Outside, the moon howled and sighed in its leisurely bed of clouds, jet blue sheets of sky comfortably wrapped around it. A hungry wind was brisk as it softly murmured past the night, tickling and petting trees and grass. Birds, for once, felt like humans, living upon the sideway floors of their wooden building homes. They chirped, twittered in the chilly dark of nature, singing their song of praise for the calmest night. The full moon smiled a thousand smiles built on top of each other like stacks; stacks that were bright with their luminescent glow. Lunar cheers faded in the wind.
Inside, Eric did not stir; he did not move even the tiniest finger, the smallest toe. Darkness surrounded him, and so did an arsenal of machines, their blatant glows and clicks and beeps humming against the solemn walls of the tiny orange room, set up by the hands of a teary eyed person. Wires that brought his body bound to the machines seemed like robots, ropes, almost that tried to hold him up, tried to keep him from falling, as if the careful, infatuated hands of his friends were keeping him alive, and not the monotone characteristic of a machine. His eyes were closed, carefully almost, like angelic, soft fingers delicately brought them down like shutters, for they had given too much sunlight, and now, they needed a rest. His body lay helpless, still like a cold, freezing robot in the soft cushiony clouds of bed. His mouth was silent, vocabulary lost, and all around, it was like he listened, listened to the beat of the machinery, solemnly humming along to its graceful, delicate tone, and remained quiet, remained still. Secretly, he gave the only applause in his mind, and slowly, he began to listen for the new beats, the new rings, the next beep. He was alone; not a soul was with him. Not a presence lingered about, paid company to him – not just yet. But destiny pleaded him to wait seconds, minutes, in fact. He would not be lonely then, it promised.
Away, a boy couldn't sleep. He lay in bed, night now deepening into midnight, into late night. And he, he just waited, waited because his eyes refused to close as delicately as Eric's, because he had no mechanical tone to subconsciously listen to and applaud. He had no comfort; he had nothing. Walter stirred in bed, tossing and turning the sheets, still fully clothed because for some reason, he felt the need to remain in his clothing. He sighed, tired, yet somehow, not tired. Darkness hid in corners around, watching, looking after him like paranoid guardian angels. Orange walls remained dull, monotone with their perfect, flat faces and bodies. His brown eyes shuddered, the air stuffy with one side of his head against the pillow. The pressure put on his hand that hid beneath the pillow by his head seemed enormous, abnormal. Yet he ignored it, all the same. To be able to defeat someone with the same power as you multiplied by so many times over… amazing, he had to admit to himself, somehow not very fond of this fact. Just because he had a purpose. If so… Walter turned to the other side of the bed, searching for comfort. He found the cooler side, a more refreshing side, yet nothing; no comfort came. Can I do the same?
He eventually gave up, and lifted himself from the bed. He pulled the sheets away from him, speedily, tediously. His body fully awake from the sloth-inducing bed, he walked out, and listened, for once, subconsciously, to the soft clicks of his slippers, and stepped out the door.
PoVS
Minutes passed. Teresa sat vigilantly on the chair, sighing nervously every now and then, mind blank of what to do. Should she breathe, she thought, she would wake up Eric. Or, if possible, disturb him? Shall she move her feet forward, delicately place her arms on the bed? Shall she even look at him; did he know she was watching her? She revealed her self-conscious side to this, this boy and this boy only. She ticked at her teeth, violet eyes wandering off as she herself listened to the secondary tones of the heart monitor, zigzag lines going nauseously up and down, up and down like a perfect roller coaster, a slow one at that. They traced at her patience, slowly wearing it out, yet giving her more, in all equilibrium. Derek stood feet away from her; back against the wall, watching him with no guilt, no suppression of emotion. After the battle he had seen, he had been forced to contemplate. Then, Minoa spoke, the eerie silence that filled her with suspense tolerated no more. "He'll be all right, right?" she asked, ticked herself nervously.
"Yeah," came a slow answer. Derek's deep, hidden voice seemed in thought; he crossed his arms nervously, protectively. "It'll take a few hours, though, before he can be fully well again. I never knew how much he believed in," Derek bowed his head towards the floor. His straight black hair seemed unruffled and perfect – just like always. He scoffed at himself, ashamed of himself. "And I said he would be the one to lose."
Teresa picked her head up from her self-consciousness. "Huh?" she forced out without noticing, her lips acting on their own. She seemed shocked, plummeted with surprise.
