THE RECKLESS CHARGING
In which Rhyme is depressing again
Ever since the Game ended, all Rhyme wanted to do was...something.
It was a deep yearning within her, an all-encompassing urge to do something, anything. Something nebulous and only vaguely defined. Something great. Something that would matter, in ten years, in twenty years. Something that would be remembered, something that would make her memorable. She didn't know exactly what it was that she wanted to do – all she knew was that she wanted to do it.
It was incredibly frustrating.
What's the point, she found herself thinking. They (Neku, Beat, Shiki, Eri, and herself) were seated at Ramen Don, one of their usual haunts – Ken Doi was always happy to dish out as many bowls of curry noodles as he needed to, as long as they remembered to pay. The whole gang was clustered around a booth and a table, engaged in everyday pleasantries. Neku and Shiki were engaged in a heated discussion of some kind, and Beat was attempting to flirt with Eri, who was messing with him a little - just to draw out his goofball antics. Rhyme rolled her chopsticks between her fingers agitatedly, casting stealthy glances at her friends. She had figured out a way to see people without them looking at her – if she tilted her head down, a screen of messily-chopped blonde bangs would slide over her eyes, and she could squint from below the brim of her hat and stare for hours and nobody would know. She did this now, vision scanning over Neku, Shiki, Beat... What's the point of this? We always come here, it's always the same. Nothing ever happens. Nothing ever gets done.
She scratched at her elbow, absently. It had been very itchy lately.
'Lost time is never found again.' The adage sprung almost mechanically to the forefront of her mind, and she almost scowled. Almost. She jabbed at her largely-unmolested bowl of ramen, clenching her teeth. Wasting time. Wasting time. I don't have time for this. I could be out there, doing... doing something...
A curtain flickered in the back of her brain, obscuring the Something with dull translucence. It was as if she could, if she strained, barely see the silhouette of the Something, as if examining the contours of the wound where it had been ripped away from her. But what was it?
She couldn't remember...
It itched at the back of her mind like an ant. She gripped the chopsticks in her hand, crushing the wood into her fingers, simply squeezing harder and harder even though it hurt a little.
What was it? Doesn't matter...I could be out there, doing something. Here, I'm not doing anything at all – it's like I'm a waste of space. Another sneaky glance confirmed her thought - her friends were not only not talking to her, they weren't even looking at her. She went largely unnoticed. It's like I'm just...here...but why? Why am I still here, when I could be -
Rhyme's lips curled downward in a slight, quivering frown. She knit her eyebrows together tightly and screwed her eyes shut, the unfairness of it all building up inside her, like a black pillar of thick, tangible fog...
What was it...? Why can't I remember?
Suddenly there was a snap. And then a crushing silence.
"Yo, Rhyme," Beat offered tentatively.
She stared at the broken chopsticks uncomprehendingly.
"Is everything okay?" Neku asked, brows furrowed.
"...I'm fine," Rhyme said slowly, the fragmented chopsticks in her hand looking like broken ribs. A splinter stuck her in the palm; a bead of red blood oozed from beneath the tip. It transfixed her.
As if she'd never bled before. She scoffed lightly - "I'm just...tired."
She plastered on one of her winning smiles, to add authenticity. This seemed to set their minds at ease.
"Well, okay," Neku said, studying the girl before him with a suspicious look on his face. He glanced curiously at Beat, who was suddenly withdrawn. Unusual for him.
His eyes narrowed and he looked back at Rhyme, but the girl had already gotten herself a new pair of chopsticks and was going to town on the soup. That's more like it, he thought approvingly, and went back to bickering good-naturedly with Shiki.
Beat did not understand Rhyme's sudden dip in grades. Neither did her parents. But they said nothing, writing it off as a fluke – surely, there could be nothing wrong with their perfect child? All children go through ups-and-downs – surely it wasn't something to worry about, right?
