Food and a Ghost Philosopher

Food was important.

Without food, a person's most basic need for survival went unmet. In fact, if they couldn't fill their stomachs, even civilized people dressed in fine clothes would turn into savage beasts after a while.

Put another way, even the vengeful wraith of Nostramo needed to eat.

He wasn't really a ghost yet, after all. How could he go without food?

The cold wind howled past, lifting Karyl's cloak and black hair. On the other end, Wraith crouched, gazing down with a blank expression. When he wasn't on a mission, he wore that expression most of the time.

Then again, wasn't that the sort of expression a one-and-a-half-year-old child ought to have?

Usually, a gargoyle perched on the edge of a tall building made a good lookout point, offering a sweeping view of the scenery below. But in return, if you chose that spot, you had to put up with the cold.

Perhaps that was what they meant by being lonely at the top.

Karyl drew a deep breath and picked up a large clump of black, sticky stuff from the plastic tray in front of him. It looked like poison or some unidentified gunk from a sewer. As for how it tasted...

To be honest, sometimes Karyl wished he still had no sense of taste.

Wraith turned his head. After a difficult swallow, he watched Karyl's expression shift from stern to a strange grimace.

He couldn't help tilting his head.

"Why are you eating that stuff?" Wraith asked, confused. "And you eat it all the time."

"Because I'm an ordinary person. Besides, I can't afford to eat any better. We have no money, Wraith."

Karyl struggled to swallow the stuff caught in his throat before answering. "Most importantly, I need to eat, and I have to eat at least once a day. Unlike you, who can get by on one meal every three days."

Wraith thought it over, then nodded.

He hadn't detected any malice in Karyl's words, at most just a faint hint of mockery—and even that was aimed at Karyl himself.

Besides, Wraith really did eat once every three days.

Karyl closed his eyes and sighed. The awful taste of the nutrient paste nearly made him throw up.

He had just finished a six-hour job, and this was the small reward he got during his brief break.

He had cleaned out the building with an air purifier on the top floor. Aside from a few innocent people, most of those inside had been corrupt officials and the hired thugs and bodyguards they'd brought in from the gangs.

Karyl had killed them, but he hadn't handed out the money they'd hidden to the poor. He'd driven them out, then set the place on fire and burned all the money.

Money like that. Ordinary people couldn't take it—and were better off not taking it.

"Are you going to eat more?" Wraith asked.

"Of course. Not wasting food is a virtue," Karyl replied.

His expression remained calm, but that didn't mean he actually wanted to eat.

In truth, he was very glad the nutrient paste turned into a thick liquid after being soaked in water. If he'd had the other kind, he might have needed to start a fire.

That pale-yellow nutrient paste was as hard as a brick. A knife couldn't cut it, and water couldn't soften it. To eat it raw, you'd have to be a Serrated Beast from outside the city, with teeth strong enough to crunch through steel.

Still, Serrated Beasts had plenty of people to eat. They wouldn't touch that stuff.

"Why don't you eat rats?" Wraith asked with a frown. "If you're worried about germs, you can take out their innards, then roast them over a fire until they're charred."

Karyl's cheek twitched.

"...Wraith, don't tell me you've still been sneaking off to catch and eat rats. I bring back plenty of nutrient paste every three days!"

"...Nutrient paste tastes bad. Rats taste good, and they're big."

Wraith turned away and started changing the subject. "Besides, they usually come in packs. You can eat your fill after catching a few."

"That's no reason to eat rats!"

Karyl spoke sternly as he scooped up a handful of the black, sticky stuff with his fingers. The feel of it made his stomach clench, but he ate it anyway.

Without hesitation.

No matter how bad it tasted, it was still food. And in a hellhole like Nostramo, it was relatively clean.

"But I think rats are a little better than nutrient paste, Karyl," Wraith said, hesitantly trying to persuade him. "You really should consider eating rats."

"...Remember this, Wraith: you're a person! And people don't eat rats!"

"You're lying. I know a lot of ways to cook rats. If people don't eat them, who came up with so many ways to make them delicious?"

As Wraith spoke, he smacked his lips, as if trying to recreate the rat dishes in his imagination.

"I'm not lying."

And was there something wrong with whoever created you?

Karyl frowned in disbelief.

Why had they stuffed knowledge about cooking rats into your head?

"But those rats really do look delicious."

Wraith said this as he crouched and turned his head with longing to look at the view below the gargoyle.

The neon lights split the sky as always, and vehicles rumbled past in the distance. The bronze gargoyle they were perched on was lucky; it hadn't yet been corroded by acid rain.

Wraith liked it. He was running his hand over its head, enjoying its smooth, even surface.

His body heat was gradually warming the gargoyle, so the spot beneath his hand no longer felt quite so cold. This positive feedback encouraged Wraith to leave his palm there for longer and longer.

Karyl noticed. Knowing Wraith's habits, he figured that if nothing unexpected happened, Wraith would choose this spot to look out over the city for the next few days.

His behavior was innocent and childish, just as a child's would be.

And Karyl knew that hidden beneath this innocent façade was a monster who, given time to grow, could overturn the entire world.

As for Wraith's comment, Karyl didn't respond. He was afraid his imagination might start working when it really shouldn't.

Eating nutrient paste was already torture. If he also had to imagine rats roasted until they were charred, or peeled and steamed...

His face twitched.

"...What about them?" Wraith suddenly asked.

