Weekend drabble-ish things! If you've read one of my earlier Twewy fics, it has the same concept, but looked at and examined from a different pair of eyes. Also, for the sake of vagueness, I've experimentally used second person here, and I have heard that not many people like reading from that point of view.
But in any case, have fun reading my incredibly craptastic shit.
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You breathe in the morning light as it dawns over your kingdom. Arms stretched out, toes tip-toeing so dangerously on the railings of a skyscraper. It's so easy, you think, to just tilt yourself forward and fall with no escape. It's just as easy to lean backwards and stumble ungracefully onto the dusty tiles.
You exhale the moment the sun shines through the thick cloud cover - your feet slip and you tumble back down, the wind just barely easing your head-first fall onto the roof.
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You wander the city, hands stuffed into your pockets, eyes looking with bored, aimless interest. You have an initial preference to never follow the crowd, moving opposite or against the tide of people. But today, you have no urge to follow your heart. Your steps mirror others, close to following, though you are not at all attentive of that point.
Your head moves to its own made-up beat as you cross familiar buildings and landmarks, recalling the days of another time. Sometimes you pause, stretch a hand out to possibly nothing at all, really, but more than often you never stop, and keep on going.
On and on and on, until the very sight of color and noise gives you a sense of mindless drowning and sinking, and you retreat to quieter, subtle places.
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You have a plain interest in looking in the crannies - searching for the little, hidden things, tucked away like forgotten antiques in a dusty attic. In this ever-moving mini-world, such things are stationary and quiet, relieving their visitors of the present and giving them a sense of nostalgia, one way or the other. In your search, you have found many things, from homely confectioneries to aromatic herb shops, and so many more.
Today, you come across a small shop as you walk along the outskirts of the city. There is no display window, unlike most shops these days, but the swirling, dull-gold store heading is enough of a guess. With a push of the wooden door, a bronze bell rings above your head, and tick-tocks invade your ears like a murmuring background song. Clocks surround you, leaving a narrow space to browse. You don't mind the constriction, though, as you walk about, taking in sight of grandfather clocks lined up against the walls and cuckoo clocks sitting on rounded oak tables, all dating from days long gone. You're maybe just a little bit surprised to not find anyone in here, attending to the shop - or perhaps, was this place never really open to begin with? The thought is an idle one which you don't quite act upon.
The clocks tick to noon. With their pendulum chimes and mechanical bird chirps trailing after you, you turn around and quietly leave.
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Time moves on. It takes only a second for noon to be regarded as after-noon. You have two opinions on how to spend it - with a cup of coffee, or sitting somewhere high up. Both are the same, honestly, and while eating isn't necessary, it comforts you in a way. To Wildkat it is.
With that thought, you lead yourself to Cat Street. There, the familiar cafe stands, closed with no lights or sound or people inside. But that's what everyone else thinks. You open the door with a hand, despite it supposedly being locked and utterly disregarding the fact that the Producer would be annoyed for your increasingly-frequent trespassing into his cafe, and make your away behind the counter. The angel had shown you the basic ropes at operating the machinery and the like, if only because you had asked, so it does not take very long for you to take a seat at a random table with a steaming mug in hand, an eye looking out through the glass.
This week, Jupiter of the Monkey is the top brand - the normally quiet street is thus a little crowded and flooded with people more than usual, people leaving with bags bearing the store's brand logo and others chatting over their phones as they head into the store. Their conversations are all mixed together, blurred and muffled, and to you, it's just noise and a different sort of static in your ears. In other words, just daily people-watching.
You blow a breath over your coffee before lightly sipping the beverage, your mind trailing on and off on the most simple of topics, or nothing at all - it's a peaceful, albeit lonely way to spend a few hours.
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Your favorite spot of your world - of your small, restricted, locked cage - is the highest point that you can reach. You dislike your underground throne room, almost hating it really for its gloomy and heavily judgmental feel, which however fitting for your status is not what you prefer personally. At the simple wish to free yourself, you warp up to the tallest structures that you can step upon, being swallowed by the clouds and ever-blue of the sky.
You want to be carried away by the wind, you think fancifully at times, but you know things can't be like that. You are an elaborate mantle-piece inside a crystal case, meant to remain where it is to be admired, magical and perfect. Where you, yourself, cannot free yourself of your own will.
Only another's hand will make this world turn and spin. Only someone else can break open the cage's door and can set you free, if only to take your place, and there is just as many people who want to rob your godly ranking as there are those who know the situation and will gladly refuse to steal your crown.
You can't say, either, that you don't understand such intentions.
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You sit alone at Udagawa, back to a half-forgotten mural, playing with the whispering songs and tunes whistling in the air. Afternoon is dying into twilight, but the fading of sunlight does not scare you at all - your hands are stretched out, up, fingers posed as if you were the conductor of your own orchestra, and in a way, that's genuinely a funny joke, because you're only a little above such a ranking.
You remove some notes, add some new ones, tweak the others either high or low. When sour notes pass into your ears, you either smooth out their sounds or throw them out altogether - honestly, you're just a bored little Composer, waiting for the inevitable end of, well, anything that can signify an end. It depends on your mood, which has become more volatile and prone to swinging around dangerously, as your angelic companion had remarked once before. You were still more sane of mind at that time, and questioned if that is how kings have always been.