On the other hand, Beat's grades had never been better, at least not since moving to Japan. His mom had looked him in the eye sternly and told him that, if he aced this next math test, they were going to have to do something to celebrate. Of course this was Beatmom code for "all-you-can-eat buffet," and the promise of food was powerful and compelling. But that wasn't why Beat hit the books – he was studying because he felt like it. He wanted to do well, just to show himself that he could. He had kind of forgotten he had any competence at all, and he wanted to see – just as an experiment, mind you, a tentative flexing of the brain – he had given up on himself, and he wanted to earn back his trust in his own abilities.
But, even up to his neck in a rather mind-boggling math problem, Beat couldn't help but notice Rhyme arrive. She practically kicked the door down, blowing in like a gale-force wind – she didn't bother to take her shoes off, she just dumped her bag in her room and came back. She was halfway out the door when their mom called out - "Rhyme! Where are you going?"
"Out," was the breathless reply.
"But you just got back-"
"I won't be long," she said with an almost strained cheeriness. Beat turned to look at her properly – but she had already slammed the door behind her and was sprinting down the sidewalk.
Rhyme didn't want to go to the restaurant.
It was a waste of time, a colossal waste of time. She struggled to explain this to her parents, scratching her elbow agitatedly all the while. She wasn't hungry, really – and – time is money, you see - while she was at the buffet, confined to a chair like some kind of torture victim – that, that was time that could be better spent, you see? She could be doing homework with that time, she could be doing something... something else, something constructive... something.
Her parents were reluctant, but they eventually caved to her demands. Rhyme could stay home if she wanted. Beat would be disappointed, they told her, as if in a last-ditch attempt to get her to come along, out of obligation.
Rhyme practically shooed them out the door.
She paced around the living room irritatedly for five minutes, waiting until she was sure they were long gone. Then she let herself out the door.
It was dark outside. It was warm and humid and it smelled like dirt and city. Rhyme didn't bother putting on her shoes, she just stomped out onto the curb in her house slippers as if it were a completely normal thing to do.
Speaking of doing.
She whirled around, with the illusion of purpose, and strode confidently up the sidewalk, walking as if she had a destination in mind. She was sure she did, but...
The curtain flickered. She couldn't remember.
Rhyme ground her teeth, the aggravation of it all rising in her like a swarm of bees. She clenched and unclenched her fists, aimless energy spreading through her small body and stabbing out through her skin. She needed...she wanted...what?
What was she doing?
She...she wanted to...
She ran, teeth sliding against each other like millstones.
She ran until her eyes throbbed in her skull. She ran until her throat was cracked and dry of air, a vacuum with red walls. She ran and ran and ran, until her legs burned and ached with the strain of moving, until her diaphragm was a massive, limp bruise and each breath was but a ragged, desperate shadow. And then she ran faster.
The pain raked claws down her flesh, and she smiled a twisted smile.
She liked that hurt, she decided, brain numb from reason. She continued to run, because it felt like she was doing something. Anything was okay, as long as she was doing something. Anything.
Anything but standing still. Anything. Each breath was a painful jerk – the Udagawa wall mural flashed past, and she pressed harder, until it was little more than a senseless whirl of color.
Senseless. That was an excellent word.
Reckless.
A smile twisted Rhyme's face, even as her stomach clenched into a crippling stitch. Spots swam before her eyes – she saw black, stumbled, and fell down.
Her arm itched.
And itched.
A certain boy was wandering around his city on this night, breaking in his new jeans. They were stiff with newness and they clenched his legs, but they were okay. He had been needing a new pair – the old ones really needed a washing. As a matter of fact, they were at the laundromat this very minute, along with the rest of his dirty clothes. The unlife of the Composer was not without its mundanities.
He decided, on a whim, to doodle off towards Udagawa – you know, to see if the bloodstain was still there. He'd been keeping track – thus far, nobody had bothered to scrub it off. He wondered if it was one of those things only he could see. There seemed to be a lot of those, lately.
Suddenly, he tripped over a prostrate body – stumbling ungracefully and spitting out a gasp of a curse in surprise, he whirled around to hassle the bum – don't you know you shouldn't sleep out in the middle of the alleyway? People could trip!
