I promise that this time, I will go more in depth with characterizations.
Also, I will not be using any conveniently made up main characters. And now
I have two friends who want to beta my writing, and therefore better my
writing. This idea has been sifting around in my brain for a while, and now
I'm finally getting down to it.
Heh . . .this fic is based off of the song by the Goo Goo Dolls, and still I don't really consider it a songfic because its gonna be way more than one chapter.
Saberpilot. . .if you read this. . . I honestly did not know that you came up with a similar idea. This stuff I wrote has been sitting on my hard drive since Christmas, and I only recently decided to finish the chapter. I can promise you that this fic is going in the opposite direction of yours, though. Still, you published before me. So sorry, sort of.
IMPORTANT: New review policy :) . . .I'm going to try and answer all reviews in my chapters, just for a change of pace. I will go back to my old policy of "screw this" if too many people complain. For now, if you don't like it, then simply use the approved method known as "scroll down" or "ignore".
For information concerning this and any of my other fics, visit my bio. I usually have interesting tidbits such as the amount of chapter completed there.
**************************************
THIS FIC IS BASED OFF OF BOTH THE ANIME AND THE MANGA. IN THE MANGA, HARUKO LEAVES NAOTA HER VESPA. IN THE ANIME, HARUKO LEAVES HER BASS GUITAR.
***************************************
Living in the Big Machine
****************************************
A lever clicks up. The beeping red light alerting any organism present of the change flickers and dies. The illumination of the LED is lost in the pitch of false night. If there were any light, the heat waves would distort one's vision as they rise over quicksilver surfaces and pulse towards the sky, or at least where the sky would be if there wasn't a knotted mess of bolts, pipes, springs, wires, and circuit boards in the way.
Heavy gears clunk and turn. The ka-chunk of the lowering lever echoes. Steam puffs out of thin nickel grates, wafting into the air but never transcending it. It chooses instead to mingle with the breeze, slowly poisoning the nitrogen-based atmosphere. One might notice the irony in the way that the things people create can be their downfall.
And to think that all of this was invented to smooth out the wrinkles in our brains.
Such is life, conceived in the tubes and belly of this mechanical madness. The universe stretches eternally around the big machine, constantly pushing its borders, expanding while at the same time still waiting for the time to come when it will shrink down to the size of a pea (from whence it came). In a repeat performance, the universe, like the pea, will then again stretch and grow its roots in the soil and lift its green towards the sun.
But this universe, in actual working terms, is only the atom of another bigger picture. And that bigger picture is merely a minute part of an even larger, more fantastic verisimilitude.
Likewise, within the metal monster's mouth and coiled up in its curling entrails are more atoms. More protons, neutrons, and electrons.
More smaller planes of reality that are each separately convinced that they alone are the only true path on which to walk.
And in one of these fragments is a black universe. And within this black universe is a sparkling, gyral galaxy. And within this sparkling, gyral galaxy is a silver star. And, eternally orbiting this star is a planet hued in viridian and azure. And on this hued planet is something that less than half of all the other planets in this particular galaxy have: life.
The deep, calm blues of the ocean, the land's choppy brownish greens, and creamy spirals of storms seen from the silence of space create the addictive delusion of perfection on this gently tilting globe. But underneath, from the peaks of the cotton-ball clouds, the decay is revealed.
Smouldering, graying cities stoop in their own decadent filth. Noxious vapors spew from the factories and clog the lungs of Homo sapiens – the predominant sentient species. They hunch their backs and pull their cloaks closer to their unshaven, weathered faces lined not with age but the hardships of life.
One particular gridded framework of buildings and people is very reminiscent of the layout of a computer chip. The cars and people perfectly represent tiny pieces of information traveling from place to place, streaming from one building to another. The buildings themselves are gray blocks but for the exception of the occasional area of private suburban homes with slanted roofs. Even then, from above, all buildings, all people, and all cars look exactly the same; one emaciated head the same as the next, one rusted car no different from any other.