"I believed the same thing as Hibiyomi. But, now, I believe in Eric," Derek admitted to himself, and Teresa as he watched the silent, stable pose of Kahibi Eric. The sight of his bravery, even in asleep condition, was amazing, and couldn't help but force a tiny grin from Derek's face. His darkened eyes cheered up for once, brightening. Teresa, seemed to be stuck in her miniscule shock. "Strong doesn't mean without emotion," Derek went on to say. "It means having a good reason to be strong."
"He made you realize all that, huh?" Teresa asked, smiling to herself. She watched the dark, perfect features of Eric's face. His eyes seemed confident, as if his job were not done yet, despite their closed condition. She could tell from his eyebrows, the position they were put under.
"Of course," Derek said, almost excitedly. He got up from the wall and clicked his other foot against the ground. He turned to Teresa, and continued to speak, speak with a newfound confidence inside him. "Don't you see all ready?" he asked. Teresa seemed dumbfounded. She wondered if they were still on the same conversation. "It took a long time to realize it, but he's the main character of a story like this." Teresa said nothing, contemplated. Her violet eyes were in a trance of thought, her lips gracefully sealed just as Eric's were. Then, they looked to him in complete soundlessness, watched his resting face that was unstressed, untroubled. They kept their eyes away from each other now, and not from detestation, but from interest – interest in this boy's life. They watched, they listened, unvigilant, to the soft hum of the mechanical wires, halfheartedly listening to their choir of music and beeps. Their ears – they kept a watchful eye over the heart monitor, the zigzag lines that kept their hopes up, carried it away in upright, downright healthy mountains.
PoVS
Walter walked down the hall in search of comfort; or in other words, because of sheer boredom. Walls were eerie with a calmed, cooling grudge. Soon they would heat up again; soon their anger would rise in the depths of the distant morning. The halls were thin, narrow, encasing; their ends seemed without. His footsteps clicked without a doubt, his brown eyes dark, beckoning, icy. He searched for something; he didn't know what. He ventured downward, rather slowly, as he tried to meet the limitless end of the hall to turn the next corner. Little did he know that he would wish just seconds later that he had not even left his room.
When he reached the corner, something, something eerie caught his ear. It twitched, awoken in the growing midnight. A slight humming, neither angelic nor demonic. It was of pure neutrality, and swam through the distant halls of the dimension, filling their orange boredom into a brimmed choir. It sounded so familiar, so – so strange; like he had heard it just few times, not many, but enough to recognize it. However, he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, what it meant. He backed up, didn't know why, hid behind the wall before he went into the next hall. He listened to the hum, the graceful tune as it seemed to be so close, so near. He kept his head barely outward, just to his eyes so that he could peer into the depths of the dark and watch, watch for anything strange. Then, behind the background of hum, he found footsteps, footsteps different than his own, for he did not move at the time. So distant, so familiar. Just what was it about it that told him to keep away so much? Walter disregarded. His mistake.
Is it a council? He thought, narrowing his eyes as if giving a cold glance into the dark. No reaction. He expected none, yet he wished for one. No… this eerie feeling… Walter seemed tense. A fearful sweat drop that signified his indecisiveness swam down his temples. It glistened in the nonexistence of light, glistened brightly like a faraway stare. What's going on? He continued to watch forward, unnoticing of his surroundings and obstacles, especially behind him, where his eyes could not reach.
Just a bare foot away from his leaned back, something twisted, cracked, remained unnoticed to his ears that only focused forward. A clean, white bone glimmered softly, like a shrill whisper of winter, white and clean as snow under light. It protruded like a unicorn's horn from the palm of an open, greedy hand, and pulled back, reeling in the sharp dagger slowly, surely, patiently. Then, the dagger reversed – quickly, came through Walter's back. A sickening cracked stab broke the air, sent squirt of blood into the air. The dark redness was blotched by the dark orange of the walls, somehow blending in to the whole scenery. A weak cry uttered from Walter's lost voice as drops of blood came down to the floor, dripping from the crooked blade. Its tip was bloodstained now, tainted with murder. The drops slowly fell to the ground in a slow, lost bead from the eternal necklace of time. One drop of red. Two drops of red. Then, finally the third one, fell to the ground; but it was different than the first two. This one was not blood. This one was made of one thing, and one thing only: Water. The dagger, still struck through Walter, was moved around, jiggled, toyed with. It shot out another squirt of blood, another tiny, miniscule scream. That squirt of blood, it splotched the air like paint, but its dark red, it's deep devious brick lightened, turned backward as it continued its spit to the air. The deep, hateful scarlet turned into a light, clear blue, became harmless, and fell to the floor, darkening the ground in its own shade, and not replaced by another.
