Disclaimer: Nope, guess what, I don't own Lain either… ;)

AN: Okay. So there's no plot. But I just kinda wrote it in five minutes 'cause I felt like it. So if you hate it and think it's not worthy to be poster, I'll fix it if you let me know. ;) You never know where I could go with this… Maybe it's only the beginning…

Someone Is Calling

            "Lain. Lain."

            Someone is calling my name. Someone far away, because their voice is faint and fading on my ears of flesh and blood.

            "Lain."

            Someone is calling my name. Someone who doesn't know the danger, doesn't know the demon they are asking to awaken as the syllable falls from their lips.

            If they have lips.

            I don't know what people should look like anymore. I don't know what people should act like anymore. I'm not a person.

            I know that.

            "Lain. Lain. Lain."

            Someone is calling my name. The voice has not changed, the urgency has not grown more or less and my tendency to answer has neither grown nor shrunk in accordance. I am not tempted to respond, because I am not Lain.

            There is no Lain.

            There is only the ghost of the thing they once dared to call Lain, the shell of a little girl who was born a ghost in a world that was dying around her.

            The wired does not die. The wired only grows. Metal cannot die. The wired cannot die.

            Lain cannot die.

            But I can.

            Because I am not Lain.

            There is no Lain.

            "Lain. Lain."

            Someone is calling my name. Someone is calling the name of the god of the wired. The goddess of the wired. The person who was never a person, but a living projection of something more than human onto a human face, a human voice, a human body. A human life.

            My life.

            I am not Lain.

            There is no Lain.

            I absently scratch at my arm. There is a wire there, and it is beginning to bother me. It is beginning to bother my flesh, as my flesh is beginning to bother the wire.

            We cannot coexist, this Lain and I.

            I am not Lain.

            But we cannot live in the same place, though we are two different people.

            We are not two different people, because Lain is not a person. I am not a person.

            No one is a person.

            Everyone is a shell. A shell of breath and blood and bone. A shell that will crumble and die far sooner than the wired borne of the mind and hand and earth. The earth made the wired. Man did not make the wired.

            Man cannot unmake the wired.

            "Lain. Lain."

            Someone is calling my name. My skin crawls as the sound assaults it. Someone is calling for Lain, and my skin thinks that it is a part of Lain.

            My skin is not a part of Lain.

            I am not Lain.

            There is no Lain.

            There will never be a Lain.

            There will only be me.

            And I was never here.

            "Lain. Lain."
            Someone is calling my name.