reVolution reWind
When last we looked, the Revolution was spinning as planned. The thing about revolutions is you're going in circles. Cycles. The Dueling. Cycle. The same players over and over and over again until one-- skips-- the-- track.
This is not Tenjou Utena's entry post.
The rose petals are green. That's how you know.
They flood the doorway, scatter over the floor, blanket it till it's like thick, floral carpet, from corner to corner, leaving the pungent aroma of roses from floor to ceiling, a thick miasma of near-choking perfume. Is that a glass coffin, there among them?
Of course not.
That's the red chassis of a car; a sleek, topless car -- but there is no boy spread out, his uniform open with unseen photographers catching him (and others) in suggestive, near carnal congress upon the hood of the car.
No. Not that.
It's too soon.
There's a boy with a mass of green hair and a ring of silver and stone hued ping, cut into the shape of a rose.
He sits at a table, and sips tea.
Did he ever really leave? Or did someone just -- flip the record, start the next groove?