Flashes of nature frequent this scenario. Some of these fields are the few that man hasn't managed to overrun. The dry, faded grass here crackles like candy wrappers and has the consistency of hay. Its famed green coloration is noted in only a few places – like next to the river. This spectacle is overshadowed even then by the presence of man – a concrete bridge framed by welded steel hangs above the crunchy grass.
In a way, it is an analogy for what man believes to be true about nature.
Nothing strange ever happens here.
Except. . .
One structure is a deformity among the pattern established by the blocks below its hill. It is quite unusual in shape. . .
It has smooth, bending silver sides and is completely devoid of windows. If you stand with your nose to its chilly exterior, you will see your own face staring back at you into your eyes. For some unknown reason, there is an onyx appendage perched atop this structure. Upon closer observation, it would appear to be a handle.
In fact, when surveying this edifice from a distance, one would have to comment that it is actually a huge iron with the tip thrust into the ground so it is jutting diagonally from a gentle promontory in the ocean of normalcy.
The events leading up to this mutation in the dismal bowels of a brown, choking city are remembered by a selected few.
One of those bearing said memories is one Nandaba Naota, age fifteen, who is currently straddling the border between dreams and reality.
We can observe this fine specimen of Homo sapien lying lazily in bed this sunny Saturday morning, still asleep though it is noon.
Posters of bands and UFOs smother the walls of this upstairs room. Clothes litter the floor in colorful laundry heaps whose brightness is dulled by the lack of light let in by shut blinds. Dust predominates this habitat, especially settled over an old photograph in a wooden frame on his desk. Vaguely visible through the blankets of dust is a face gone unseen for years but still fresh in memory.
Strawberry hair and peach skin curl around a feral grin. Sunlight eyes burn hotly even through the dust, staring at the lump on the bottom mattress of a bunk bed. The top is empty but for a navy Rickenbacker bass lying there. This bass is, quite possibly, the only thing that isn't covered in fine white particles.
The mess of blankets nestled in the bottom bunk stirs and groans. Shuffling the sheets aside, a pale face and two bleary blue eyes poke out – topped by a wild mess of fine black hair.
For Naota, the first day of summer vacation has just begun. And boy is he ready to start his day. . .
The blankets tangled in Naota's lanky limbs and tripped him up as he attempted to extract himself from the bed. A loud thump signaled the contact between his head and the cool pine floor.
...Or not.
"Itai. . . ." Naota grumbled, rubbing his eye with one fist and giving his room a half-lidded glare with the unoccupied pupil. Slowly, he let the world drift back to him until he remembered where he was and what he was doing here.
Now more fully aware, he disentangled his legs from the sheets and stood, clothed only in a pair of black boxers with little green aliens printed all over them.
Once he recalled what he was aiming to do today, he was suddenly in a rush.
Dashing to his decrepit dresser, he successfully stubbed his big toe on the corner before yanking the drawer open with a bang. Wincing but not allowing himself to slow down, Naota dug through the unfolded – but still clean – shirts shoved deep in its recesses before shoveling out a white t-shirt with a slot machine logo on the front. He snatched a pair of black shorts in a repeat of the above and dressed as quickly as humanly possible. Although he had no real need of it on this warm day, Naota still grabbed his old periwinkle sweater before thumping down the stairs on his way to the kitchen.
The kitchen had unofficially been declared Canti's domain years ago, when the robot was still new to the house. Even now, the scene was much the same – Canti was standing, metal backside facing Naota, with his pink apron securely knotted around his lanky frame. By the sound of it, he was chopping something with a knife.
Though whatever Canti was cooking up smelled good and would probably taste even better, Naota was not in the mood. He had something more important than food to attend to this fine morning. Sneaking around Canti, Naota lunged for the refrigerator and whipped open the door. He thrust his hand inside and caught it on whatever was left in there. As soon as the heavy white door was shut again, Naota bolted.
