Wednesday, November 29, 1988

Budapest, Hungary

17:16 PM

As I stirred from my slumber, the familiar contours of my office space greeted me. Was that a dream? No, it felt different this time—more tangible, more real. Recent revelations weighed heavily on my mind. Yet, despite the uncertainty, I found solace in the fact that I still held the position of manager at the company where I toiled. The cosmic forces, it seemed, had conspired to ensure my continuity. Without their intervention, I would have been a mere impostor.

I rose from my desk, the cool tile floor meeting the soles of my shoes. The rhythmic clinking echoed through the otherwise silent room, grounding me in my reality. But where to begin? The knowledge I possessed was both a boon and a burden. Circumstances dictated my path, yet despair gnawed at my resolve. How could an ordinary individual like myself be entrusted with the mission of locating the Spears—the key to vanquishing the enigmatic Crimson Monarch? The task seemed insurmountable, yet my body moved with a determination that defied reason. It was as if unseen strings guided me, pulling me out of the office and into the world beyond—a marionette dancing to an otherworldly tune.

The passage of time eludes me as I navigate this peculiar reality. My body, seemingly insubordinate, propels me toward the airport. It disregards my commands, rendering my voice futile. Even my mouth, once a vessel for articulation, remains unyielding. In the end, I yield to the inexorable pull and hail a taxi.

"Taxi!" I cry out, my voice echoing against the cityscape. The bright yellow cab glides to the curb where I stand—a beacon of normalcy in my disconcerting existence.

Without conscious thought, I swing open the car door and settle into the seat. My movements mimic those of a rigid automaton, akin to a child's action figure manipulated by unseen strings. My wooden countenance betrays no emotion as I utter the words:

"Kérem a reptérre." To the airport, please.

My voice, oddly natural amidst this mechanical choreography, resonates like a distant transmission from a remote-controlled drone. It's an apt analogy for my current state—a marionette in a cryptic play.

The driver arches an eyebrow, perplexed by my demeanor. Yet, without delay, we arrive at the airport. As I prepare to disembark, the driver informs me:

"Ez 6373,2 Ft." That will be 6373.2 Hungarian forints, please.

I retrieve my wallet, exact change in hand, and settle the fare.

Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport (BUD)

As I sat there, clutching my London-bound tickets, I pondered the mysterious force that had commandeered my body. Why London? The ticket's stiff texture and grainy surface snapped me back to reality. My legs, seemingly independent of my will, carried me to a seat. The mental cacophony from my recent experiences and ceaseless walking had left me drained—both physically and mentally. But the plush, reasonably comfortable airport seats offered a momentary respite.

Ah, yes—the minor details. Amidst the crowd, I observed fellow travelers bustling about. Some strode purposefully, backpacks slung over their shoulders, while others lingered near luggage carousels. Joyful reunions played out, families embracing after journeys abroad. The airport, like any bustling public space, hummed with life. Conversations overlapped—a symphony of human connection.

And then, the ache hit—the longing for family. How I missed them, their familiar faces, their warmth. But I couldn't dwell on sentimentality. I had a purpose, a mission—whether I'd chosen it or not. Life had its own plans, and I was but a player in this cosmic drama.

I shook off negativity, resolved to forge ahead. Constraints be damned. The airplane would arrive soon, and I'd step into the unknown. London awaited—a city of secrets, bridges, and whispered histories. My job, my life—it all converged here, even if it wasn't what I'd originally envisioned.

With thoughts collected, I sat there, patient and resolute, awaiting the next chapter of this enigmatic journey.

Thursday, November 30th, 1988

I disembarked from the plane at London City Airport. The unfamiliar surroundings enveloped me—a tapestry of sights and places previously unseen. It was a spectacle, indeed.

But beyond the novelty lay my purpose. My body, an unwitting vessel, propelled me forward. Fatigue mattered little; it moved with a determination that defied my weariness. I could probably sleep, and it would continue its inexorable march. Like Budapest, I hailed a taxi—my wallet now flush with exchanged British pounds. Time was of the essence, and my body knew it.

"Taxi! Over here!" I shouted, brandishing several 50 notes. The cab pulled up, and without my command, I slid into the back seat, the fare prepaid. The driver, with a polite British accent, raised an eyebrow.

"That's quite a sum for a cab ride. Urgent business, sir?" he inquired.

"To the British Museum," I blurted out. A place I'd never visited, yet my lips formed the words. Museums didn't intrigue me, but here I was, inexplicably drawn.

"A museum? You're quite worked up," the driver remarked, disbelief etching his features.

I couldn't fault him. Who gets this fervent about a museum?

"Don't question it. Let's go," I replied wearily.

And so, the taxi wove through London's streets. Double-decker buses, grand architecture—the city unfolded before me. Beautiful, yes, but Budapest lingered in my heart, a memory I couldn't shake.

Time blurred, swift as a fleeting dream. One moment, the taxi's wheels hummed against London's cobblestone streets, and the next, I stood before the grandeur of the British Museum. The transition was seamless, as if the city itself had woven me into its tapestry of secrets and histories.

The museum's façade loomed—a testament to human endeavor. Ancient stones whispered forgotten tales, and I wondered what lay beyond those imposing doors. My body, an unwitting vessel, carried me here, driven by forces I couldn't fathom. The air crackled with anticipation, and I stepped across the threshold, ready to unravel the enigma that awaited within.

I felt the pull of destiny once more. My body, an automaton guided by forces beyond my comprehension, led me to a mysterious clock tower within the bustling area. Aristocratic figures moved around me, their energy palpable—like stained glass, revealing secrets beneath the surface.

And then, the pain—a sharp intrusion into my thoughts. Words spilled from my lips, whispered revelations:

"Magic Circuits… Magical energy… prana… od… I see now… and I'm standing in a Bounded Field."

The onlookers stared, their gazes curious or wary. Recognition eluded them, but I cared little. My purpose remained clear: I had a job to do. Whatever awaited me within this clock tower held answers. My body pressed forward, and I stepped into the unknown, resolute and driven.

A/N: it would be nice for a reviewer to tell me what to add. I feel unsatisfied with this cause it just feels incomplete. I'm on my knees and begging for someone to review this like I'm begging for yuta to survive while fighting sukuna