Music: Poppy - Me Time Me
Prose 4: Fermata
Music: Fermata
A boy slept for four years, his body left alone by both birds and botflies, yet foraged by flora all the same. Paradoxically, in this battlefield, one of the few measures in which time and space converged, the concept of rot remained only in the periphery of reality's vision; although flaying skin turned soft and discoloured and peeking bones proved themselves truly white, blood continued to flow into the soil and to seep into soldiers' follicles.
A parasite could have eased the way into decomposition, but the fire of a shotgun keeps them at bay. The death of a son was inconsolable; the theft of even the corpse impossible to fathom. Under the shade of foliage and silence, a boy remained unseen and unheard, preserved only as the decaying reverberation of a piano key kept depressed with a steady finger.
This dull, endless sleep often felt like an escape, if only for not feeling like much of anything at all. But even in this state, so easily lulled by the lullabies of the earth, what little lucidity was still too much. They were told that if they failed in life, they could succeed in death, and if this was what success was like then perhaps what they once considered failure was not much more than unrealised potential.
Perhaps that's even worse.
And perhaps, on the days (if "days" was the word to use) just after death introduced itself, the boy had dreamt in images, memories so clear you could step into them and relive reality. But now as performance had come to pass and even the most illustrious actors had faded into irrelevance, only the echo of wishes remained. Traces of the damage were left in the blood of hundreds of soldiers, fermenting into the soil, where the sound of flowing liquid can be heard against one's skull. Fear, regret, love and sadness. All such overwhelming and inevitable feelings, escaping as muttered breaths even from lungs riddled with bullet holes, muddying together into nothing more than a dream shared by an entire field of bodies:
I want to go home.
al niente
A little time spent at home wouldn't have killed you now, would it? Chopsticks would be ego-euphonic, the tedious tick of a metronome, even. Compared to the beat of a war drum, at least.
How's that for a sound that rings in your ears?
The concerto of gunfire echoed for miles, until the noise was so loud that us back at home didn't need radios to listen. When they reached the crescendo, it was like my eardrums had ruptured. War after all was like any other agent, recruiting children for miles for a few overhyped performances, a litany of seasons for binge consumption, then when it's time to pay residuals due they throw you backstage to fade into obscurity like a broken B-side record.
None of you are going to have your names inscribed to the charts, an ensemble of barely-eighteens banding together with no chance of catching their big break. You've all got your hands held up in rigor mortis like you're cheering for the opening act, praying for an encore, reaching for your mothers and fathers.
Then what? You come crawling back home, expecting your parents to tend to your wounds, your skinned knees and bruised egos?
Well, maybe you should. Maybe you should do that instead of lying here with your faces in the mud, waiting for the worms to take them away from you. Well, since you're already here, maybe you can tell me if you've seen my son? He's a boy maybe your age, maybe younger, about yea-high, just a really small guy, with an attention span to match. His hair was as red as the pens we notate with, even before the blood seeped from his skull. Just as red as yours… ah, never mind. The colour doesn't reach up to your follicles, and it's not meant to rub off that easily…
Maybe I should have a word with whichever agency signed you up for this. My son couldn't have handled all the pressure, don't you know? I would say, while your pretentious choir of angels was wailing and spitting at each other, harvesting souls and voices, my son was behaving perfectly well at home. Kept to himself. Kept to me. His hands would have stayed glued to that piano if you hadn't given him that rifle. He barely even had the rhythm for that: he had to keep his ears tuned to my own pulse to get the tempo right. Why did you ever think he could play through the course of a whole concert? His stage fright was worse than the staccato of his breathing.
It wasn't enough that you had threatened us at each measure, was it? You had to get him up there, sing live in front of all who would watch until his chest ran out of breath. Have him pull triggers the way he tugged at harp strings, to trumpet the infantry forward.
