1; death is not the end; find my voice; night shenanigans; hate hate hate the curtains
[He's on the bed, cross-legged, the letter discarded beside him. Kefka is small in the camera's eye; his blonde hair is loose down his back, one side of his face a bruise, the other painted with red stars over his eye and guiding his mouth. The red toga he wears hides a lot more than you'd think it would.]
[It takes him a moment to break the stare and his mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. He tries again; nothing. Kefka frowns, drums his scarlet-painted nails on air, then sweeps his hand across the screen, creating words floating in air.]
where am i?
[And another sweep:]
who decorated this room? the curtains are ugly. there's supposed to be a train. where is the train?
[and a third:]
why do i still exist?
[It takes him a moment to break the stare and his mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. He tries again; nothing. Kefka frowns, drums his scarlet-painted nails on air, then sweeps his hand across the screen, creating words floating in air.]
where am i?
[And another sweep:]
who decorated this room? the curtains are ugly. there's supposed to be a train. where is the train?
[and a third:]
why do i still exist?