DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Digimon or related chars. Damn. I do however own any original creatures, characters, and concepts (except where SPECIFICALLY noted), including this dumb fic. And while there's not much I could actually do to you should you for some reason steal my crap, I WILL put a hex on you. So THERE.
And yes, the lyrics in this chapter are mine.
Specific notation alert: Teyu is property of my sister Sammi and the Batpig Sexgod, who can be found on Fanfiction.net under the pennames of 'Osidiano' and 'Batpig Sexgod'.
Author's Note: This story is faintly AU (or would that be AC?) from the actual series--BelialVamdemon never happened. In fact, nothing after the release of Quinlongmon and the disappearance of BlackWargreymon happened. Okay? Given that, this takes place one year after 02. I already told you this repeatedly. =P
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12
Falling Down
Takeru was not sure when, or why, or exactly how he had come to be lying on his back on the ground in the Digital World--his head throbbing as it was, his lips broken and burned as they were, and his last memory being some hazy recollection of releasing Hikari's hand. He was, however, fairly sure that it was indeed the Digital World he was lying in--eyes opening faintly he could see a jumble of stars in the darkening sky; a mismatched patchwork of constellations seen nowhere above the earth. Only one place in his limited and topsy-turvy line of sight, in fact, was empty of these swiftly appearing points of light. He blinked, once or twice, at the strange thick line of stark black against the twilight purple-blues, and closed his eyes again.
"Piece of shit!" A low thump from the vague direction of the black line; another loud curse followed by a rapid scuffling. "Ow! Damnit, what the hell--"
Groaning faintly, Takeru squeezed his eyes closed tighter, as if by shutting out sight he could banish sound as well. But the voice continued to shout, faintly ragged at the edges, and against the backdrop of Takeru's pounding skull it was too much; hard and ceaseless, maddening. He groaned again, choking on the sound--he wanted to say 'stop it', or 'be quiet' but all that came out was a ragged cough, and the movement pulled at his battered lips. God but they burned. . .
It hurts so much. Why do we bother, if it hurts. . .so much?
His eyes shot open, and Takeru tried to sit up--struck by a wave of dizzy nausea, he instead rolled onto his side and vomited onto the ground. He huddled, trembling, over the stinking puddle of his own bile; breath coming in erratic gulps of fast, then slow. He could feel the salt and acid burning his lips, and shuddered. What kind of thought was that to have? What kind of. . .of escapist, of coward, of hopeless fool would think anything at all like that? It wasn't even quite so bad--it hurt, yes, but he had felt worse. He'd been injured worse than this, and hurt more than this, and never once given it a second thought.
Why do we bother? God.
The screaming voice was becoming louder all the time, hoarse and gasping as some familiar stranger's throat was torn raw, and it intruded forcefully on Takeru's thoughts. In a way he welcomed the distraction, but. . . Who could they be talking to like that? Nobody deserved that kind of treatment. Takeru almost wanted to get up, just to make them stop. But it hurt too much, and instead he closed his eyes and tried, once again, to shut it out. He almost hated himself for giving up like that. . .but right now he just wanted to go to sleep.
"What are you doing here? You don't belong here--damnit, we got rid of you!"
Maybe you did. The thought drifted into his mind's eye absently, and with equal absence Takeru examined it, much as one turned a bauble in their hands. Maybe you did get rid of me, but I'm back now. I don't know how, or why, or where, but I am. Why am I here. . .? He was sure there was a reason. Wasn't there, after all, always a reason for them to be in the Digital world? Why, there was always a reason to be anywhere, probably. For a moment he remembered the blisters on Hikari's lips, the blisters on his own, and wondered if maybe every thing, every reason, wasn't somehow connected.
Takeru relaxed, letting himself lean and then fall back, flat onto the ground again. He would get up in a moment, and shut up whatever cruel bastard was screaming that way, howling that way at whatever poor hapless soul had been targeted. He would get up in a moment, and the creeping doubt, the slinking slithering feeling that something here was fundamentally wrong, dangerously flawed, would simply slip away. He opened his eyes to the dizzy, spinning heights of the stars, to the purple sky and the featureless line of black stabbing ruthlessly into it. It was familiar, in a way, like that shouting voice and its offbeat curses. It was familiar in an indistinct way, something halfway remembered, like
(torn and tar-stained, wild dark hair; vague and creeping sense of)
some half-heard conversation, someone or something seen in passing and then finally met, an object in a not-quite-noticed photograph. He would get up in a moment, and take a closer look.
But right now his head hurt far, far too much. He was not going to give up, because he had never given up before and this, after all, was not so bad. He would get up in a moment, as soon as he stopped feeling so dizzy and as soon as the sky stopped whirling madly above him, and he would look for Hikari and make everything better again. Yes, in just a moment. . .if only that screaming would stop. . .
