I have a confession to make.
I am horribly addicted to good Japanese AMVs with good art. Even if the lyrics are sung by a voice synthesizer. And then that somehow led to one video after another, which led me to this set of videos - the Kokoro-Kiseki videos by ... uh, I'm not sure who actually did the art, but the nicovid number is sm2975813 for the Len version of the song.
And then Len just grabbed me and wouldn't let go. No wait, I'm the one who's grabbing Len and won't let go.
(He's so ... huggable...)
So, here's a ... what, a novelization? based off the two songs. I think I'll be sticking mostly with Len's POV, though.
(I'm also a fan of the Aku no _ or the _ of Evil series, but that's a story for another time.)
Oh, one final warning. This is actually my first exploration into the world of Vocaloid, so I can only guess at what their personalities are supposed to be like.
And I don't own any of the characters, or the program, or any of the songs or the AMVs. Except maybe a digital copy of something or another.
Chapter 01
Squeak squeak.
The sound pervaded through the room. The smell of the oil and metal permeated through his senses. He couldn't feel the sunshine that flowed through the windows; they were obscured by the curtains as he isolated himself to the room. The fluorescent light overhead flickered brightly as he sat on the floor trying to work through a few of the many remaining problems on the paper that lay atop the pile scattered before him.
"No, that's not right… The equation should work in theory, but something else is interfering."
He fought not to bite his thumb. The noxious taste that stained his hands had already deterred him several times, but he never remembered the "don't" until he had already done it.
With a groan, he ruffled his hair and buried his face in his hands. The frustration was coming to a head. A few months left, only a few months. Several years spent, so many years he had poured into this project.
He looked up. On what appeared to be a pure white bed, the only soft, hospitable object in the cold room with its gray concrete walls, lay a girl. She was young, the same age as he was, with the same beautiful golden hair and the same pale skin. She was clothed in a yellow robe – a temporary arrangement as he hadn't had time to worry about what she should wear yet. The only care he took was to put a white ribbon in her hair. She had always done that in her past.
"Look! Don't you think I look just like a rabbit with this in my hair? … Don't say it's stupid! You're the one who likes fluffy animals!"
He shook his head. Her voice ran through his mind as though it were just yesterday.
If she opened her eyes, he knew they would be the same beautiful sky blue as his. The color of a sky unmarred by the omen of rain or night. He knew because he had seen them many times before. Because he and she were one. And because he had created them.
He brought his pencil to the paper again, and for the next fragment of eternity, he wrote and erased, wrote and crossed out more. The eraser became worn to bits, both by the paper and by his teeth.
A clock rung. It was the only instrument he allowed in the room that was indicative of the outside world. Time was important. It passed everywhere, no matter whether you ignored it or not.
And with a deadline like his, he could not afford to remain indifferent.
With a great sigh, he placed the pencil down and stood. He stood by the bed. He looked down on her.
She looked just as she did before, like she was taking a nap after class.
"Unless Vocaloids Live is coming on, don't wake me up! I swear, if you try, I'll … I'll punch you in my sleep! … … … Stop laughing!"
He moved his hands to her bangs, gently pushing them to the side. He'd done the motion so many times that the action was meaningless, but he still felt that if he did anything more, she would wake. Somehow, her lying whole and "asleep" made everything completely different from when she's sitting with an arm or a leg missing, being adjusted.
The gears were fussy; they had to be the most precise possible, and he had to adjust them so that they would run perfectly.
He couldn't stand the thought of her movement stopping in the middle of something else.
Like she had died.
He couldn't stand the thought of having to open her up to replace the part.
Like he had when she had died.
When he remembered this point, he felt the tears prick his eyes. It was already a normal occurrence, so he didn't even bother stopping. He just covered his eyes with a clean handkerchief from his pocket to keep the liquid that poured seemingly incessantly from his eyes from contaminating the bed or his notes (and his sleeves were too dirty to be used).
The clock chimed the next half hour. The boy startled; he hadn't expected to stay for so long. He hurriedly got up to leave, but not before gently laying a kiss on the girl's brow.
"Good night, Rin."
With those words, the boy genius, Len, turned off the lights and left the cold, heartless room.