This action did not go unnoticed by the robot caretaker. His PC monitor head curiously turned on its gears, and a large white question mark lit up the blue screen.
Meanwhile, Naota was still running. He almost crashed into a heap down the two steps that led to the dirt. Luckily, he caught himself at the last moment. He veered off towards the garage only a few feet away, his legs pumping and his breath coming fast in his throat. His cheeks were lightly pink from the exertion he put on his body. He wasn't really in shape anymore, not after having quit baseball all those years ago. Naota had found something else to strive for, ever since that day. . .
Presently, he arrived at the nondescript side door to the garage. Swinging it open with a whining creak, he confidently stepped into the darkness within. To illuminate his surroundings, Naota flicked a light switch.
For a moment, he paused to admire his handiwork. The garage was admirably cleaner than his room, with old decaying matter shoved safely away on plastic shelves. In the center of the clearing, like a holy object from days long gone, was the vespa.
Naota could almost hear the angels singing as he lightly stepped up to the blindingly yellow contraption. It shone in the dusky gloom the single lightbulb overhead could provide. Breathing in the scent of old carbon monoxide, Naota rubbed a nonexistent speck of dust from its gleaming handle. Contrasting sharply with the shiny newness of the vespa was a worn cobalt backpack graying at the edges and stuffed to the brim. It was sprawled unceremoniously on the vespa's jet black leather seat cushion. The food and drinks from the fridge were dumped on top of this bag in one quick motion.
Naota eagerly grasped both handles, an image filling his head. Lint was brushed off of the memories and they became as sparkling as the vespa.
****
Warm lips burned on his. Two delicate hands cupped his cheeks. The tongue that had been so pleasantly invading his mouth stopped, pulling back into luscious red lips. For a few moments, the only sounds were those of two people panting as they struggled to regain their breath. Naota opened his eyes to find her there, undeniably sexy in her unusual attire - a playboy bunny suit this time – even to his younger self. She and him were on their knees, facing each other. Her hypnotic yellow cobra's eyes stared down at his own.
"I'll leave you this hyper flight vespa," she said. "With practice, you'll be able to fly it into outer space too."
Heh . . .this fic is based off of the song by the Goo Goo Dolls, and still I don't really consider it a songfic because its gonna be way more than one chapter.
Saberpilot. . .if you read this. . . I honestly did not know that you came up with a similar idea. This stuff I wrote has been sitting on my hard drive since Christmas, and I only recently decided to finish the chapter. I can promise you that this fic is going in the opposite direction of yours, though. Still, you published before me. So sorry, sort of.
IMPORTANT: New review policy :) . . .I'm going to try and answer all reviews in my chapters, just for a change of pace. I will go back to my old policy of "screw this" if too many people complain. For now, if you don't like it, then simply use the approved method known as "scroll down" or "ignore".
For information concerning this and any of my other fics, visit my bio. I usually have interesting tidbits such as the amount of chapter completed there.
**************************************
THIS FIC IS BASED OFF OF BOTH THE ANIME AND THE MANGA. IN THE MANGA, HARUKO LEAVES NAOTA HER VESPA. IN THE ANIME, HARUKO LEAVES HER BASS GUITAR.
***************************************
Living in the Big Machine
****************************************
A lever clicks up. The beeping red light alerting any organism present of the change flickers and dies. The illumination of the LED is lost in the pitch of false night. If there were any light, the heat waves would distort one's vision as they rise over quicksilver surfaces and pulse towards the sky, or at least where the sky would be if there wasn't a knotted mess of bolts, pipes, springs, wires, and circuit boards in the way.
Heavy gears clunk and turn. The ka-chunk of the lowering lever echoes. Steam puffs out of thin nickel grates, wafting into the air but never transcending it. It chooses instead to mingle with the breeze, slowly poisoning the nitrogen-based atmosphere. One might notice the irony in the way that the things people create can be their downfall.
And to think that all of this was invented to smooth out the wrinkles in our brains.
