19 sheep in the heap
title: Dust
pairing: implied Sho/Sora
word count: 691
rating: G
Dust.
He made his way through the empty lot where it had happened, slightly out of breath from the run, but already, he knew, seconds too late. It was empty. Empty of enemies, empty of allies. Empty. Just whisps in the air, Noise circling like hungry vultures, gathering around the particles in the air. His eyes drifted from place to place, seeing without really seeing, his vision oddly foggy. The first time the world hadn't been crystal clear since he'd died, himself.
In a furious rage (and a roar to match) he obliterated the Noise around him, creating to the tiny particles that seemed to take up the entire lot all around him, seething so intensely that he couldn't seem to draw a steady breath. Then, slowly, he began to relax, unsatisfied with this level of destruction. He moved on. Instead of creating, he destroyed. He turned entire roadways into his own personal canvas, heaps without placards to tell the world what they were all about.
Monuments.
Later, he'd crafted not a heap, but a tower. Dust filled the air. Not a blip on the radar, not a whisper of Noise in sight. He felt followed by it, incensed by it. Sitting up so high made him a target, but so too was everyone else; he followed them with his eyes, feeling a twisting fire coil inside, lashing back and forth like a cat's tail. Soon, he placated himself, gripping dusty metal pieces and his megaphone. Make it art. Make it beautiful.
More dust. It seemed to circle the top of his garbage tower like a slow-motion tornado, but never once touching him. The Noise were drawn to it. He just kept erasing them. Kept watching his city rot. Kept collecting dust and anger, adding it to his own personal heap.
By night the particles of Soul were so thick that he couldn't see through them and into the city anymore. Clumped together, they seemed to have whispers of their own. He couldn't take it anymore; climbed down from his throne and fled back to the empty lot. No--not fleeing. Relocating.
Not a single speck of dust there in the lot, not anymore. He began returning to it daily, it became his secondary base of operations, his place to think. There next to an imprint in the dirt was a track he'd worn down from pacing, grinding his teeth and calculating. No dust ever gathered there again, it all hung in the sky above his tower like a raincloud, swirling and furling and whispering.
It got loud.
So he drowned it out.
He especially liked hearing the "CRUNCH!!" part. Before long he began creating new pieces of art; tesselations over the graffiti on the wall, numbers etched into the pavement, patterns drawn in the sand around the outline of a body and the groove he'd worn into the ground from pacing. Without the background voice he couldn't think because the whispers from the dusty cloud grew too loud. It baffled him and infuriated him and he flew into rages that often resulted in the destruction of his own art, from time to time. Being unable to grasp why it affected him and his ability to create, to imagine, sometimes, only made him feel worse. And feeling anything at all to begin with was hard enough. But that was all it was: a slip of focus. Not rage or sadness or anything, just a profound amount of distraction that only fixed itself when he played that zetta stupid subset's voice back over and over and over and over, put it on a repetitive loop and decorated the empty lot where he'd been erased.
But eventually, even that couldn't silence the Noise inside. He went to the River to finish everything, so he could clear Shibuya of the fractured Soul that stifled the Music. Not just for that, but as Composer, it would be a priority.
He fell asleep to whispers. As he blacked out, trapped under he didn't know what, he spied his megaphone on the ground and reached out for it, but became slowly lulled to sleep by a dusty lullabye.
pairing: implied Sho/Sora
word count: 691
rating: G
Dust.
He made his way through the empty lot where it had happened, slightly out of breath from the run, but already, he knew, seconds too late. It was empty. Empty of enemies, empty of allies. Empty. Just whisps in the air, Noise circling like hungry vultures, gathering around the particles in the air. His eyes drifted from place to place, seeing without really seeing, his vision oddly foggy. The first time the world hadn't been crystal clear since he'd died, himself.
In a furious rage (and a roar to match) he obliterated the Noise around him, creating to the tiny particles that seemed to take up the entire lot all around him, seething so intensely that he couldn't seem to draw a steady breath. Then, slowly, he began to relax, unsatisfied with this level of destruction. He moved on. Instead of creating, he destroyed. He turned entire roadways into his own personal canvas, heaps without placards to tell the world what they were all about.
Monuments.
Later, he'd crafted not a heap, but a tower. Dust filled the air. Not a blip on the radar, not a whisper of Noise in sight. He felt followed by it, incensed by it. Sitting up so high made him a target, but so too was everyone else; he followed them with his eyes, feeling a twisting fire coil inside, lashing back and forth like a cat's tail. Soon, he placated himself, gripping dusty metal pieces and his megaphone. Make it art. Make it beautiful.
More dust. It seemed to circle the top of his garbage tower like a slow-motion tornado, but never once touching him. The Noise were drawn to it. He just kept erasing them. Kept watching his city rot. Kept collecting dust and anger, adding it to his own personal heap.
By night the particles of Soul were so thick that he couldn't see through them and into the city anymore. Clumped together, they seemed to have whispers of their own. He couldn't take it anymore; climbed down from his throne and fled back to the empty lot. No--not fleeing. Relocating.
Not a single speck of dust there in the lot, not anymore. He began returning to it daily, it became his secondary base of operations, his place to think. There next to an imprint in the dirt was a track he'd worn down from pacing, grinding his teeth and calculating. No dust ever gathered there again, it all hung in the sky above his tower like a raincloud, swirling and furling and whispering.
It got loud.
So he drowned it out.
He especially liked hearing the "CRUNCH!!" part. Before long he began creating new pieces of art; tesselations over the graffiti on the wall, numbers etched into the pavement, patterns drawn in the sand around the outline of a body and the groove he'd worn into the ground from pacing. Without the background voice he couldn't think because the whispers from the dusty cloud grew too loud. It baffled him and infuriated him and he flew into rages that often resulted in the destruction of his own art, from time to time. Being unable to grasp why it affected him and his ability to create, to imagine, sometimes, only made him feel worse. And feeling anything at all to begin with was hard enough. But that was all it was: a slip of focus. Not rage or sadness or anything, just a profound amount of distraction that only fixed itself when he played that zetta stupid subset's voice back over and over and over and over, put it on a repetitive loop and decorated the empty lot where he'd been erased.
But eventually, even that couldn't silence the Noise inside. He went to the River to finish everything, so he could clear Shibuya of the fractured Soul that stifled the Music. Not just for that, but as Composer, it would be a priority.
He fell asleep to whispers. As he blacked out, trapped under he didn't know what, he spied his megaphone on the ground and reached out for it, but became slowly lulled to sleep by a dusty lullabye.