Post by Sumeragi Subaru on Mar 2, 2012 16:31:50 GMT -5
Something was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong, just like everything else.
The bridge was standing.
Why was the bridge standing.
Why was anything standing and, more importantly (was it, really) why was anyone here.
Tokyo was flooded. Tokyo was flooded for the “final battle”, prepared for Kamui and Fuuma and, maybe, everyone else. The bridge was destroyed, small tiny crushed broken remnants in Tokyo Bay. Just like everything else. Everyone else. Everything that was important. Everyone that was important. Sunshine 20, too, and maybe some other buildings he cared little about. Didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Wouldn’t, maybe. Maybe.
1 km to Daiba, exit 1101.
So why was he standing underneath that sign, like that day, as if nothing had happened. More confusing yet was the fact that cars whirred past him; intermittently, he would catch sight of a man or woman in the front seat, seeming very much alive and not-dead and there. But Tokyo was flooded, so they shouldn’t be there.
If that was so. Where was the water.
The bridge railing loomed behind him malevolently, and one gloved hand rose to clench thin fingers around it. Subaru leant his weight on the limb as his mismatched eyes closed. He fully expected whatever fanciful vision (really, really was it, was it, his Wish was gone gone gone gone so how was this a wish a dream how was it) this was to disappear once he opened them again. Perhaps, if he were lucky, the ground would disappear from underneath him, too, and –
Oh. But that was impossible, wasn’t it.
Eyes opened, and everything was still there.
Perfectly fit together like pieces in a puzzle, except the parts were all wrong and they were put together in the wrong order – someone had smashed them crushed them mangled them into fitting in ways they weren’t really supposed to, because this wasn’t true –
The wind hurtled through his ears, combining with the sound of rushing cars into a horrid static noise along with the rest of the unnecessary sounds and things and –
This was a dream.
It wasn’t an illusion, because there were no cherry blossoms; and if he were to make any sort of illusion in the first place, he wouldn’t have chosen to recreate this. There was no reason to recreate that day or this bridge. And even if he would have recreated the bridge, it wouldn’t have looked like this. It wouldn’t have had people. Maybe one. Or two.
So, if the bridge was here and there was no water and everyone was alive and well and –
Hah. Hahahahahah.
There was no such thing as alive and well in Tokyo. Everyone died. Dies. Died. Was dead. Would soon be.
He wished the world would burn.
This was a dream, though, so it didn’t particularly matter. Maybe, if he were lucky, he would see their shadows.
His hand left the railing and descended into the pocket of his coat. Dead man’s clothes. Black. Mourning. Good. The tails of the coat fluttered annoyingly as he turned, feet stepping on the hard secure stable concrete. Stable. Good. Much more stable than anything else. More stable than the universe, maybe; more stable than Wishes.
Rock was harder to puncture than flesh, he supposed.
But not really, maybe, since the bridge was supposed to be broken and Tokyo was supposed to be flooded and there were no cherry blossoms so he supposed that this was all some strange dream.
Was that really the right word to call it, though?
It was quite likely that this was a dream, Subaru decided, since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in any case. In his dreams, two shapes drifted, like spectres. And when he awoke they slipped from his fingers, as easy to catch as smoke. So he didn’t dream, because he preferred being alive and conscious and Knowing as opposed to sleeping and Dreaming and then waking up and realizing that it wasn’t Real.
He needed, he needed –
– a cigarette.
His hand slipped out of his pocket, a pack of cigarettes settled comfortably in his palm; he paused near the railing, several feet away from the sign – green and solid and unmoving even though there was the wind and dust and debris and cherry blossoms and blood and the bridge was falling – and flipped the top open in simple, mechanical movements.
Mild Seven.
The cars to his left, the railing to his right and everything else.
One foot poised lightly off the ground as if to take another step; he pressed his weight onto it, leaning forward ever so slightly and pulling one thin cigarette out. Next, the lighter, from his other pocket; he removed it with his free hand, replacing the packet of cigarettes. A cheap brand, plastic, replaceable, dead after a few times but that really wasn’t important it was okay because he didn’t look for permanence because permanence did not exist.
The crackling of air that accompanied the hiss of flame was mostly muted by the roar of cars rushing past him and the whipping of the wind. Annoying. Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t particularly care, he thought. Balancing the filter between his lips, he lifted the flame to the paper and tobacco at his mouth, allowing it to catch aflame. He inhaled deeply, letting smoke curl about his lungs.