Such is life, conceived in the tubes and belly of this mechanical madness. The universe stretches eternally around the big machine, constantly pushing its borders, expanding while at the same time still waiting for the time to come when it will shrink down to the size of a pea (from whence it came). In a repeat performance, the universe, like the pea, will then again stretch and grow its roots in the soil and lift its green towards the sun.
But this universe, in actual working terms, is only the atom of another bigger picture. And that bigger picture is merely a minute part of an even larger, more fantastic verisimilitude.
Likewise, within the metal monster's mouth and coiled up in its curling entrails are more atoms. More protons, neutrons, and electrons.
More smaller planes of reality that are each separately convinced that they alone are the only true path on which to walk.
And in one of these fragments is a black universe. And within this black universe is a sparkling, gyral galaxy. And within this sparkling, gyral galaxy is a silver star. And, eternally orbiting this star is a planet hued in viridian and azure. And on this hued planet is something that less than half of all the other planets in this particular galaxy have: life.
The deep, calm blues of the ocean, the land's choppy brownish greens, and creamy spirals of storms seen from the silence of space create the addictive delusion of perfection on this gently tilting globe. But underneath, from the peaks of the cotton-ball clouds, the decay is revealed.
Smouldering, graying cities stoop in their own decadent filth. Noxious vapors spew from the factories and clog the lungs of Homo sapiens – the predominant sentient species. They hunch their backs and pull their cloaks closer to their unshaven, weathered faces lined not with age but the hardships of life.
One particular gridded framework of buildings and people is very reminiscent of the layout of a computer chip. The cars and people perfectly represent tiny pieces of information traveling from place to place, streaming from one building to another. The buildings themselves are gray blocks but for the exception of the occasional area of private suburban homes with slanted roofs. Even then, from above, all buildings, all people, and all cars look exactly the same; one emaciated head the same as the next, one rusted car no different from any other.
Flashes of nature frequent this scenario. Some of these fields are the few that man hasn't managed to overrun. The dry, faded grass here crackles like candy wrappers and has the consistency of hay. Its famed green coloration is noted in only a few places – like next to the river. This spectacle is overshadowed even then by the presence of man – a concrete bridge framed by welded steel hangs above the crunchy grass.
In a way, it is an analogy for what man believes to be true about nature.
Nothing strange ever happens here.
Except. . .
One structure is a deformity among the pattern established by the blocks below its hill. It is quite unusual in shape. . .
It has smooth, bending silver sides and is completely devoid of windows. If you stand with your nose to its chilly exterior, you will see your own face staring back at you into your eyes. For some unknown reason, there is an onyx appendage perched atop this structure. Upon closer observation, it would appear to be a handle.
In fact, when surveying this edifice from a distance, one would have to comment that it is actually a huge iron with the tip thrust into the ground so it is jutting diagonally from a gentle promontory in the ocean of normalcy.
The events leading up to this mutation in the dismal bowels of a brown, choking city are remembered by a selected few.
One of those bearing said memories is one Nandaba Naota, age fifteen, who is currently straddling the border between dreams and reality.
We can observe this fine specimen of Homo sapien lying lazily in bed this sunny Saturday morning, still asleep though it is noon.
Posters of bands and UFOs smother the walls of this upstairs room. Clothes litter the floor in colorful laundry heaps whose brightness is dulled by the lack of light let in by shut blinds. Dust predominates this habitat, especially settled over an old photograph in a wooden frame on his desk. Vaguely visible through the blankets of dust is a face gone unseen for years but still fresh in memory.
Strawberry hair and peach skin curl around a feral grin. Sunlight eyes burn hotly even through the dust, staring at the lump on the bottom mattress of a bunk bed. The top is empty but for a navy Rickenbacker bass lying there. This bass is, quite possibly, the only thing that isn't covered in fine white particles.
The mess of blankets nestled in the bottom bunk stirs and groans. Shuffling the sheets aside, a pale face and two bleary blue eyes poke out – topped by a wild mess of fine black hair.