Walter strained, but he knew he was safe, he knew he could be sure of his health right now – for this bone dagger had not struck his heart. It had struck through his hand, which connected to a wrist of clear blue water, and connected in a distorted, inhuman position to his arm socket. The hand, still made of skin and blood, began to widen and twist, and the tanned skin and reddened skin because nothing but water, watery fingers that held the thin, sleek bone dagger in its palm, stuck. A white presence held the bone protruding from its hand, and slowly, sneakily began to raise from the orange wall its waist connected to, slowly coming upward as if from water, the plaster cracking and cackling as it stepped out fully, one shadowy leg at a time. "It's been a long time," a familiar, whimsical, raspy voice said. The second leg crawled out, and took its first step to the cool, asleep ground. The plaster wall took a long while to reform itself to its normality. It seemed to crack, hiss with nausea as it repaired itself.
Walter looked ahead, unalarmed, not the least bit of panic in his depth of brown eyes. His lips were silent – his emotion did not change. He was brave. "White Cloak," Walter said with no enthusiasm, no fear. A darkened, shaded smile grew beneath a clear, impure garment. Walter reacted quickly now, taking his hand painlessly away from the now wet bone as the dagger retreated back into the gloved hand. He twisted his body, turned and distorted his other arm into a wave, a rush of water. It overtook White Cloak, sent him flowing down the other end of the hall with enormous pressure as the water roared into the next hall, and evaporated rather quickly there.
It took a while for the water to wash away, constantly crashing, hissing, roaring at collision, as if making sure that each and every tiny little molecule hit, pummeled against the being, the intruder, the person who most people feared. The crash of water faded as the light, shallow blue died away into air. Nothing was left – but a huge, gigantic vertical shell of white, an enormous shield of cragged, distorted bone, thick with calcium and minerals. It glimmered healthily, sickeningly in the absent light, and cracked, cracked to slowly, reluctantly reveal what it hid in its crooked, undeserving hands. Walter waited, the only thing he could do. "Wh-What?" he whispered to himself, half full of awe, the other half of him shocked, surprised, freaked out.
Tension rose as the actual presence of White Cloak sunk into Walter's mind, revealed itself fully to him, making him completely aware of what could happen – and what he could lose, many of the answers blank, yet many of them full, and unwanted, not yet quite feared, but most definitely disliked. The white shield began to crack open, snapping horribly with a shock in your spine. Walter watched, eyes widened in horror as the bits and pieces of the bone fell apart. It soon began to collapse, the darkened distortions overtaking it and eventually avalanching downward to the ground. White Cloak stood behind the bond shield, unharmed, unscratched, perfect, mint condition. Inside, he had the pleasure of knowing that he had the upper hand so far, even by the tiniest scale. "Is that all?" White Cloak asked, putting vulnerability of shame in Walter. The boy widened his eyes, as if shocked by the question, then narrowing his eyes in hate. "I'm disappointed, Walter. You could've learned so much from me if I hadn't gotten rid of you," he teased in a rasp.
"Damn it; shut up!" Walter screamed, an outburst of hate buried over the time he had been here. "What are you!? What're you doing here!?" he shouted, ungrateful of his presence, awakening the beast within the calmest night. Birds twittered, disappointed. Trees rustled, tickled, tickled by soft, demon fingers from hell. The moon even began to howl, louder and despaired, fearful.
"What?" White Cloak said, rather comfortably, normally. "I can't visit my old subordinate? I have a purpose; just like you do," he said, turning cold. Walter scoffed, meanly, meaner than he had meant it, which was just perfect.
"I don't buy it," Walter growled, eyes shuddering, hiding their old fear that had been brought back by White Cloak's impure words, sinful thoughts. The world seemed to tilt; nothing made sense anymore – or, at least, began to. Things toppled over and the balance of the dimension shifted.
"Is that so?" White Cloak piqued with a chuckle, a soft, devious chuckle. "Well then, allow me to…evaluate how much you've grown, Walter-chan. I'd like to bet that it's not much."