Briefly the voice answered his silent plea, but the pause was only momentary--the sound of running footsteps, the revival of the cacophonous shouting noise, now no more than static to Takeru's ringing, aching head. His blistered lips cracked open in a smile as a piece of the spinning sky broke off into shades of tan and auburn, of flame and blue that grasped his shoulders and started to shake him, babbled incoherencies. Did they think the Child of Hope would be kept down so easily? No, he was going to get up, to get up in just a moment, to get up right now--
He tried to blink, but his eyes rolled back. He heard his name called, vaguely as an echo, and his head fell back. He tried to speak, to question, as for one moment his mind cleared of the repetitious fog and delirium, but the words caught in something cold and watery building up in his throat; something warm and copper bubbling out of his throat. For one moment, he remembered and he was afraid.
The moment passed, and so did Takeru. In the closing darkness he was held close, and a gloved hand wiped the trailing blood from his lips, and the high cut on his forehead. In the shadow of the black knife, the dark spire, they waited for something unknown.
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The crackle and light warning 'ping' of the bus intercom woke Sora from her light doze. She blinked muzzily, reaching up to rub faintly at her eyes. When had she fallen asleep? She could have sworn she heard her cellphone ring just a moment ago. Puzzled, she reached for it to check her call record. The bus was quiet, except for that soft tone and a faint buzz of static; a sweet sad voice on the radio singing 'if I change myself will you see me, will I be finally good enough? If I cut my wrists and am born again in blood, then is it love?'. She shivered, because that trembling voice sounded so young. Sounded like it knew, somehow, exactly the feeling it was singing about. And wasn't that wrong?
Her hand closed on empty air.
Sora blinked faintly at the feeling of her trimmed nails, at the sensation they made pressing into her slightly numb and tingling palm. Did Mimi have the phone; had she taken it to make a call and chatter at some old acquaintance? That was a realistic scenario, and somehow it annoyed Sora. Mimi could have talked to her, after all. Could have woken her up. Should have. Mimi shouldn't have even let her sleep, they should be talking because they had to work through this, whatever had happened. It was important. In a way it scared her because she didn't understand it--and how had Mimi mistaken someone else for her, especially after hours on the phone, the talk probably laced with secrets and personal details? Sora wrapped her arms around herself and shivered faintly, closing her eyes. Who would know her well enough to carry on that facade? Who could?
The phone. She needed to find the phone. She had answered it, hadn't she? Why couldn't she remember. . .?
'When the world falls down around us,
does my voice still make you sigh?
Am I still a fool,
am I still a wound
am I worth it in your eyes. . .?'
The music cut around the words, cracked and whirred for a moment. Started again at the beginning. Sora jumped at the harsh screech it made over the system, head jerking up and eyes opening in surprise. She opened her mouth--why? To ask Mimi what that was all about, not because the other girl might know but just because it had to be asked. Why the same morbidly affectionate track kept playing, sick and sweet. The singing was beautiful but there was something wrong, something wrong with those words, the solemn frightened tremolo of 'oh God please, God please' in the voice. Little girls don't sing like that. Little girls don't sing about that. Little girls shouldn't have to learn about love as a kind of desperation or depression. She--
Stopped. Sora was aware vaguely that her mouth still hung open wordlessly, that her eyes were widening until they pulled her face into a horror-film mask of confused disbelief. Her hand reached out again, this time her grip seeking Mimi's beside her, but she knew without looking what she would find. Why hadn't she noticed before?
Her hand closed on empty air.
She was alone on the bus.
No. That was wrong. Rather, she was almost alone. There was still that horrible song, after all, over and over again, snapping and cutting over the speakers. It made her want to clamp her hands over her ears and scream, just to drown it out. There was one other person, as well, and they did not seem to be bothered by the weeping alto on the radio or the wide-eyed redhead staring at them in shock blooming into fear--smiling, the expression not quite kind and not quite sane; faintly crooked or canted like a dramatic camera angle, or the doors of a ship in rough weather. It made Sora sick--it made the young man who leaned over the back of his seat into the space of hers look snake-slick and risky like some kind of killer, casually and in a quiet sort of way. Very Ted Bundy, but with his careless blonde hair and fine face so much more appealing. Hannibal Lecter crossed her mind briefly and she had to bite her tongue to keep, for some reason, from laughing. His arms were crossed over the seat, and despite the clear 'no smoking' signs pasted up across the walls of the bus a cigarette smoldered between two of his graceful fingers, smoking itself to the filter. Sora did not realize she could not see his eyes until she followed that lazy film of white smoke, drifting up before a pair of simple polarized sunglasses. There was something familiar about them--about him, she knew him like the back of her hand; the listless cant of the cigarette in his fingers, the fall of his bangs across his forehead, the quirk of his brow and the way he leaned forward--but with his eyes hidden he struck her with a wrenching sense of anonymity.
If he killed her, all she would ever see would be that smile.