For Naota, the first day of summer vacation has just begun. And boy is he ready to start his day. . .
The blankets tangled in Naota's lanky limbs and tripped him up as he attempted to extract himself from the bed. A loud thump signaled the contact between his head and the cool pine floor.
...Or not.
"Itai. . . ." Naota grumbled, rubbing his eye with one fist and giving his room a half-lidded glare with the unoccupied pupil. Slowly, he let the world drift back to him until he remembered where he was and what he was doing here.
Now more fully aware, he disentangled his legs from the sheets and stood, clothed only in a pair of black boxers with little green aliens printed all over them.
Once he recalled what he was aiming to do today, he was suddenly in a rush.
Dashing to his decrepit dresser, he successfully stubbed his big toe on the corner before yanking the drawer open with a bang. Wincing but not allowing himself to slow down, Naota dug through the unfolded – but still clean – shirts shoved deep in its recesses before shoveling out a white t-shirt with a slot machine logo on the front. He snatched a pair of black shorts in a repeat of the above and dressed as quickly as humanly possible. Although he had no real need of it on this warm day, Naota still grabbed his old periwinkle sweater before thumping down the stairs on his way to the kitchen.
The kitchen had unofficially been declared Canti's domain years ago, when the robot was still new to the house. Even now, the scene was much the same – Canti was standing, metal backside facing Naota, with his pink apron securely knotted around his lanky frame. By the sound of it, he was chopping something with a knife.
Though whatever Canti was cooking up smelled good and would probably taste even better, Naota was not in the mood. He had something more important than food to attend to this fine morning. Sneaking around Canti, Naota lunged for the refrigerator and whipped open the door. He thrust his hand inside and caught it on whatever was left in there. As soon as the heavy white door was shut again, Naota bolted.
This action did not go unnoticed by the robot caretaker. His PC monitor head curiously turned on its gears, and a large white question mark lit up the blue screen.
Meanwhile, Naota was still running. He almost crashed into a heap down the two steps that led to the dirt. Luckily, he caught himself at the last moment. He veered off towards the garage only a few feet away, his legs pumping and his breath coming fast in his throat. His cheeks were lightly pink from the exertion he put on his body. He wasn't really in shape anymore, not after having quit baseball all those years ago. Naota had found something else to strive for, ever since that day. . .
Presently, he arrived at the nondescript side door to the garage. Swinging it open with a whining creak, he confidently stepped into the darkness within. To illuminate his surroundings, Naota flicked a light switch.
For a moment, he paused to admire his handiwork. The garage was admirably cleaner than his room, with old decaying matter shoved safely away on plastic shelves. In the center of the clearing, like a holy object from days long gone, was the vespa.
Naota could almost hear the angels singing as he lightly stepped up to the blindingly yellow contraption. It shone in the dusky gloom the single lightbulb overhead could provide. Breathing in the scent of old carbon monoxide, Naota rubbed a nonexistent speck of dust from its gleaming handle. Contrasting sharply with the shiny newness of the vespa was a worn cobalt backpack graying at the edges and stuffed to the brim. It was sprawled unceremoniously on the vespa's jet black leather seat cushion. The food and drinks from the fridge were dumped on top of this bag in one quick motion.
Naota eagerly grasped both handles, an image filling his head. Lint was brushed off of the memories and they became as sparkling as the vespa.
****
Warm lips burned on his. Two delicate hands cupped his cheeks. The tongue that had been so pleasantly invading his mouth stopped, pulling back into luscious red lips. For a few moments, the only sounds were those of two people panting as they struggled to regain their breath. Naota opened his eyes to find her there, undeniably sexy in her unusual attire - a playboy bunny suit this time – even to his younger self. She and him were on their knees, facing each other. Her hypnotic yellow cobra's eyes stared down at his own.
"I'll leave you this hyper flight vespa," she said. "With practice, you'll be able to fly it into outer space too."