A/N: Wewt, my first .hack fic. This, dear readers, is the result of me playing Crossfade's "So Cold" back to back with Lil Wayne's "Get Over," obsessively. Expect sudden outbreaks of emo moments and angry, misunderstood violence, et cetera. Yesh. It's set during those angst-y months in Roots, where our lovable PKK trotted around like an empty shell.

On a different note: I've had this typed in advance, so I should be able to update every two to three weeks.

But enough of my rambling. Warnings, disclaimers (I, of course, own no part of the .hack franchise and because of that will roll in my grave some eighty years from now), the usual. The rest is for you guys to enjoy.

(Waitwaitwait: thanks goes out to the incredible Kaj-Nrig for beta-ing! M'kay, now I'm done. :B)

It started after the Painful Forest and hasn't stopped since. I hear it all the time: when the wind blows, there's a faint whisper. It's their names, over and over again, like some painful hymn that catches in the air and pounds on my ears. It's probably the black armor.

I'm angry and sad a lot of the time now, like something inside of me is unwilling to rest, is unwilling to forget the pain of loss. It pricks like little black roses, with bitter thorns that are angry because the bud is wilting.

Yeah, it's probably the armor.

Something about it is infuriated with The World, infuriated that it dangled hope in front of me like a ball of yarn in front of a kitten before yanking it away and laughing. It's angry at the scorn, angry that The World is so cruel. That's why it–we–can't let go. It's why it keeps whispering their names softly to the gentle caress of the wind.

Ovan...Shino...Tri-Edge...

Get Over

Motif I: Bitter

The soft twilight kisses the ground red here, apparently to try and make the harsh cliffs look less threatening; it doesn't work. Sure, they look beautiful, promising even, with the sun and red stone and all... but then there's the jagged cliffs with their dark depths, and you have no idea what's in there, what's happening under the surface.

Ovan...

I smile bitterly as the name echoes aloud in the billowing wind. Ovan was–is–practically a personification of this place. He was the Brigade's leader, always there, always offering hope, but we never knew what he was thinking, what he was planning. Then there was that incident with TaN and Naobi and Ender, and all of a sudden he disappeared.

The bastard.

Everyone's gone: the Brigade's disbanded and drifted apart, she's in a coma, and where is he? Is he celebrating greedily with the Key of Twilight? Did something happen to him? Should I even care? It's not like he's here, because he wasn't here for any of us.

He wasn't there when Tri-Edge attacked. He wasn't there when she became Lost right in front of my eyes. He wasn't there when I braved the Painful Forest for the sake of desperate hope, for a shot at luck.

He didn't get cursed with this damn armor.

I look in disdain at the black grooves plating my body and flex a hand and wriggle the fingers before my eyes. The armor is heavy on me, on my heart. It makes me bitter, and I know it. I'm restless and angry and sad and broken and I don't know why.

Sometimes I think Ovan wouldn't have wanted things to turn out this way, that he would've put everything on the line to save her and bring us all back together by some mysterious, unexpected way like he always did. He would've brought life back into a game that had died for me a long time ago. I think that, sometimes, but that doesn't make it true. Even if he could come back now, what could he do?

Not that I'd be willing to find out. I'd be too busy clawing out his eyes for turning his fucking back on us to really give him a chance or hear a single word.

A sour taste rolls in my mouth, somewhere beyond the rosy-hued cliffs, and I swallow spit. I feel it roll down the back of my dry throat, soothing it for a moment before disappearing further down and leaving me with the dry burning. There to calm you one moment, gone the next. Ovan was a lot like that, too.

I rise from my perch on a cracked stone and begin my aimless trudge through the blushed sand. I don't really expect to find anything here. A few beasts, maybe, but I steer clear of them. I don't fight monsters anymore; fighting monsters is for leveling, and that was something I'd forgotten about a long, long time ago.

The wind rises and sweeps through a few silver strands of my hair as flecks of sand dot my face.