It was that thought which broke her trance, and Sora jerked back with a harsh gasp, pressing herself into her seat and staring at the young man in front of her, realizing that she had been drawing slowly, inexorably closer to him. Her breath came out again in a rush of air, and settled into a staccato pattern of shorter breaths, rapid and shallow. Her lungs seemed incapable of functioning properly, with his unseen eyes upon her. She found her hand--trembling, for some reason now--creeping away, searching for the cord that would signal a stop. She could not see a driver on the bus anymore, but it was still moving. Maybe--
"It's all just a dream, Sora." He took a long drag on his cigarette, but did not breathe the smoke back out. "And this one, you're driving. But dream-buses, you know, are loathe to stop for anyone. Maybe the driver most of all." His smile changed, a faint casual smirk; the look of one who did not smile for even his friends but gave them this, and a something more, and more important in the voice and the eyes which was not evident here. It left the expression cold, distant.
She knew him.
She knew that smile and she knew his face--even hidden by sunglasses and smoke she knew it--but most of all she knew that voice; deep with secrets and like music, in a way, even when speaking. It hit her like a slap in the face, that familiarity even the voice's tainted edge of sibilance, a hiss like static or the distant sea could not diminish, and Sora jerked her head to the side. She stared now through only one wide eye, the other rolling and searching. For an exit. If this was a dream, a nightmare, surely there must be a way back to the waking world?
As if in deference to her recognition he flicked his wrist slightly, drew himself up in his seat to take a small, flourishing court bow. Again, the cigarette came to his mouth and again, no smoke exited. "Took your sweet time, didn't you dearest? But ah, that's you isn't it." He flashed a grin at her around the filter--a glimpse of madly bared teeth, white as moonlight and sharp as needles. She choked. "You're as much of a bitch as I am about that. We ought to start a club."
Sora simply shook her head, denied the experience the words the sight of the those long white teeth, the fangs of a snake but all through his mouth as if his head had been stuffed with needles. She felt tears welling in her eyes. "Y. . .Ya--"
She had tried, she thought, to tell him to stop. Or to ask him why. Or. . .something. Anything. Anything to break the madness. But he held his hand up and cut her off with a sharp 'ah!', and twisted out of his seat shaking one finger at her like a disapproving parent. "Ah-ah now, Sora-chan. You don't get to wake up just yet. Maybe you're wrong, anyway." Another long drag, another dearth of smoke. The cigarette remained from the first inhalation unchanged in size, still smoked just almost to the quick. "Maybe I'm not who you think I am. Maybe I'm the boogie man." It seemed to amuse him and he laughed--not the laugh it should have been but a low chuckle, sea-deep and sliding, sibilant as steam. It made her head pound, like the edge of old static clinging to his voice. "Maybe if you give me his name, you'll sell me his soul. And that wouldn't do--not yours to sell, you know."
He was standing in the aisle right beside her seat, and for a horrible moment she thought he would sit down next to her. He just stood there though, and she shrunk back against the wall of the bus, curled up and slid down trying to make herself smaller; make herself disappear. Her mouth felt full of salt and cotton, tasted full of copper and fear. "Th-then. . .who. . .?"
His smile then was familiar again, the careless for-the-camera half smirk, a lilt of the lips that moved nothing else of his face, and for that familiarity it was worse than the nest of long teeth or the cold crooked serial-killer smile. He drew off of the cigarette once more, and this time closed his hand around it as he finished, so that the smell of ash and burned flesh seemed to fill the bus. His smile did not falter. "Him. You. Strangers. Friends. Me." As if he had saved it all up somewhere inside he blew smoke from his lips now, a long stream of grey-white that hovered and clung before curling away from him. It seemed. . .alive, twisting in the air like some great and incorporeal blind serpent.
Sora was entranced by it, for a moment, until the pale smoke began to curl up her leg, her arm, around her neck--cold as ice and slick as glass it numbed her, burned like frostbite. Struggling, ripping at it with fingers which simply passed through and scraped her own blistering skin, she screamed.
'I will be a fool if it please you,
I will paint my sky to black.
Is it perfect if you bid me 'jump';
and I try to fly
and don't look back?'
He was walking away with his hands held out to the side, his head back as if he appealed to God, as if he reveled in rain or sunlight and he was singing, singing the words with the song loud like he had never wanted, never needed a microphone to make his voice heard. The echo caught in the bus like a bell, deafening. Over the sound of her screaming, he laughed.
"Next stop the Dreamworld, the Wakinglands, cradle of the mind!" Stopped at the head of the bus, he whipped around to face the length again, and gripped the handle of the bus' emergency brake. His smile never changed but it burned into Sora's mind even as she struggled--she did not look at him once but she could see him, even as she struggled with the intangible serpent, tearing gouges in her own skin. "Take no prisoners, leave no soul behind! You ain't seen nothin' yet."
The gears ground, screamed, set the bus to shuddering when he ripped out the brake with a squall of torn metal. Sora found herself jerked back, head cracking glass, and flung forward into the aisle. Her vision spun--smoke and serpent and nightmare. Grinning, laughing nightmare with simple black shades and another smoldering cigarette in his hand, smoked almost to the filter.
'All I want is a reason,
but all I need is a smile.
Just a moment in time,
and the world would be mine,
for a wonderful,
woeful small while. . .'
Crack. Silence. Stutter and scream on the speakers.
'When the world falls down around us--'