It wasn't a bum at all, though – it was just that girl. What was her name...with the hat, the one with the black hat...oh yes, Rhyme. Joshua frowned curiously – CAT hats are expensive. So are CAT pendants. Joshua had always assumed that the Bito family was rather well-off for these reasons – if they could afford to stuff their children in an array of Gatito threads, they had to be.
So why was she sleeping in the street?
This wouldn't do. Joshua sighed gravely and scooped the girl up, examining her. "You're a liability," he scolded lamely.
Her soul sputtered in his arms.
The other Bitos had returned from the restaurant to find their apartment uncleaned, a pile of homework untouched, and a stunning lack of Rhyme. This was incredible – incredibly distressing.
Now, the fact of the matter was that Rhyme had never done anything like this before. She had never conducted such a stunt in her life – and quite frankly, Mr. and Mrs. Bito – even Beat – had never thought she had it in her, to betray their trust like this. She was so responsible! She was so perfect! How could their perfect, darling jewel become so fractured overnight?
This also presented another, interesting problem – since she had never, never pulled a trick like this before, they had absolutely no basis to draw from. Beat had often run away from home for short periods of time, and he could usually be counted on to turn up at the skate park, or WildKat, or the Udagawa wall mural. But Rhyme?
Where would she go?
Questions were flung from every direction at once, launched from frantic mouths and disbelieving minds – where was she? Why did she leave? What happened? Where was she?
Theories were suggested – her grades had been taking a dip, lately, had they not? What if there was a connection? Did she get hurt? Was she okay? Had she gotten scared and tried to follow them? Had she been kidnapped? Or was this of her own volition? Had she been sneaking out to visit someone? God forbid, a Boy? Had she been seeing that Boy frequently, when everyone's backs were turned over in sleep? Where was she?
They ransacked the house in a frenzy. Eventually Beat was propelled out the door with instructions: go visit the usual angst haunts, on the off chance that Rhyme might be there. He took off like a rocket sled on wheels, naturally.
Mr. Bito ran to the car, and he would spend the next half hour driving in circles, scanning the Shibuya streets for his little angel. Mrs. Bito ran to the phone and proceeded to sob into the receiver, trying to describe Rhyme's charming, uplifting smile and ever-optimistic attitude to a confused policeman.
About ten minutes after the others had fled the premises, there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Bito howled something obscene, dabbing her eyes with yet another wadded-up tissue. Go away, you heartless pig! Can't you see? A mother's heart is breaking in front of you, and all you care about is selling something!
The reply came back, in itself a surprise. "Well, actually, you're right - I'm going door-to-door, selling twelve-year-old blonde girls with skull hats and bell pendants. I thought you might be interested-"
She practically punched the door in half.
Mrs. Bito stood in the doorway – she must have looked like a devil of wrath, with her hair in tangles from being clutched at and her eyes red with grief; the living room light shone from behind her in a rectangular halo, twisted her face into a snarl of shadow.
Before her stood a slightly surprised-looking boy, cradling her unconscious daughter.
Her next words were carved from fury and soaked through-and-through with sweet, sweet relief. "Rhyme! Rhyme!" The willowy woman stepped forward, relief shining in her eyes, relief kissing the brim of her soul and mixing with heated anger in a tempestuous cauldron. "She's not answering – you! Boy! Tell me where you found her, this instant!"
She narrowed her eyes – immediately the blame and anger fell upon this boy, this stranger, holding her child like he knew her well – conclusions were drawn – and she grabbed him by the collar, screeching like an angry hawk.
"What did you do to her? What did you do to my baby?"
"Ma'am, I have done incredible things for your baby," he said smoothly, smirking. This was not an acceptable reaction, and Mrs. Bito shoved him against the wall, shouting.
