complete strangers, people one has never interacted with, seeking him out. Incredible. A picture-perfect smile in the eyes of hundreds, thousands. Maybe they'll remember. Maybe someone will remember. Maybe a life of lies isn't so bad.
"Looks like your hunch was right. We checked for petechia, just like you said. We've got men on the force who wouldn't have thought of it." Isn't experience useful? Especially experience that elevates above one's seniors. Though, in law enforcement, the bars aren't all that high. Still, it's always nice to be seen leaping well over them.
"I only need you using that power." The Representative again. His meaning is clear. So close to the spider's web, yet still needed by the spider. So close to being trapped, yet in possession of this small pocket of safety. Continue being needed. Or else.
"Dude, you're more than special..." Even from an enemy, the praise is well-received. The Sprinter looks around in complete confusion. His friends have no answers.
"It pains me to admit... but your wit and strength far exceed ours." The Strategist's voice. Maybe this is enough. Something so earnest, having one's skills recognized without lie or manipulation behind the words, from enemies that have no benefit of flattery and no need to use others. If it isn't enough, then nothing would be. Nothing soon came for him.
The Authoritarian Representative speaks, breaking through the Fingerkings' dreamlike spell. "That's only the half of it, of course." He brushes the top of the Parabolan Warbler's head, and it sings a pleased chord. "But for those of us with duties and responsibilities, time is precious."
The Presiding Deviless whisks them away, speaking again as they descend the precarious steps. "Before this patient, it was unanimously believed that soul curdling was out of defiance for one's place on the Great Chain or in society. Some still believe this, but this soul holds an irregularity in that regard. The object of the envious rage and resentment that ultimately destroyed him was no Master or Curator or Nobleman, but rather another outcast of society. Thus, a new theory has been proposed. The curdling of the soul may be the result of a moral lack. Human souls do not change on their own. It's those who have them, the choices they make and the lives they've lived that accrue these damages."
The Phantom Thieves discuss among themselves once they're free from the stairs and their horrible design.
"Was that... my voice? I thought I heard my voice somewhere in that mess." The Straightforward Sprinter still seems startled.
The Rebellious Trickster asks if he remembers saying the words.
"Maybe? It was kind of hard to pay attention... Everything felt... weird. Man... I don't get all this soul nonsense." The Sprinter shakes his head. "Then there's this Parabola stuff and those finger things... I didn't think there was going to be any math here."
"He knows that Shido's cognition of him is distorted. That must be why this one thinks of him as a puppet." The Heiress notes. Perhaps she is trying to understand. Perhaps she is simply reassuring herself.
"What a peculiar bird that was..." It's unclear how much the Artist got from the experience.
"Oracle, any idea of what's next?" The Ambitious Felinoid asks the Bereaved Navigator.
"More Shadows and cognitions, but I can't tell where she's taking us or which are hostile yet. It's really hard to make heads or tails of this place... At least the alarm level hasn't risen."
"...Could the Palace Ruler be disguised?" The Strategist suggests, looking at the Presiding Deviless. It wasn't the most absurd theory out there.
The Navigator sighs. "I don't know. I wouldn't put it past him... I've never seen a Palace like this before."
The Rebellious Trickster wonders what's really being shown here.
They all continue to follow.