The hissing sound soon became synonymous with comfort. It was hard to hate the only thing that ever changed. Mono came to adore the way the signal danced across his makeshift screens, like watching a snowstorm from the safety of a cabin. Sure, he couldn't leave, but why bother when the view from the window was so much more spectacular, so much more hypnotic.

The initial crack he had made in that wall had closed up some many days or months ago, but Mono had learned to open up the walls at will. At first it was hard, The Flesh had resisted his attempts, throwing his small frail body across the cold dense floors, resulting in more than a few bruises and cuts, but Mono had learned to anticipate this, bracing himself for impact, cushioning his fall. In a sense he enjoyed the ride, it meant he was doing something right, and all the injuries, every mark he bore, was worth it just to be able to see that static one more time.

At one point, Mono grew bored, grew tired of squinting through measly crevices; he grew ambitious, perhaps too ambitious. He wanted to fill the wall with a glimmering sea of static. He felt his hands go numb and become hazy, practically fizzing with excitement and, with all the force he could muster, wedged them where the wall and ground met.

Immediately the room shuddered and went dark, the meagre fluorescent light the normally flooded the room provided no warmth, no solace, but Mono didn't stop. He pushed his hands further, deeper until he could feel something warm… something wet. A sickeningly high-pitched squeal erupted from all sides of the room, but Mono wanted this more than anything. The ground started the shake, harder than usual, but the power in that thrummed through his fingers willed him to keep pushing. He started heaving with all his might, all the while the squealing grew louder and louder. The power through his fingers felt even stronger, the buzz he felt so electrifying that he hardly noticed the squealing was right in his ear, so close he would've felt a gruesome breath on the hairs of his neck - but finally the wall gave way, succumbing to Mono. With the rip came a sudden rock from The Flesh, throwing Mono into the adjacent wall.

When Mono came to, coughing up dust, brushing off loose pieces of wall, he paused. He slowly turned to face the wall, mouth widening as he looked, dumbfounded. An entire length had be lost to the static. Sure, it was no wider than his frame but… he could finally he could see those cosmic wonders in all their glory, spontaneously colliding, appearing and disappearing, unbound and free, his solace and comfort.

Entranced, he reached, he needed to touch it, except when he rose his arm, he was suddenly taken aback by his… hands. They were not only distorted and hazy despite him feeling nothing running through them but they… well they were like the static; appearing and disappearing, constantly shifting form one position to another, unbound and not under his control. Panicked, he frantically tucked both hands beneath his arms, hugging himself. When let go, he was trembling slightly and his hands shook with fear, but they no longer seemed to be… abnormal. Perhaps it was just… the trick of the light! He thought, clenching and unclenching his fists, turning them over. Mouth dry, his attention quickly turned back to the wall, entranced once again, as he slowly reached towards it. The static seemed so much louder than they did when viewed from the cracks, as if he had somehow freed them, as if he were somehow closer to the snowstorm, so close he could see the individual snowflakes.

Just as his fingers were a mere inch from the static, he paused. He could feel the power of the static in the tips of fingers, a gentle hum irradiating off of the makeshift screen into his body. Was it really safe? He questioned. He hardly knew what he was dealing with - for all he knew he could be playing into the hands of The F—

CRACK!

A small but bright bolt shot through the screen into his fingers, sending needles throughout his body, the light from the bolt seemed to grow brighter and brighter. He shut his eyes hard the skin along the entire length of his arm suddenly felt as though they were being singed. He yelped in burning agony and began frantically pulling his arm away from the screen, grabbing at it with his other hand, tugging and —

And then the pain… just stopped. As he slowly opened a single eye, he realised his hand was stuck against the static filled wall - as if glued. He stood for a moment, transfixed. What-

He pulled again, less frantically but no less frightened. Still stuck.

Panicking, placed his foot firmly against the static, feeling a slight buzz, but nowhere near the blistering pain he felt just moments ago in his arm. With his foot against the wall - static - he tugged on arm again, but this time, he felt the static itself pull on his arm, beckoning him into the static.

Mono stopped pulling - clearly it was taking him nowhere. Was he stuck like this forever? Until he dies? No- He can't die, that's not how things work here. Was he stuck like this for eternity?

Instead, he bowed his head and inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to calm his heart that beat like a drum in his chest, muddling his thoughts.

Raising his head, he stared up at the Static. What do you want from me?