We danced to our own tune, a family avant-garde, the melody of our duet too discordant to join in the orchestra of society. Your troupe called us out of sync. Better off a solo act. And yet look at what you've done, signing him off, drum and bugle corpses chanting dirges in ditches.
And what about you miserable starlings? You're so embarrassed of yourselves that you can't even face me. All children are the same, they do precisely what you tell them not to do, then they can't even look at you afterwards. Begging the botflies to take away your features so that nobody can recognise you, not even your parents once they come back to forage the ticket stubs and rake at the audience, telling you off for sneaking out without permission. To watch, to perform, it's all the same to me, in the end it's us that have to peck at your bodies as if we were the parasites ourselves.
When I heard the first gunshot, I dreamt that it was him, a clumsy finger slipping onto a flat note. Try again. If it were up to me, he can try as much as he wants. There are no off keys with me as your audience. Amoroso, dolcissimo. But not out there. Out there, there's no room for mistakes. One slipped lyric and they kick you out the theatre, no rehearsals and no take-two's.
Give me that. A firearm in no way belongs to the hands of a child.
You, scram! Get your talons off of them, go squawk your threnodies somewhere else!
Where was I?
Not you. Not you. Not you. Wrong bar, wrong signature, wrong key, wrong tempo.
Wrong shade of red.
I'll have exhausted the whole setlist before I find him at this rate. The way this melody is playing, you might all as well be my children. I hear an excerpt of him in every single one of you, until I run my fingers through your hair and the red brushes off into my hands.
You might all as well be my children.
Why couldn't your own guardians hold you back from auditioning? Even after the curtains close, you're all still singing, the whole chorus of Dies irae, dolore, dolente, the cawing of crows harmonising. I'll be out here checking bodies the way I once marked sheets of music with scarlet ink.
I'm only listening for my son, but until your own parents affannato can come back to drag you home, somebody's going to have to stay behind and keep the scavengers at bay.
You just can't leave kids alone, lest the cherubs and crows start crooning their elegies.
My son always knew to stay away from danger. My son always knew to stay at home.
He knew parents make the best scarecrows.
They keep everything away from their children.
You ravenous birds have stolen everything from me. I won't let you steal from these ones, too. If you don't spit out what you've swallowed up, I'll reach down your throats and pull it straight out of you. I would stick my fingers right into your chest and twist your tone-deaf heart. I'd pluck every single one of your feathers until the bones of your wings reach out begging for your nests.
To a home you can never come back to, no matter how far you fly.
Music Video 5: Love Love Nightmare
YouTube Version
Text Transcripts
The video is set to the song "Love Love Nightmare" by nantoka-p/kiichi. The audio is in Japanese, while the video has translated English lyrics onscreen. The lyrics will be transcribed in brackets [ like this ] and precede a description of the scene that happens during them.
The video has parts where a series of images transitions quickly in succession, or where an entirely new scene is shown. Scene transitions will be noted with an asterism, like this: ⁂
The video is in a limited black and red colour scheme.
Content Warnings
- Flashing lights
- Abuse
The whole World had sunken away ]
In the boat, Media looks downwards with a contemplative, forlorn expression, small, barely noticeable feathers blooming from his skin. The portrait of him is interlaced with abstract shapes and ciphers. Watchful eyes open around him.
A vision of a pure white Angel emerges, its figure surrounded by eyes. The angel confronts a pure black figure resembling it, this entity's silhouette appearing to be dressed in an abundance of feathers and the emblem of a clock in its right eye.
Just the two of us ]
Jacques, half-asleep, sits quietly.
The scene transitions to the dark silhouette from before, now revealed to appeared as a humanoid entity with braided hair, the same eye with the clock highlighted.
Hearts beat as the words gradually disappear.
Absurd situation ]
Jacques and Media hold hands, seeming comfortable and at peace.
More abstract imagery appears, and the scene transitions to an image of Media still holding Jacques hands more aggressively, pulling at a ribbon tied around his neck choking him. Media seems sadistically pleased with Jacques's misery, and against the red of the scene is the saturated yellow of Jacques's crown and two rings, one Media's and the other Jacques's.
