- The Pinnacle -

When we board our very special gondola, we do so with much expectancy, as our minutes of waiting had built to an unprecedented suspense, as if the gondola itself is a mystic shrine to bear us towards a deity. We'd receive answers there. I tried to douse my hopes, in case of disappointment, but to no avail. Shizuka is confident and I'm confident and we know that there's something at the top of Cosmo Clock 21; something for us. The pilgrimage is coming to an end.

Inside, though we're not by any means heavy, we find footing treacherous and the car seems to swing and tilt a few degrees with every move we make. The entire craft creaks and careens and trembles, and the pigments trickling through the glass shifts.

I had expected her to sit across from me, to balance out our weight, but when I sat down on the left, she did the same, right beside me, as if she couldn't bear the thought of being separated. The old man at the gate waves us off rather fondly like a proud father and shuts the door on us with a clank. The door locks; our world shuts in like a pet cage.

Outside, the ground starts to move. Metal rails, pavement, parked vehicles, people and a multitude of lights like waving glowsticks and candlelight vigils, slip past us. Slowly at first, but soon details start to grow smaller, an alien shrink gun and a miniature city. We're borne aloft by an invisible cushion of air, and my stomach does a double take. All I can see are our shoes. They're planted right on top of a hole, a void. They sit there seemingly with no reason. At first when we had looked down, the close proximity to the platform gave us no qualms. But now, we dare not move. I hold my breath and swallow saliva. We concentrate and hover and levitate like magicians. But how long will the magic remain? At any instant, I expect to fall through: suddenly, our glass container disappears. I can almost feel my skin exposed to the cold air; and my heart plunges upward to my head.

But the longer I stare, the less terrifying and the more mesmerizing it is. Things are moving, everything is moving, life is moving beneath our fingertips, beneath our feet. We're now part of the contraption that paints the world below. I can see the colours palpitate and swirl up and down, over different textures and surfaces. Everything blends and blurs and diffuses together. It could be an effect through the glass windows or through the motion of the ferris wheel, but to me, it's as if we are swimming through a deep inky sea, and drops of colour plume like milk in coffee. We leak rainbow spectrum, we are colour, we are time.

On the other hand, it's eerily quiet, and a silence slips through the cracks in the doors and windows and fills in the remaining space between us. The colours may dance but the air is bitter and the seat starts to seep through my pants.

I look at her but she doesn't look at me. She's thinking about other things. And as she does so, I feel her weight settling closer and closer, until her head is on my shoulder. I ask if she's okay and she tells me she's a little cold. She's still not looking outside.

A spectacular view forms in my vision. An expanse of luminous dots sweeps across like a starry sky spread below us in a prophetic reversal. They don't appear to be planted consciously. Not by human hands or divine will. Rather, they appear at random, flickering and twinkling at their own whim. These dots assemble together organically according to a secret langue and ancient design, into vines and branches, creatures rising out from black water, or scurrying across the ground in strange circular symbols and zig-zagging patterns. We're only overlooking fragments of the Yokohama bay port and intersecting roads, as we are not high enough yet, but I can already pick out several landmarks that they form. The massive half-moon shaped Intercontinental Grand Hotel like a crashed starship. A kid's amusement park lit up in bold palette. Stocky rectangular prisms of the Queen's Towers and an abundance of cafes tucked beneath darkened trees and foliage.

"We should come here more often. There are various cafes we should try. We can try a different one every day."

"I should like to compare their chai tea lattes," she says, "how I crave one right now."

"It isn't very healthy."

"I try to limit it to one per week."

"If you have one every week at the same time, does that mean you are repeating a cycle too?"

"Yes, but I'm an espre, just like how you're an exception. I can repeat routines if I want. But I am not allowed to interact with the world."

"I'm the biggest violation you can ever make."

She says it's a poor way to put it.

I laugh. She seems to be warming up our little glass bubble.

"Do you like the view?"

"Yes, it's lovely," she says without looking outside.

"Why don't you look outside?"

"I don't want to ruin the view by only seeing a part of it. I'll look when we're higher up."

"Doesn't that ruin the process and the journey?"

She ponders. "I think it's powerful when you contrast the self with the external, all at once. I'd like to leave with the greatest moment in mind."

"But it would make for interesting conversation if you're to look out right now."

She obliges and looks out. Her eyes are just as intense as always, piercing through the city buildings like she could gut them with lasers. I watch her cheeks and her nose in profile wash over with a coat of silvery blue. The slope of nose narrows faintly into a point. The other side of her face descends in shadow.

"Quite surreal," I say.

We're still climbing slowly, not near high enough to see the entire swath of nighttime glory. It's an odd feeling to be almost still, unmoving relative to our gondola, while the world outside moves. It's difficult to tell whether the world is moving or the gondola is moving. But perhaps we're not. Our gondola creaks as we rise. We hold our breath and try to sit still. The seats are rather rigid and the cold bites. I look down between our feet. It seems too high up and too far away already, like a shuttle drifting away from a space station. My legs lose all feeling.

