Prologue. Someone has to help
He was cold. For someone who was in a fire (so red, so orange, so yellow, and sosoSO HOT) he was terribly cold. Especially his legs, which (hot, and hurt, and something fell, why is itsoheavy) were covered in bandages and something even more cold than his own skin. He knew, they hurt. They hurt like nothing (hot, and bright, and – oh – so painful) he thought he never knew before. The bright light under his eyelids (so heavy, but not as heavy as something that fell on his legs) never came off, tearing his thoughts apart.
And the voice.
It rang in his ears, in his brain, in his soul. Words rang, and shout, and begged, and, pleased…
On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain
Ten, Thousand, Million, no-number-that-big-lion
ZERO (Someone has to help)
He only thought it hurt. He is alright (no [NO] he is not, arms are cold, eyelids are heavy, legs are cold and heavy), he has to be.
ZERO (Someone has to help)
The first time he woke up (no, it's just the first without red, and orange, and yellow sparks, and heavy – so heavy – cold in his lungs and limbs) he saw a demon. The face, red and white – white and red – over his own burning one. No fire – there was no fire, but he still felt the burn, and heat, and colors dancing on his (oh, so cold) skin.
He soon drifted back to the red and yellow (HOT, so, so COLD) world, so apart from the real one. His mind pleased, begged, shouted for a hint of blue, green, violet. To never see that red and white – white and red.
ONE (Someone has to help)
He fell. He tried to float, to fly, but he fell to red, and orange, and yellow
ONE (Someone has to help [him])
The second time he woke up (the tenth, twentieth, not second) he was in black. He knew, his heavy (why are they still heavy, why won't they become light) eyelids were shut, and it wasn't black. But was finally not too bright. He felt his (heavy, still heavy and so cold) body, and not just arms, just legs, just lungs. He was [(w)hole].
This time there were sounds. The cold –clack–s of unknown (life-support, it's definitely life-support which stick to his skin with it's cold wires) machines, drums of drops so high above his head.
THREE, FOUR, FIVE (Someone has to help [him])
And someone (not that face so red and white – white and red) was there, touching his cold skin.
SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT (Someone has to [..])
He woke up many times since then. Sometimes it was hot red, the others – cold black. Sometimes he was (always is, because his skin is still cold) alone, but most of the times there were they – with –clack–ing instruments, and cold (yet so hot) metal, and words, that kept ringing in his brain even when he finally (because it hurts, it never stopped hurting) fell into sleep, wishing to see [?] ones more.
Step by step, he gained power – to sit, to stand, to (not his legs, these cold metal thing were not his legs) walk. He learned, he studied, he trained. It's not like he forgot then – he never bothered to remember (only body – oh, so much – remembered). No questions (he remembered himself, that's MORE than enough) asked, no answers received. He knew, that they called themselves [***], but he himself (they didn't like it, especially the one – WASHI – in the black mask) called them "Kabuki". And now he was one of them.
NINE (Someone has to[..])
He was never told so, but he just knew (it was burned on his brain, inside of his thoughts, all over his cold skin) he was.
NINE (Anyone has to [..])
He got his mask after three years since he woke up the first (not the first, he told himself, and not even the tenth) time. Not NEKOMATA, how he (and USAGI, oh, little frightened USAGI) thought, but KITSUNE instead. And a (hot, red, burning) sword. Now he was ready to start his own [play]. And the stage would be [San-Francokyo].
He observed it from so high above (all those blue, green, violet lights), feeling the knowledge, aching under his shattered(and torn, and burned, and gathered back again) skull. The knowledge – the memory – that he was not able to get from his sick mind. But he knew (one of the only things he truly knew), that the answers were there, write under him, on the red, hot, black and cold streets of San-Francokyo.
TEN ([..] has to help)
And Tadashi – KITSUNE – was going to get them.
TEN (Someone.. HELP)