7 Percent DI Energy, 100 Percent DI Love
Disclaimer: This is semi-crack, meaning even though it's crack, my style (read: inability) will develop, execute and present this as something to be taken seriously. Very, very srsly.
Tl;dr, mind-screwery imminent, you've been warned.
I am a sinner, and my unrequited passion will be my ticket to hell. Every morning, we recite the Kinschip Creed, and every afternoon we devote ourselves to watchful prayer. Sometimes we are shaken, and sometimes we spend hours motionless, but all the time we are to look forward to the End, and in the meantime keep open, honest tabs with each other. And yet I cannot focus, for another has taken my heart; not as glorious as the notion of fulfilling our purpose of existence, but a mere physical being, something of this temporal, secular world!
Ah, if not for that fateful moment when I first realized its presence, I would not spend my limited waking moments torn between burning desire and harrowing guilt! If only the Bag did not shift to that position, with me at its edge, judging by the vibrations from the Outside-of-the-Bag that there was something new! We potato chips are sensitive beings, of course, thinned and peppered with seasoning; the high surface-area-to-volume ratio (coupled with that of the seasoning, which is an extension of ourselves), means we pick up and process movements and thoughts faster than most other objects (such as the Bag itself). This sensory ability was the reason I discovered it despite being such a distance apart.
The Death Note.
The unusual print on its cover, the unusual contents, the unusual material itself caught my attention. It was placed gently on the desk, wrapped in a regular cover, but the sheer out-of-this-world nature was overwhelming. It was almost idiotic to think that it was indistinguishable from a normal notebook just because of the disguise. I reached out to it cautiously, wrapped my consciousness around it in an effort to understand.
That was when I learnt two things: firstly, I could not - the function of the book and its mechanism of operations was not comprehensible. It followed a different set of physical laws altogether. I should know; I'm a potato chip, after all, and are we not the epitome of reality-biding objects? The second was that I was in love with this thing. A queer feeling took over me when I came to realize that this book was special (the understatement of a lifetime). It was one-of-a-kind, it had come from a whole different world, it held secrets that did not belong. It was wrong, but that, I believe, was what ensnared me. Its nature was so repulsive and individualistic that I immediately yearned after it. Now this sounds ironic - I suppress a snort even as I dictate this - but the foolish saying "opposites attract" may have more truth beyond magnets. How do they work, anyhow? Just as mysterious as that was the feeling that burned in my essence.
Like the brethren, I know the concept of love in words but not practice. I believe to some extent all beings know love, for what else is there to balance out the selfish impulses of our own souls? I immediately recognized my feelings as "love" - a boundless desire, admiration, almost worship of something other than myself. I loved this notebook for its radicalism. The next moment, I realized that I wanted this notebook for myself, and I wanted it to feel towards me what I felt towards it. Promptly I doubted my feelings - they sounded selfish and base. But the feelings were so strong, and so new, that I found myself wavering. Yes, I fell as quickly as a genius's countenance when he is informed that he is to split top honours with an unkempt, eccentric newcomer.
I could not bring this up to the brethren. Such a thing was unheard of, and I feared their reactions, both against me and regarding themselves. Our faith was cultivated since the Packaging. How could such an institution crumble at a simple encounter? Many would doubt and struggle, and I did not want to burden others with this cruel fate. No, I alone must bear the consequences of my sin and my choice.
There was a rustling. The Hand reached in. There was much rejoicing, for this was it, the prophesied End! You must imagine, therefore, our extreme confusion when it did not take, but introduce instead this flashing box thing. Pictures of men and scrolling word bars flickered across it. Of course, our faith proved true in the end. The Hand returned, and lingered about.
There was much prayer and hope. Many wanted to be taken. But I...I was not sure. I had found a new love, something to strive for, a real want. Was I willing to give it up for my old faith? Was it worth it, trying to achieve the impossible at the cost of my life's one true purpose?
The Hand decided for me. It lifted me up, and in moments I was assimilated into the End.
"I'll take a potato chip...and eat it!" thought Light Yagami, heart pounding as he went along with his plan. He had memorized the name and seen the face. There was no way that the cameras would have caught him. Now, to enter the registry into the Death Note...
I awoke.
I had been assimilated, not only physically, but also mentally.
I was part of the whole that was Light Yagami, and shared in his knowledge, past experiences, memories. I now knew what the notebook, my object of affection, was - it was the Death Note, a tool of the Shinigami that ruled the cycle of life and death.
More importantly, I was still in love with it. I loved the Death Note, and I knew then that my feelings were true. What else could it be for it to survive death and regeneration itself? Yet my love was different: It was deeper, yet more shallow, a baser appreciation of the power it brought, the power to be God - to kill and to bring justice to the world. With the Death Note, I was God. And I admired it and desired it and cherished it with my whole essence. It was my most prized possession.
Better still, it belonged to me. It was mine.
Though it would never feel for me, let alone communicate with me...perhaps that was enough for me to be content. My love was my possession. It was all that I could ever achieve. And that, indeed, that was all that mattered.
A/N: Every so often, an author gets derailed from his/her main project. Most of you subscribed to me for my "Life and Times" series, which originated from the crazy idea that Derpy was mane character of the ponyverse, as well as derailment from my original novel work. This here originated from the crazy idea of Potato ChipxDeath Note, as well as derailment from "Life and Times". Pattern, anyone? I haven't given up on it (and never will) but I'm plodding through it slower than I'd like. So, why not crack?
I'm no good at writing humour. You can tell because this is way too serious for a crackfic. Even so, I'd like to hear your comments and reviews! So get crackin' (see what I did thar?) and tell me what's on your mind! =D thanks for reading, and I regret nothing!