"You hurt her! You TOOK her! My Rhyme, my sweet little – you touched her, didn't you? You corrupted her, defiled her -"
"I did no such thing!" he snarled, offended. "These senseless accusations are...ouch!" He cried out as the frenzied woman dug her nails into his shoulder, wincing in pain. "Okay, that is enough!" His creepy, unsettling eyes flashed, and suddenly Mrs. Bito's hands were burning.
She jumped back with a yelp of pain. "What the hell? What the hell?" It was as if the child's skin had turned into a white-hot electrical conduit – as if burning light had seared the insides of her palms. What – what -
"You will not touch me, abrasive woman," the demon boy snapped, voice trembling slightly with barely-disguised anger. "I will tell you what I did: I found her, passed out by the laundromat, and I brought her directly here. The incredible part of this thing I have done for your baby, ma'am, comes from the fact that Mother and Father have me on a very stiff curfew. In other words, I'm going to get in a lot of trouble for this." He practically lost control here – his tone quavered in and out, jamming in his throat in places and coming out in harsh punches of air otherwise. "I am not a depraved degenerate, as you so quaintly assume. Keep – your – filthy – talons," - he shoved Rhyme at her - "to yourself."
She was sobbing now. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm sorry I attacked you... I just..."
He took a deep, shuddering breath and eyed her calmly. "It's okay. I understand; you're distraught. But please." The boy closed his eyes, as if in prayer. "Might I be so bold as to suggest 'anger counseling?' Good grief..."
Mrs. Bito wanted to snap at him for that, but she was really in no position to say anything. "I am in anger counseling," she murmured lamely, instead; she wrung her hands painfully and stared at Rhyme until her vision was smeary with tears.
"Well, get a new therapist," he said flatly. "This one's obviously broken."
She said nothing.
The boy watched her carefully, gauging his options. Very, very gently, with tremendous caution, he laid Rhyme's exhausted form on the ground before him. "For what it's worth," he offered, weighing his words tentatively. "I know her through your son. She's a nice girl. I wouldn't want her to get... um, hurt."
Mrs. Bito let out an anguished moan.
The strange boy backed up, slowly. "I really ought to be getting home," he said finally. He pulled out his phone and made a show of looking at the clock and wincing. "Until next we meet, hm?"
She picked up Rhyme and whispered hoarsely: "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," he said cheerily, and vanished down the stairs – the speed at which he darted away betrayed his fear, presumably of being grabbed again. He did not enjoy that.
Mrs. Bito carried Rhyme inside and laid her on the couch.
When the girl awoke, she would find herself back in her homey prison, faced again with the cell of her room and the wardens of her parents. They would begin with measured questions, but soon enough her mother would explode – and then Rhyme would explode right back, in an absolutely shocking turn of events.
It was shocking, considering the state of today's society; but the truth was that Rhyme had never yelled at her parents before. If they scolded her, she would always bow her head and apologize profusely – but not tonight. Tonight she yelled, the numb cage of her mind hanging above her body, surveying the scene with indifference.
It's a waste, she said. It's all a waste. I'm tired. I don't want to talk about it. I'm fine. I'm just tired. There's something I need to do – no, I don't know what, but there's Something, I need to do Something – I can't just stay here! It's – I need to be – I want to –
I want -
I –
Her argument was full of holes, and thus held no water. She was forbidden to leave the house, with the obvious exception of school.
Rhyme ground her teeth and clawed at her arm, flies buzzing in the back of her mind. "Fine," she had said, feeling time pouring out of her in a golden river. Static purred in her ears.
On the surface, Neku Sakuraba didn't really seem to care about Rhyme. But that couldn't be farther from the truth.
How could he feel nothing toward that girl? She was important to him – she was important to Beat. She was Beat's source of energy, source of life. She showed Neku that people don't always hold you back – they can push you forward. She had dredged up memories, too – or at least brushed the surface, given the circumstances – of a similar death. A death of someone important to him. Neku felt the need to protect Rhyme – if she went away, it would be a betrayal of his Friend's memory.