"Damn it!" Walter howled, fixing his stance and preparing his body and arms and legs before even realizing it. "Don't patronize me, fuckhead!" he screamed from pure anger, anger from within him, anger that he had ever since that day… in Hanayuki. With that, he sent out a fist of water, rushing through the hall and air like a missile, connected to his arm socket. The clear, roaring water zoomed through the air like a bullet, a bullet that was too fast; much too fast for your own good. White Cloak stepped to the side, and the aquatic fist crashed into the wall behind him, spilling out rocky plaster to the ground in clinks. Walter scowled. The arm jiggled, bounced like a jump rope.
Seeing a chance, the white clothed opponent jumped from the ground and onto Walter's still connected arm, and began walking – running on water. His cloak ruffled with the air resistance he made as he made swift movements across the slim bridge of wetness. The surface of it was unstable, and quivered with every step. "You think I'm going to let you use me like that!?" Walter shouted, face, jaw, eyes shuddering, trying desperately to remain still and hold back the fear, the scare, the knowledge of any chance of being… absorbed. Walter dispelled the aquatic arm and exploded it into tiny, microscopic bubbles of water into the air, and knowing this, White Cloak jumped from his position and rushed, rushed away into nowhere.
Walter, with his slowly regenerating arm, turned around, eyes shocked, frozen, petrified. His mouth hung wide open, body and mind only vulnerable for a second's worth as he found White Cloak appear right behind him, just inches away from pain, inches away from death. Then, before he knew it, a punch sent him flying to the other hall now, and the two had switched ends. Walter crashed into the wall, making the tenth dent of the long day. He fell to the ground, weak, overtaken by surprise. He dropped on all fours, coughed from the intense whoosh he just got put through. His clothes were ruffled with dust, his voice coughing out hacks of spit. Dust hissed from the dent and cleared almost immediately, ringing in the boy's ears like a memoir, a memoir he neither wanted nor needed.
"You're still weak," White Cloak commented as Walter slowly, much more weakly brought himself up to his feet. His slouched back took a while to straighten out, took a while to bring back to full extent.
"I'm not losing to scum like you!" Walter threatened, bringing up a weakened arm to wipe his mouth. His eyes showed no mercy, and he forced himself ready, just like Eric did. It's time to prove that I am strong… that I can defeat someone much more powerful than me because I have a purpose! Walter declared of himself. He straightened himself up and fixed his stance prepared. The boy scowled at himself, even more at White Cloak. He ran for it, rather quickly, too, and gave a basic, harmless punch to White Cloak. The enemy grabbed his fist right into his gloved hands, the silky fabric eerie and strange to Walter's skin. Walter, realizing he was caught, couldn't help but chatter teeth. The warmness of his clenched fist began to fade and deteriorate; decomposing into a deep numbness that made his tanned fist colder and colder, his tanned fist bluer… and bluer. He watched, eyes full of awe, full of disbelief. He couldn't escape.
"Scum?" White Cloak whispered in a ghastly, raspy voice. "Pay close attention, boy. You'll get nowhere with your goals saying insults like that," he accused. The grip on the boy's arm suddenly grew tighter, more exasperating.
Fingers beginning to lose their feeling, their touch to Walter's body, he forced a strong, dependent answer. "You don't care about my goals!" Walter shot back, angry. His teeth, shaking, were tightly clenched now as well, just as angry as scared. "You never did!"
"No," White Cloak stated bluntly, dully, making his point clear. Walter widened his eyes; why did he think whatever White Cloak said was true? Just because of the enormous difference of power and battle experience between him and himself? It was foolish to think so, but it was also true. "You're wrong," White Cloak spoke softly, gently, as if a calming parent, a serene, affectionate guardian. "The truth is, I've cared all along!" White Cloak brought Walter closer to him and gave him a hard, abnormal punch to the chest and sent him flying to the exact same dent as before. Would they have to repeat this damned cycle? It would not turn into Walter's favor.
Walter spat out a strained cry, wincing horridly as he fell from the crack and back to the ground. His head bowed to the floor, his limbs sprawled on the plaster ground all distorted and broken in the deeper inside. The truth was, that White Cloak had cared all along? Walter thought, contemplating as he heard the solemn, fading footsteps of the enemy – the White Cloak coming closer and closer, tapping the ground with light, exact steps. What… does that mean? What would time tell? "I've always cared, Walter, I always have," White Cloak's voice roamed to the boy's ears. The teenager failed to pick up his head. The footsteps neared. Time was running out. Would Walter die? Would he lose his life? Or would he find out something more, something so much more meaning to life than he could have ever imagined?