Mono's eyes bored into the static, perhaps he could enjoy it… being stuck like this… He stared at the little particles, dancing about in place and out of place, some forming brief shapes and patterns and some interfering with others. As he looked, he felt as if he could imagine the shapes and patterns persisting, burning into his vision. He imagined a great rectangle, like a tower standing in the great length of the wall. He could almost imagine the white parts of the static being split into green and blue and red and redistributing and arranging themselves to his liking. Red at the top, green outlining the tower and blue making the bulk of the picture he painted in his mind. He could imagine it with such clarity… so much so that… the static hardly looked like static anymore…

With a start he realised that it wasn't his imagination at all. Standing tall over him was an immense tower, but more than that, it was a city, amidst a storm. Dark, brooding clouds covered the landscape, casting the city into shadow, showering it with icy water, cold as daggers. But what they cast was no match to the overbearing feeling of the tower. All the surrounding buildings, seemed to bend towards its presence, twisting and submitting to it. At the top of a tower was a menacingly red light, the only source of luminance in the scene but was by far the darkest presence.

I… I know this place. He felt with such surety. Even though he was no more than an onlooker of the scene, he knew what that rain felt like, what it felt like to have the city crumble around you, what it felt like to look at the tower, at its feet, and to feel it staring back at you.

He leaned back slightly, expecting the tug of the static to hold him up but - he was unstuck. The connection was lost. He looked at his freed hand, and back at the wall. It was just static now.

He found that the longer the stared into the static, the more it would tell him.

At first it showed him just the city. Sometimes his eyes would wander over the bare room and catch a glimpse of the scene in the corner of his eye. Sometimes the city would be so loud and the bright red beam so penetrating that it was impossible to ignore.

One time Mono decided to touch the wall again, only to find it stuck and for more shapes to appear in the static. He saw figures, as monstrous and imposing as the tower. Figures with contorted limbs; long, short, constantly writhing. Figures trapped in their own making; mirrors, feasts, taxidermy. Figures trapped in their own ambitions; cold, devious, calculating.

He was glad they were only apparitions.

He discovered that, to see something new, he needed only to touch the static, to make a connection with it. Only then could it find a signal worth showing.

They weren't always as clear as the city, sometimes parts were missing, sometimes obscured, sometimes fuzzy.

He saw objects. He saw a paper aeroplane, cages, chess pieces, bears that were well worn or maybe just well loved, a paper bag with two holes, an axe and a music box.

Sometimes he saw children, but he knew, even though the static, that they weren't like him - they were made of something entirely different.

Making a connection still hurt, but he came to enjoy it in the same way he enjoyed how The Flesh reacted to him ripping open the walls. He anticipated the pain. It meant he was doing something right.

Mono gazes at the static. He's just ripped open a new section of the wall after the last had closed up. He likes this rip, its bold and its new and it looks like a brush stroke across the bare wall. One day he dreams of painting the whole room with the static.

He holds his palm up near the static, feeling the electrifying hum of untold wonders from behind the static. He craves something new, for the static to teach him about the world he can't see.

He places his palm against the static and immediately feels his nerve endings flare up. It feels good. He grits his teeth through the pain, but he's smiling, he can take it.

When the white-hot pain subsides, he regards the brush stroke.

The particles start to fall together and as the final piece of the puzzle falls into place, he sees a figure. Their limbs are small, but they don't contort. In fact, their whole body is small. They're nimble, quickly darting across his screen, in and out of focus, crouching and sprinting in succession. It reminds him of how the static dances.

The figure continues down what looks like a narrow street in the city, spying an open window of a building and struggling to get inside due to their small stature. The vision follows them in. It's dark and its cold and the figure looks like its shivering, a victim of the elements. Mono feels something akin to sympathy for them as the figure hugs themselves for warmth and sniffles quietly. They cock their head suddenly, as if something caught their eye. They trudge toward a piece of clothing on the floor; even in the static it's startlingly yellow, piercing through the darkness and grime of the scene.

Mono look upon the figure, mystified as they put on the coat and watches at it settles on their shoulders with somewhat of a great weight, as if it means more to them that he could ever know.

Then the figure turns. They - no she - faces Mono, a smile upon her face and her hand outstretches towards him. She's pale and she has soft brown eyes, and her smile invokes the kind of warmth that even the sound of the static can't make.

All of a sudden, his hand is unstuck, and vision becomes an unreadable snowstorm again.

Who was that? He thinks, clutching at his chest as his heart aches for familiarity of the scene he can't explain.