And Rhyme had been awfully strange lately – what was up with that? He sat in his room, rolling a pencil between two fingers and staring into space instead of doing his math homework.
The proxy was rudely interrupted by the sound of Joshua falling onto his lap with a delicate "Agh!"
"YAAAGH!" Neku jumped off his chair and sent his debatable-friend tumbling to the floor. "What the hell, Joshua?"
"Oh, I'm just a teleportation artist," the waifish boy moaned into the carpet.
"That's both 'nice' and 'pure bullshit.' Now, answer my question: what the hell, Joshua?"
Joshua pulled his face out of the floor and looked sadly at Neku. "Brr... how cold. C'mon, baby. Don't be like that."
"I am no baby," Neku said - he sounded irritable, but that was his role in their little play; to sound irritable. "Babies can't do trig like this bad boy."
"Hm!" Joshua mashed his head back into the carpeting and sputtered, giggling. "You have my gratitude, Neku. I needed that."
"Uh-huh. Why are you really here?"
There was heavy quiet for a time.
"There's something wrong with our Rhyme," Joshua said, slowly.
Neku said nothing.
"Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Nekkun." He stretched out under Neku's desk and examined the scratched underside. Probably from those ridiculous kneecaps.
"Yes, I've noticed," Neku grunted after a while. Then, "You're worried about her?"
There was no response; Joshua seemed to be considering his words carefully.
Neku peeked under the table, curiously. "That's...new."
"Her Soul is..." Joshua trailed off.
Blue eyes locked with purple ones, and for a second, they were on the same wavelength.
Silence.
Neku was the one to break it. "Are you going to do anything?" he asked, quietly.
"I don't think I can," Joshua replied, his voice suddenly very small. It shivered in his throat, as if afraid of being out in the open.
"...Why not?" Neku's tone suddenly had a hard edge to it.
"I've already broken enough rules," Joshua snapped. "If I interfere any more than I already have, the Angels will-"
"That shouldn't matter."
"Neku..." Joshua sighed. "I've done too much already."
"That shouldn't-"
"Are you going to do anything?" the Composer challenged, with a withering glower.
Neku's face vanished – there was the sound of elbows slamming onto the desk. He had buried his face in his hands. "It's not fair."
"She was erased. The fact that she exists right now isn't fair."
"What can I..."
Joshua turned his head to the wall. "Erasure...does things to you. She's not...she's not like you, anymore, Neku. She's been to a place beyond life and death. She's seen things we can't understand." Things I can't understand. "We can't reach out to her – she's changed. She's...not..." He swallowed. "It doesn't work this way. There is...there's nothing we can do."
"Nothing at all?"
The room was suddenly cold.
"No."
There was no point in school. No point at all.
It was a waste of time. The biggest waste of time.
It devoured the day and left room for what? Homework and bed. Wake up, school, homework, sleep. Wake up, school, homework, sleep.
The tedium was living suffocation. The daily grind was a pair of white hands, fixed around her throat and tightening with each exhalation.
Rhyme would rather die.
The cycle fenced her in, like a box of ants. A burning cube that seared her mind, twisted her back into knots. Her arm itched. It was all so irritating.
Everyone expected Rhyme to go slow. To fit the schedule. To follow the plan. Well, it just wasn't convenient. It was stupid and pointless, and to hell with all of it.
She just stopped going at all, after a while. It was liberating – now, she had all the time she needed to... to...
The damn curtain flickered in her mind.
Rhyme sat in Miyashita Park – normally, it would be her second period right now. She was sitting because she was dizzy from running and she didn't want to faint again.
She hadn't asked questions; blacking out in Udagawa and waking up in her living room was strange, but to question it was pointless. It was a waste of time to dwell on trivial matters.
Time is money.
Her arm itched.
Time is money.
She hated that she had to rest. She felt weak because of it – all the energy built up in her spine like a battery, crushing her skin from the inside out.
The place smelled like lilacs and grass. Like plants. Just stupid plants.
Things are stupid and pointless, Rhyme thought. What can I do that isn't?