Abstract images overtake the screen. The black and red turn white and blue where blots of liquid spread over them.
Media looks around himself worriedly, the surroundings dark and distorted.
The dark background turns red, as the 'other' Media replaces him, a wide grin on his face.
Ink spreads across a solid red background.
Bien is holding his radio, talking to Ava.
"I know Demons are inherently lacking in the Minds department, but your inability to follow basic instructions is unbelievable," Ava complains.
"In my defence, your Voice cuts out every time you ask me to do something. And you know, I don't have much experience 'overwriting Reality,' especially when all your instructions are as abstract as they are," Bien says, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"The nature of Reality is an abstract, conceptual thing. You cannot expect me to literalise things any further than any other intangible concept like Thoughts or Memories can be."
"Yeah, okay… so I messed up the timey-wimey of the Universe forever, is that what I did," Bien asks flatly, more a statement than a question.
"A Universe has some level of immunity to such Disorder. The Wires' frequencies are constantly changing, and Reality will Forget the sounds that have elapsed.
"It's this inconstancy in the Song of the Universe that requires the Marginals' constant use of the media, as they must regularly inform the Living of a frequency that is the polar opposite of the one the Wires play in order to allow this World to persist beyond its natural Ending."
"Uh, I sorta get it, but at the same time—and like, I know my memory is indubitably awful—it kind of doesn't make sense, and also I think you've explained this before but with a different line of reasoning. Maybe it's because I'm stupid, or forgetful, but you're kinda inconsistent."
"Yes, well. As I've elaborated before. It is not in my nature to 'Remember' things, as my role is inherently tied to the Present. That aside, the Architecture that governs what is 'Real' in a particular Universe is weak here in the Margins. As such. What is 'Real' and what is 'Imaginary' in this World an inconsistent mess, and it changes faster than I can catch up."
"Am I real?" Bien asks, a little disconcerted.
"Real enough."
"Are you real?"
"Why wouldn't I be? I am an Agent of Reality itself."
"To be honest, Ava, I figured the abstract concept of Reality or whatever would be defended by somebody who knew how to give clearer instructions."
A person for whom no one else exists.
Which of us was the "bad" one?
Do you understand? ]
The scenes switch between Jacques and Media and the "other" versions of them, their alternate iterations in a more miserable relationship with Media seemingly mistreating Jacques. This "alternate" version is shown to be the result of Bien manipulating the Wires of Reality, the "test" that Ava asked him to fulfill.
Notes
Woah, an alternate timeline! Wazzat! Here's the usual authorial commentary.
When this was made, it was an on-impulse, arbitrary update that I finished within a day for the 1st of January. It wasn't really 'supposed' to be created, but I suppose that fits, thematically.
This song sounds like something straight out of Danganronpa.
I was trying out different effects in this video, so even though the amount of illustrations is minimal I find it's still somewhat visually interesting. Quite simplistic, though. You know, I hate having to watch these videos, because I never like the quality of them in retrospect. Maybe I'm just not a video guy.This translation ain't fantastic, but it's popular, and it conveys an evocative message. Or whatever, whatever, let's break it down.
„Somebody who looks only at me, a person for whom no one else exists” makes an assumption of a third person („somebody”). I guess it's confusing because of how pronouns work in *Japanese, but there isn't really another „somebody” here, but only „myself”. => „»I (myself)« who looks only at »me (myself)«, as no one else exists”. The sentiment's vague as shit either way.
„Which of us was the »bad« one? Do you understand?” splits the sentence in half. Since in the original, one sentence is split across two lines, the translation interprets them as two separate sentences. => „Can you tell (do you understand) which of us (the different »me's«) is the »bad« one?”
As for the overall song meaning, since the world has „sunken away”, the singer is in an „absurd situation” of being the only person left, and so when they're talking about another person they're actually talking about (another version of?) themselves.