"There's a boat down there." She points. I look for it.

There are plenty of boats but the particular one she is pointing at is speeding down the canal, under two bridges, right under our gondola. It's relatively a small, white yacht and there are lights on deck. We can make out figures leaning against the rail. It is curious, since it's still cold out - hardly a good time to take out a yacht or hold a party onboard. I wonder what they might be speaking about. Lovers enjoying a glass of champagne? Gossip and workplace politics? Reunion between old friends? A client and consultant over a business deal?

"When all is done and well, it'd be nice to have a yacht some day," she says.

"Are you implying I should save for one?"

"Save for the next coffee first."

"I'm saving for an engagement ring."

"How dreadful," she smiles.

The boat is heading to one of the piers.

"I can't hear their thoughts from up here," she says.

We are higher up now, still climbing, steady like an airplane. Nothing much has happened so far. There hasn't been much difference from standing outside talking and sitting inside talking.

We can see the figure of the Landmark Tower. There are more lights, more colours now. Crude cables and electric poles, street signs and fences like scrap metal and lint have long disappeared and the scenery is undergoing a process of revision and refinement, removal of detail, until all that is left are brush strokes and nebulous clouds. Though the view is picturesque, it is hard to understand as the tangible buildings that we once knew. It is like observing another planet display its two-dimensional civilization for us.

Below, there is the base of the ferris wheel, wiry structures of fluorescent bulbs, cold and distant. Some specks that are presumably people mill around, wandering, unsure.

"I'm scared of heights," she says matter-of-factly. She doesn't sound scared. But I realize how tense she is now and why she didn't want to look outside. I pat her hand with mine.

"Is that why you sat on this side?"

She says nothing. Her hair touches my neck.

"I'm scared of heights too - of course you know that. Sitting together does make it a little better."

"A coffee right now would be really nice," I add.

We rise and ascend and even though we are beginning to surpass several buildings in height, and on equilibrium with others yet, staring eye to eye, we don't stop. Every now and then, wind buffets around our gondola and sends shivers through our cage.

"You could have spoken up if you didn't want a clear gondola. I thought it would be romantic."

Her smile looks like the moon. "Romantic? I thought you don't do that kind of thing."

"Isn't that what we've been doing all this time?"

She says it had been the right decision. "Whatever is in store for us, we need to be open to it. This is where we're supposed to be."

"What if there is nothing for us here? And it's just a cage to buy time, so when we reach the bottom again, They'll be waiting for us?"

"I trust the Collective," she says simply.

There are still minutes to go before we reach the peak. Ten minutes have felt like an eternity. In the silence, I clear my throat for something to do. "What's the Cause about," I say.

"I only have a hypothesis," she says.

"Because you can't read their minds."

"Yes, so I must come up with a hypothesis. But you ask as if you have no idea of your own. Tell me about it first." Her voice is a murmur, almost inaudible, like she's drifting off to sleep on my shoulder.

I tell her I don't really have an idea, just a feeling. She says a feeling is enough. "A feeling is the subconscious, the unconscious speaking."

I try to gather my thoughts like stringing a thread through a needle. The hole is small and my fingers are thick. "Well," I begin, "as we thought, there's a sort of event happening." It takes me a while. "As Mi Hyun said, a demonstration concert - whatever that entails. They will be staying for a while: each carry a large bag. This seems to be a conscious choice, something they were looking forward to - they even appeared enthusiastic when they were exiting the trains. Obviously, an event that many know about - though not us," I say almost to myself to make sense of my own thoughts. The gondola creaks.

"However, something with such a scale will likely have media coverage and the System would likely intervene. Knowing that most people abide to Etiquette and follow the System naturally, we can safely assume that this is a System-sanctioned event in some capacity. And it's happening right now."

She waits for me to continue. "Here's where the hypothesis comes in. The commuters as you said, were not thinking about the event or thinking at all. They seem like Images." She nods. I look over the top of her head at the Landmark Tower, burning on with technological fire and she says nothing. I tell her I think Ahn Mi Hyun and the commuters may not be Images at all.

"This event is System-sanctioned, and is about the Cause. She and all the other commuters are supporters of the Cause, presumably. And so, perhaps they're consciously supporting the System, evidently by attending this concert. What exactly is the Cause then? Why do they wear black suits and ties? I have a suspicion that these people are consciously and deliberately striving to become Images and to service the System."

She looks impressed.

"Is that what you were thinking?"

She smiles, "maybe you're a step ahead. I'm too reliant on the Collective and mind-reading. I receive rather than perceive. I only realized this is a System event, but I never understood why I couldn't read their minds."

"They're, maybe, aspiring towards a form of utopian state, where all are in bliss, because no one thinks. Makes things easier," I suggest.

"They may be intentionally clearing their minds, practicing and training, preparing for something, like our meditative exercises. It isn't an easy thing to do."

"I wonder what they're watching and hearing at the concert."

-

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