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LORE | Seikatsu District 11-7

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kishmaka

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Lore Team


Written by: @kishmaka
Proofread by: @lovecvts, @RexLobo




Sitting nestled in a quiet alleyway belonging to the Seikatsu District of Karakura is an 11-7 convenience store about as mundane as the next. Hidden, yet an essential part of everyday life, nonetheless, to the errand-running population of the quaint island in its prime. Steady streams of store-goers who entered the store would be met, like clockwork, with the buzz of the artificial fluorescent lights that hung and flickered overhead.

It was warm during the daytime, softened by the ever-bustling atmosphere of the area, which served as a hotspot for groceries and the occasional gossip whispered among the shelves. People frequently dropped in to gather missing ingredients for the evening’s dinner and stopped to converse with their neighbors, or perhaps walked in with the intent to find a quick snack to satiate their hunger, and the cycle continued for as long as the sun was out. But as the evening drew to a close and the sky dimmed, the golden radiance of the sun was replaced by the moon’s silvery glow. Similarly, the day cashier passed the torch to their nighttime counterpart.

Takeshi was a scrawny, disheveled man. Bags clung beneath his eyes–a perfect plum contrast to his sickly pale complexion. His countenance was about as murky as his appearance, which to the average customer was unsettling to say the least. Eyes that seemed ominous enough to swallow light itself were yet another staple to his eeriness. It didn’t help that Takeshi was unusually quiet for a cashier, ceaselessly ringing up customers with a reserved silence that made one wonder whether or not he was remotely aware of their presence. But to the typical and even consistent gaggles of teenagers that flocked in during the nighttime to play in the aisles and engage in some loud banter with their friends, the man was equally as average to them as anybody else was, recognized only by the freebies he normally allowed for. The night shift cashier, who lacked a surname, was identifiable on rare occasions for his generosity towards the younger generation, always handing out free slushies from the machine—which never seemed to be out of order, despite its regular use. Every single night, without fail, without missing a beat.

What seemed a tedious routine soon turned sour. A twisted juxtaposition to the sugary sweetness of the bright red liquid that turned an innocent kind gesture into tragedy. A teenager, no older than the typical high school student, was found unresponsive by law enforcement and paramedics. A jittery hand was seen clutching a slushie cup from the very same 11-7 he visited daily, the cherry syrup oozing from the top and pooling around his arm. All the while, his last moments allegedly consisted of fervent mutters, demanding more of the beverage.

For days, all anybody could manage to whisper about was the ongoing debate on whether the situation was a sinister scandal or a result of an overconsumption freak accident. To make matters worse, every news handle preached the problematic narrative like it was scripture, pointing fingers and throwing the public, hungry for answers, a bone. To nobody’s surprise, the fallout was about as detrimental to the once-lively convenience store as is to be expected of such a proclaimed ‘careless’ establishment. Takeshi, the prime suspect, managed to slip through the grasp of the Karakura Police Department, dissipating into thin air as though he never existed. Meanwhile, customer traffic drew to a screeching halt, and sales plummeted. Bankruptcy imminent, 11-7 was cornered with unfortunate circumstances, and thus closed its doors for the final time.

Following the abandonment of the convenience store, it hardly took any time at all for the area to be vandalized in the late hours of the night. What remained of the products left over on the dusty shelves was looted, and windows were smashed. Throughout it all, the slushie machine stood unmarred and preserved in its state of order while time moved on around it. Foliage grew heavy on the walls, wild ivy veiling the deteriorating structure. The ceiling was dressed in silver spun webs like a home that had long been emptied; an absence of spiders added to the uncanny enigma.

Eventually—as all things do—the Seikatsu District 11-7 was lost to time, its case having gone cold without proper answers or opportunity to debunk the controversies that steered it to its demise. All that remains is the nuanced echo of a constant crimson drip and the mechanical whirring of the machine responsible.
 
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