I don't want to think about it, about any of it. I just want to stay here and be empty, be free from all the memories that hurt and hurt like pieces of broken orange glasses and hurt like the throbbing of a broken heart.

I don't want to feel anything but my M2D on my face and this heavy black armor that I shouldn't feel in the first place, this heavy black armor that reminds me of everything without reminding me of anything at all.

I don't really know where I'm going as I stumble through the storm of dusty red; I just know that I'm going somewhere, and hoping and thinking stupidly that I'll find him, that everything will change and get better.

But it's just a stupid thought.

The storm kicks up again, angry and twisting, because it just refuses to die down and give up like everything else has, like I have. I squint a bit through the clumps of grit and make out the sun's warm red glow reflecting off a slab of smooth rock. Except it's a huge slab of rock, maybe bigger than me, all glowing orange and yellow and red and pulsing like he sun.

But it isn't the sun.

I blink, slowly and purposefully, because I don't want to believe it's there. I want to stop and turn around and just pretend I never saw it, but my stupid, stupid feet keep going, and it's glaring up at me, three deep gouges of the fiercest orange, yellow, and red I've ever seen.

And suddenly I'm burning all over again, burning deep, deep scarlet and ashen, ashen black as it all comes back, as I feel all the old emotions dredge up again and swallow me whole. I'm angry and I'm furious and I'm shaking with rage. I want to strike out at somebody, I want to tear someone apart, I want to tear Ovan apart for turning his back on us and disappearing, for flicking us off and telling us to deal with our own problems because they weren't his anymore. I want to tear him apart for–

"Turn around nice and slow and give us all your items," a voice tells me as the cool barrel of a bayonet presses against the back of my head. The voice is female, and it's smug like it's just caught some poor sucker who's about to get slaughtered out here in this open empty field with no one around to witness it or come to the rescue.

"And make it quick, or she'll knock the brains out the back of your neck." This one's a guy, and he sounds like he's the happiest guy in The World, all glowing with pride and indulged in his own façade of menacing tones.

The girl snickers. "Cut it out, Alpher. Hey, newb, listen up: we two PKs are the law here, and we'll kill you if we feel like it. If you make it easy for us and don't put up a fight, we might not kill you, or hurt you at all. Just give us your valuables and walk away."

I don't. I just stand there staring at the burning orange, yellow, and red that's glaring back at me and blinding me with its fierceness. I just stand there with my back to them, because they're not important, they don't matter.

"Hey." I hear Alpher snarl, faintly, and I can tell he's getting impatient. "Don't piss us off. We're not a pair of wimpy wannabe PKs, we're the real deal and we'll kill you without a second thought. Don't fuck with us, kid." His words are cold; he puts his hand on my shoulder and yanks me around to face him, and the movement is like being pulled out of icy water, because I'm not numb anymore. I take them in.

The girl is the Steam Gunner; I can tell because she's the one holding the barrel to my forehead. I glance her up and down and notice the purple corset and black leggings. She sweeps the pink hair out of her green eyes and keeps her pale hand tight around the handle and trigger. The other PK, Alpher, is a Blade Brandier. I see the short bob of silver hair framing his face as I take in the pale, blue, sleeveless shirt and white slacks. His grey eyes narrow as he studies my face and then widen. I see the fear spread on his face and jump to hers.

"Oh, shit, Stella, it's the Terror of Death!" I watch as panic settles into them and they begin to shake. "L-listen, we're s-sorry, okay? It was a j-joke, that's all!" His voice quivers as the cowardice takes hold of him.

"Yeah, a joke!" the other PK, Stella, offers. "We d-didn't mean any harm! We were–"

But their stuttered words fall on deaf ears as I slip back into my reverie, because they're not important, they don't matter. I only stare blankly as they turn and run, as both of them scramble pathetically to get in front of the other, because neither of them wants to die. I think of the burning orange, yellow, and red and how bitter it made me, and suddenly remember the cold, cold steel in my left hand, whose blade hums like Death when it glides through the air.

I don't blink as I bring 'Death' down.

-End Motif-