And shut his eyes.
The bridge was standing.
Why was the bridge standing.
Why was anything standing and, more importantly (was it, really) why was anyone here.
Tokyo was flooded. Tokyo was flooded for the “final battle”, prepared for Kamui and Fuuma and, maybe, everyone else. The bridge was destroyed, small tiny crushed broken remnants in Tokyo Bay. Just like everything else. Everyone else. Everything that was important. Everyone that was important. Sunshine 20, too, and maybe some other buildings he cared little about. Didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Wouldn’t, maybe. Maybe.
1 km to Daiba, exit 1101.
So why was he standing underneath that sign, like that day, as if nothing had happened. More confusing yet was the fact that cars whirred past him; intermittently, he would catch sight of a man or woman in the front seat, seeming very much alive and not-dead and there. But Tokyo was flooded, so they shouldn’t be there.
If that was so. Where was the water.
The bridge railing loomed behind him malevolently, and one gloved hand rose to clench thin fingers around it. Subaru leant his weight on the limb as his mismatched eyes closed. He fully expected whatever fanciful vision (really, really was it, was it, his Wish was gone gone gone gone so how was this a wish a dream how was it) this was to disappear once he opened them again. Perhaps, if he were lucky, the ground would disappear from underneath him, too, and –
Oh. But that was impossible, wasn’t it.
Eyes opened, and everything was still there.
Perfectly fit together like pieces in a puzzle, except the parts were all wrong and they were put together in the wrong order – someone had smashed them crushed them mangled them into fitting in ways they weren’t really supposed to, because this wasn’t true –
The wind hurtled through his ears, combining with the sound of rushing cars into a horrid static noise along with the rest of the unnecessary sounds and things and –
This was a dream.
It wasn’t an illusion, because there were no cherry blossoms; and if he were to make any sort of illusion in the first place, he wouldn’t have chosen to recreate this. There was no reason to recreate that day or this bridge. And even if he would have recreated the bridge, it wouldn’t have looked like this. It wouldn’t have had people. Maybe one. Or two.
So, if the bridge was here and there was no water and everyone was alive and well and –
Hah. Hahahahahah.
There was no such thing as alive and well in Tokyo. Everyone died. Dies. Died. Was dead. Would soon be.
He wished the world would burn.
This was a dream, though, so it didn’t particularly matter. Maybe, if he were lucky, he would see their shadows.
His hand left the railing and descended into the pocket of his coat. Dead man’s clothes. Black. Mourning. Good. The tails of the coat fluttered annoyingly as he turned, feet stepping on the hard secure stable concrete. Stable. Good. Much more stable than anything else. More stable than the universe, maybe; more stable than Wishes.
Rock was harder to puncture than flesh, he supposed.
But not really, maybe, since the bridge was supposed to be broken and Tokyo was supposed to be flooded and there were no cherry blossoms so he supposed that this was all some strange dream.
Was that really the right word to call it, though?
It was quite likely that this was a dream, Subaru decided, since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in any case. In his dreams, two shapes drifted, like spectres. And when he awoke they slipped from his fingers, as easy to catch as smoke. So he didn’t dream, because he preferred being alive and conscious and Knowing as opposed to sleeping and Dreaming and then waking up and realizing that it wasn’t Real.
He needed, he needed –
– a cigarette.
His hand slipped out of his pocket, a pack of cigarettes settled comfortably in his palm; he paused near the railing, several feet away from the sign – green and solid and unmoving even though there was the wind and dust and debris and cherry blossoms and blood and the bridge was falling – and flipped the top open in simple, mechanical movements.
Mild Seven.
The cars to his left, the railing to his right and everything else.
One foot poised lightly off the ground as if to take another step; he pressed his weight onto it, leaning forward ever so slightly and pulling one thin cigarette out. Next, the lighter, from his other pocket; he removed it with his free hand, replacing the packet of cigarettes. A cheap brand, plastic, replaceable, dead after a few times but that really wasn’t important it was okay because he didn’t look for permanence because permanence did not exist.
The crackling of air that accompanied the hiss of flame was mostly muted by the roar of cars rushing past him and the whipping of the wind. Annoying. Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t particularly care, he thought. Balancing the filter between his lips, he lifted the flame to the paper and tobacco at his mouth, allowing it to catch aflame. He inhaled deeply, letting smoke curl about his lungs.
And shut his eyes.