Time's a suggestion, and I'll do the suggesting, let's go canonise some timelines and code the interference Bien's to blame for.
From Violence Comes the Birth of You
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Text Transcripts
Bien nervously sits across Media's desk. Media is next to Jacques, who is chewing a star-shaped toy.
"The Herald is connected to Hell through their Eyes and to the World through their hands," Media explains while patting Jacques on the head.
Bien stares perplexed at Media's analogies: Perception-Cognition-Action, Audience-Narrative-Author, Input-Process-Output, Eyes-Heralds-Hands… it's all a bit too abstract and contrived for the Demon to make sense of.
Media continues. "Bon only has one eye, so they're relatively harmless… you, being… what you are, you've gotten to this age without ever communicating with Hell, so the threat of the Apocalypse has so far been a non-issue, but now that you're an adult, you can go forth and fraternise with the Living as you so desire…!
"… that is, while I don't believe you can actually end the World, as the job of any good Representative, I have to placate the perturbations of the people, so you have a choice.
"Your eyes or your hands?"
Bien's face darkens, wide-eyed at the choice he's presented. He leans away, eyes darting anywhere except at Media. "Golly… I mean, weighing my options here, uh, Bon has one eye… and Jacques has… well, both eyes, but you know, they… well, they don't exactly…" Bien's voice trails off.
"Just say blind," Media states matter-of-factly.
"Right. He's… blind. But otherwise they're both fine… I guess. So I guess I'll go with--"
"Pain!"
Bien and Media tense up in surprise at the loud exclamation. Media looks behind him, seeing the Judge had wandered off. "What is it, my Judge? Did you hurt yourself?"
"Buh… Bread," Jacques says, seeming a bit out of it.
"Oh, you're just hungry."
"All the breads…" Jacques mutters, more to himself than anything.
"Is he… alright?" Bien asks worriedly.
Media's smile tightens, looking something between worried and annoyed. "His Mind's divided between the various Worlds of the Marginals he's Annotated. He'll be fine. Just the average day in the life of a Judge…"
More quietly, too inaudible for anyone to really hear, he mutters, "That or I have stuffed him full of way too much ink… Always a trial and error process, this whole Mind Consummation at the End of the World hullabaloo…"
Jacques flails his wings around as if reaching for something on the ceiling, repeatedly chanting "Bread! Bread! Bread!" as a marionette's hand reaches down…
Bien and Media, immersed in their conversation, don't notice when Jacques reaches out for Bread from the ceiling.
"Bread," he greets.
"What tae fuck." Bread, still tied with the Wire on the fishing pole, glares at Jacques. "Didnae ya threw me into a lake?"
"H" comes Jacques's insightful response.
"Can somebody give me a proper explanation?!" Bread exclaims.
"Become a starling! Take this," Jacques takes the star-shaped toy he was chewing on earlier and offers it to Bread, who grabs it with Brioche's arm.
"Ya won't be any real help at all, will you?"
Jacques smiles, cheerfully responding "Are you a construction worker? Because you are building."
Bread's eyes narrow. "How 'av ya managed to give me yer spit-covered shite twice now?"
"À bientôt!" Jacques waves goodbye as Bread is pulled back up. He turns to return to the desk, drowsily rubbing his eye. From behind him, his tail in the shadows seems to be wrapped up in a number of Wires.
When Jacques reaches the desk, Bien and Media seem to have come to the denoument of their conversation. Chin resting on his hands, Media gleefully affirms Bien's decision, "Eyes it is—"
"Hands," Jacques interrupts.
"Hands it is!"
Jacques sits down next to Media and starts nibbling his shoulder, apathetic to Bien's screaming as he gets slammed into the table, inky appendages restraining his arms and dragging him forward, unable to move. "Wh—What was the point in asking, then?!"
"Haha." Media laughs dryly as his fingers shift and conjoin, coagulating into a large scythe.
"Happy birthday, Bien."