She dug her stubby, chewed nails into her wrist until she drew blood. She watched it trickle down the cup of her palm with metal eyes.
Blood, death.
Death was pointless, if you could just play a game and come back to life.
Blood was stupid, it just kept you alive – and life was just as pointless as death.
It was all so pointless. She was trapped.
The curtain flickered. Her arm itched. Time is money. She could feel the gold flowing out of her body, tumbling out of an aching chasm in her soul and spinning, sparkling as it plummeted into a cold, numb abyss.
Rhyme stared at the sky, her thoughts quick and disjointed, like the spasms of an insect. Her mind was once again crippled by the question – What am I trying to do, here?
I can't stay here forever, she thought dully. I can't think. I can't do school. Too boring. A job? Waste of time.
I want to do something.
Something? What?
Can't remember.
Can't.
The curtain itched. Her arm flickered.
I want... I want...
I want out.
Ever since the Game ended, all Rhyme wanted to do was...something.
And yet her mind wouldn't let her. Impotent rage simmered beneath her shivering, aluminum eyes.
Rhyme couldn't stand it any longer. Trapped, in a cage-like mind that locked away the thing she wanted most; trapped, in a cage-like world where nobody could understand her. This feeling of dissonance, with the very tone of the Earth itself, rang thinly in her soul constantly – she was out of place, here. An afterthought.
It made her so irritated, so angry at everything. Why did she have to be the one? Her brother and Neku were happy, now, because of the Game; Shiki as well, presumably. Why not her?
She had sacrificed her right to live for her brother's. She had been resurrected by the "grace" and "benevolence" of the Composer. And for what? To stand idly by and watch as she rotted away into bitter loathing, vanished into the hiss of locust wings and static, while her friends led full and happy lives around her? They were content to let her disappear, it seemed.
They didn't need her here.
She didn't want to be here.
She clawed at her bloody elbow, pacing in Miyashita Park. Her bones itched.
I want out. There flickered, in Rhyme's mind, a memory of nothing – a memory of a place, beyond life and death, where there was no Noise, no music. Nothing but silence and relieving still.
There, one did not have to worry about wasting time. There was nothing but time, in that place – the blank emptiness of eternity. If you didn't have dreams, there was no need to worry. There was no need for any thought at all, no need for sensations. No curtains. No itching.
She ground her teeth, the drone of cars racing through the underpass faintly audible on the wind. That place...
The memory lingered on her tongue, sweet and tantalizing. Eyes hazy, Rhyme's face twisted into a satisfied smile.
At long last, she knew what she wanted to do.
The cars flashed before her like metal gasps of air, buzzing like mechanical hornets. Their haunting melody sang of memories; of death, of sweet oblivion. If she walked to the middle of the road, here, they would screech to a halt – the driver would shout at her, words of anger and fear, and she would remain very much alive.
Her smile broadened until her dry lips cracked. Yes, the cars would stop if she walked.
And so she ran.
A/N: This is the opposite of the Slowing Down. I guess you could call it the Speeding Up, but that would be ridiculous.
So this is when her dreams are taken, but not the motivation. Damn that would be annoying. Like knowing you have to do some project and it's due tomorrow but you can't remember what it is or what it's about or what class it's for... anyway. My thought is that, since her Soul had not been fully refined by a week of Gameplay, she was Erased, and stuck in Noise form for a long time – her Soul must be pretty damn screwed up by now. This is part two of a three part series
The increased amount of Joshua is indicative of what the third part will entail
Which is more Joshua
yeah I like Joshua
I like him too much; Bito stories require high concentrations of BEAT BITO and less jfoshdua keeri-oo. And, unfortunately for me, I am not awesome enough to write that fantastic skateboarding dumbass in character
I guess I'm just too prissy and well-read on useless topics, such as history and JOHN ADAMS
I need to quit thinking about dancing men in cravats and pick up a book on goddamn skateboarding :U Oh Beat, you poor guy, you need some screentime