Hanekoma agreed, frowning as he remembered something, and gazed silently into his pitch-black coffee. You could have made a most accurate guess to him, but you had decided not to, for the answer was obvious and there was no need to waste time - you had, and still have, both enough and none of it.
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You would go through reports of the weekly Games, rarely finding brilliant souls to either revive as human or reaper, and so far, never finding a soul wonderful enough to ascend. A possibly long time ago, you were worried for such things - your ranks were very weak, and the refinement of Soul was the basic goal which you were not succeeding at.
Now, however, you can really care less. You know the end is coming. And at the end, it hardly mattered whether the Games bring any satisfying results, or whether the hierarchy of your kingdom is aptly filled and long-lasting. The end is the end, and when you disappear with it, so will everything else in following.
You feel almost impatient for it.
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Many have remarked that you are just a child. You are not surprised - you had arrived in this world before your proper time, and forced into your role as the keeper of your city. Your mentality was then just a boy of fifteen, and now, even with the years and the decades so scarily close to adding up to centuries, you still have a mind that goes as it wishes and plays as it likes. Rules and limits will not restrict you forever, though you remain obedient to them to a fair enough extent for the Angels to lay little suspicion upon you should anything curious happen.
But lately, you are entertaining some certain thoughts. Little, trailing sentences and words that would always wonder - what if I do this? What if I do that? All it takes is a gesture and an idea, and you are often tempted to do just that.
Nonetheless, you don't go through with them every time, because those thoughts suddenly pick up and then you think and remind yourself of justwhat you're doing - and your hand will drop back to your sides as you understand, distressingly realising just how much of a carbon copy you are.
Individuality, your ass, you're already losing your own.
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You know how things will be and how things will end. You will grow ancient and stagnant as the world is constantly reborn anew around you. Spring to summer, to autumn to winter - and then back to spring, like a revival of inspiration. Like that, life is a beautiful session of time.
Death can be just as beautiful too - but now, it is not. Everything is dying, however ironic the word of choice. You realise now, and even when you first took up this position like the clumsy newcomer everyone used to be, the afterlife is beginning to rot and crumble and decay in your hands. Ever so slowly, ever so quietly, ever so painfully.
Shibuya is a poisoned city. There is no hope for it now - not even for you.
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You fly from rooftop to rooftop, invisible to the living with your frequency tuned high. You're oblivious to anything else as evening settles momentarily - until you reach the Shibuya River, finding a frequency and song that is very much out of place.
You find a boy, playing with his phone, diamond and crown charms swaying as he furiously presses buttons and then erases whatever he was typing into his message. Just another person, in looks and behavior, over all. But as you carefully pass him, he tenses and snaps his head in your direction, as if sensing something, but uneasily forces himself to relax. His eyes and expression show nothing, perfectly blank and emotionless, but when you scan him, you can hear his thoughts say otherwise - I know you're there. And I will see you there, soon.
You can't help a confident smirk at the words. A most daring challenge, but you can't consider it so, because you can easily foresee the clear future with your clairvoyance, which ends in his erasure and your echoing, murmuring words - not yet. My end isn't by your hands just yet.
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Your walk through the sewers is slow and patient - you can almost swear it's nighttime, maybe even close to midnight, once you reach the Dead God's Pad. Not much of it has changed over the years during your rule, though you have to admit, it's become a lot more messier in here. Not to mention, constantly empty. You are its only visitor, and very few Reapers or Officers tend to come by nowadays. Not that you mind the solitude, for it was the only companion you had when you were alive for a majority of your time.
You easily hop across scattered art supplies and wobbly stacks of album CDs, careful to not accidentally send any more of them falling down to the glass panel flooring, and enter your monochrome throne room. Your every step echoes and bounces against the plain walls - your every action is even louder, whether it's just breathing or sitting. You close your eyes and, though not the most comfortable of places, sink deeply into your throne with a long sigh.
You busy yourself with happy things - the beautiful things that come to mind. It's all you can do, as you endure the wait for tomorrow. It is all there is, your day-dreams between your past, stopping you from falling asleep and remembering. Except, even with your naive hope, it never works out.
I would do it in any way, but this is the only one.
It is much like a game of chess, my dear - you can kill the king and be crowned king in return.
Except, here, you are just another disposable pawn from the other side of the board - but you have finally reached the end, and now, you will become a queen.
Humans are selfish creatures, living a life that has never been fair.
Isn't it natural, to want to… just, disappear?
You earn yourself a headache and numb pain when you hit the floor, having fallen off your throne by the shock of abruptly waking up. Your hands grasp at your head, lips pulled into a grimace, and you wish so much, like every other time of the day and year, that you could have done something - anything, that could have ended in no nightmares and happy endings.
But you know that won't happen. Things are fated in this world where coincidence is only inevitability - and you are just another wheel in the grand construction of history.
Bye bye, Neku. Our time was enjoyable, despite it all-
You slowly get to your feet, still feeling dizzy, as the distant sunrise touches your city. Another day is here.
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