His question brought Karyl's imagination to an end, and Karyl was relieved.

"Who?" Karyl asked.

"The people who live in the Shantytown."

"You want to know what they usually eat, right?"

Wraith nodded.

Karyl glanced at him, then stuffed the last piece—or rather, the last clump—of nutrient paste into his mouth. Afterward, he remembered to tuck the plastic tray into the inner pocket of his clothes.

He wouldn't litter, and besides, throwing things from a great height was dangerous.

So Karyl struggled to swallow the stuff, which tasted so bad his sense of taste had gone numb with fear, and answered Wraith through a mouthful.

"Most people eat the same thing I do. This stuff only started being distributed in Nostramo ten years ago. Supposedly, some noble up top thought there was no need for workers to eat so well."

After saying this, Karyl cleared his throat, hoping to soothe it so the sticky paste would stop tormenting him.

Of course, it didn't work.

Meeting Wraith's gaze, he continued, "As for whether they can eat their fill, that depends on how hard they're willing to work. If they're willing to work more than eighteen hours a day, then they can still eat their fill that day."

Wraith's eyes widened. He didn't know much about the world, but what he did know was enough for him to understand what this meant.

"Is that why so many people kill themselves...?" Wraith asked quietly.

Karyl smiled. You still haven't seen the truth about this hellhole. People didn't use suicide to escape hardship only because they lacked enough food and clothes. It was also because they couldn't see even the slightest bit of hope.

And the nobles didn't care at all. To them, if the workers died, they died. It was actually a good thing if they stopped consuming resources.

"No, that's not all," Karyl said. "At most, that's only part of the reason."

"Then is it because of the gangs?"

"They're just accomplices."

"So... it's the nobles' fault?"

"In a sense, yes." Karyl shook his head.

"But the root cause still doesn't lie with them, Wraith. You once said you thought this world was sick, but you don't even know what a normal world looks like."

Wraith fell silent for a moment, then offered his rebuttal. "...I've seen glimpses. Those worlds weren't much like Nostramo."

Much like? They were nothing alike. Karyl thought.

"What made them different from Nostramo?" Wraith asked, bewildered. "Karyl, do you have an answer?"

I do. Of course I do.

I have ten million answers I could give you. I could even write a book to tell you what should be done.

I've had far too much time to think about this. The years I spent drifting through this world showed me too much...

And it was enough to turn a ghost who only wanted to die into a philosopher.

But I can't, Wraith.

Looking at him, Karyl spoke softly. "Some questions are for you to answer for yourself, Wraith. I can't tell you. Everyone sees the world differently, and I don't want to influence you..."

Even though I already have. I'm sorry.

"Besides—our break is over."

Karyl stood up, his expression changing in an instant. He tightened the ties of his cloak and swung his arm. A dangerous silver light flashed at his wrist.

"Who is it today?" Wraith asked.

"The Crimson Finale. Remember to say hello to them later, Wraith. They generously lent us two motorcycles last time."

Karyl burst into laughter and leaped straight off the gargoyle. Wraith followed close behind.

The gargoyle gazed coldly at it all. The little warmth Wraith had left on its head was vanishing at a remarkable speed.

An old woman hunched over as she entered a dark corridor. Her hair was white, she was somewhat overweight, and she had trouble walking.

In her hands she carried a silver tray, large and trimmed with gold. It was piled with food: three enormous, perfectly fried steaks, soft white bread, thick soup, and an entire exquisite cake.

The aroma was mouthwatering.

In the Underhive, thousands upon thousands of people would probably be willing to fight each other for a meal like this. They would pay dearly just to have a single bite.

A black metal base was embedded deep in the flesh of the woman's back. From it extended a delicate black mechanical arm. A candle burned slowly atop its three sharp mechanical fingers.

She walked down the corridor, the faint candlelight gradually driving back the darkness. She moved slowly, but not because of her age or her difficulty walking. She did it on purpose.

Portraits hung on both walls: men and women dressed in fine clothes, their faces pale and powdered. The dead were set inside ornate frames, whose elaborate carvings reflected the candlelight around the edges.

They all stared at the woman with empty eyes. She returned each of their gazes with the utmost respect.

Fifteen minutes later, she finally left the corridor. Holding the tray, she stood before two massive doors covered in gilded reliefs and struck them hard with her forehead.

A dull thud sounded. After three knocks, the doors opened by themselves, and she entered a vast, unfamiliar room.

A heavy dark-red carpet, eighteen crystal chandeliers, and numerous bulky pieces of furniture and ornaments made the place look magnificent. It would be more accurate to call it a small palace than a room.

"My esteemed Earl."

The woman bowed deeply. Her white hair fell over her forehead, which had grown swollen and red, and her voice was devout. "Your lunch has arrived."

"Put it on the table."

A voice sounded from the other end of the room, carrying a hint of carelessness and the authority of someone long accustomed to being in charge. Notably, the voice was hoarse.

Head bowed, the woman moved slowly toward a redwood table, relying on her memory. She set down the tray, then went straight to the door, intending to leave.

But the voice spoke again. "In twenty minutes, bring Jando, Lena, and Irene here. Their playtime is over. The Skolevok Family has a job for them."

"As you command, my Earl." The woman turned and bowed respectfully. Then she knocked her forehead hard against the doors three more times. Only after they opened did she leave with due deference.

Her forehead had started to bleed, but no one cared—not even the woman herself.