volume.2.two

chapter.four: time_skippers

♪"feel cuts, bleed like blight."♪
♪"and a bandaid you'll find."♪
♪"darkened light."♪
♪"what is right?"♪
♪"greater good outta sight~"♪

through the walls of a structure too complex for a feeble mind to withstand,
glass stained with colours and hallways winding down and up,
a voice echoes while the interior shifts to—

"well..." creator stops his hands before the grand piano,
turning back as he stands up, "practice makes perfect—er, I suppose." sigh
pulling his fingers back from attempted perfectionism, he closes the piano shut.
he exhales, walking up to a table with a singular s p e c i a l journal laying atop the heap. 'can't really keep track of time so—documentation's the next best thing,' creator slowly mumbles, flipping the pages.

"written a lot, huh?" creatia talks, sneaking up behind creator. "yeah, I guess."
creator rolls his eyes to her, as if trying to scream awkwardly without a mouth.
'it's enough to make, like—three chapters of a novel, eh?' he thinks, then swiftly
narrowing down his eyes, "you should announce yourself before breaking in though," creator adds as he continues to write. "just a suggestion."
as creatia looks at him mischievously, like feline to mouse,
stopping him mid-writing, grabs his book, and runs for—
"last to get to the tower is a dimwit," she says.

"can you be more formal? people are readi—"
"also gimme my thingy back!" creator yells, running after his sibling.
as fast as she can, she glides across, breaking barriers of sound and light.
'catching up to her, I can barely dash past.' creator tenses up to the speed,
and... proceeds to trip and fall at the gate. "yay! I won!" says creatia,
celebrating like a child who's just won by less than a landslide
(without cheating, that is). fate comes up to creator.

"having a hard time staying upright, are we?"
he questions, arrogantly fancy as always, giving creator a hand.
creator, though, gets up by himself, snatching the journal right outta
a concerned-looking creatia's hands. "still clinging to that journal, are you?"
fate asks before walking inside, gesturing the both of them to follow behind
to the grand hall of the tower, luck and lux gilded onto every nanoangstrom.
"what do you know 'bout it, gamble man?" creator responds with sarcasm,
as fate looks behind. "me?" continuing to take a pause. "you better trust me with 'knowing'—my name is fate, after all. (you people care to sit down??)"
he replies to the both of them.

"sooo—today I'll tell—" fate starts talking in the background.
"so basically you're false—" he says, but I zone out for a second, then two.
"but as you know, ya' were originally original ch—" and then again.
"and you retain your original co—" he's saying something, but I stop hearing.
'...my head's hurting again.' creatia mumbles as infinity shatters like glass.
something splits and breaks and snaps,
mentally clutching her head,
that now starts to spin.

'...'

she sees something akin to where they were,
a memory not her own, her eyes pitch black like stars through an inverted lens,
a memory consumed to remember, and remember she did, though late.
not simply present there, only consciousness remains—and a ' s p e c i a l
s o m e o n e . ' white hair, a silhouette like a desperate beast, one that hid
her existence below the mask she bore and borne, her angelic voice whispers something familiar.

'like I've heard it a thousand times already.'

chapter.five: a_someone's_speciality

a pool of ink taken form through the trillion hands of the first,
she is the second to be made, and still the second to be alive, how sad...
" a m e m o r y , w h a t i s i t ? " she turns. " j u s t a b l a c k s h a d o w
t o f a d e a w a y , d y i n g . " whispering to them both, her eyes locked on
them, paralyzed. " i t ' s q u i t e i r o n i c , i s i t n o t ? " she questions. " t h e
s e e r o f a l l e n d s , t h a t w r e t c h e d t h i n g . " the ground below sings to
her talk like a choir made to suit her voice. " w i s h e s t o e n d t h e f i r s t . "
' t h o u g h i b e l i e v e i t i s n o t i t . '

" b o t h o f y o u s h a l l m e e t d e s t i n y a t h i s d e s t i n a t i o n . "
the s o m e o n e corrects. " n o — his f i n a l d e s - ." cough " I s a y t h i s
w i t h t h e l a s t o f m e . . . o r w h a t ' s l e f t . "

'...'

" r e m e m b e r . "

"sis? siistuh?? (you there???)" creator questions a zoned-out creatia.
"you totes skipped fate's long ahhhhhhh lectu—" "...creatia?" creator thinks,
indefinitely staring at her as she snaps out. "ya', okay?" creatia asks creator.
"is what I should be asking you," he responds while standing.

"i saw so— oh, yeah, I totally forgot." she reaches out her hand to return
creator's journal, creator who then proceeds to snatch the object of belonging,
narrowing his eyes in annoyance. "the hell's with that look, mate?" she
mumbles while creator walks out clutching the journal.

"so—he's like—" fate ponders. "yep, like that all the time," creatia adds,
then immediately starts wondering more. 'brother's been writing in that book
ever since he found that damn tome!' monologuing out loud. "reminds me of a
s p e c i a l s o m e o n e . " fate comments in a smug tone, leaning on a wall,
anticipating reaction (which he gets) as creatia looks back before she leaves.
"both you guys can't go a minute without being cryptic as fuck, can ya?!"
she snaps at fate, who simply shrugs it off. "woah, real scary. (sarcasm)"

cut to

a tired creator lays down to rest,
unknown to looming threat (and I mean that quite literally).
'he's sleeping.' she walks upstairs slowly, trying best not to wake creator up,
sneaking past his bed, then to his table, she slowly opens its drawer.

a gust of cold air rushes past her shoulder as inside, a fire breaks out.
shut! closing the tray back beneath the table. sigh 'why does he make this stuff?!'
she monologues close-mouthed. "now where would he put it..." there it is, the
thing the curious cat wishes to know of, curiosity however—kills the cat.
"...now let's see what's sooo s p e c i a l about this thingamajig."

'secrets, secrets, where are they~' she hums, flipping pages upon pages of
literature. 'didn't know brotha' was much of a writer, ay?' pages go by, hundreds
of pages until she stops. "...what?" 'that's not his style or tone of writing though.'
"fate did say this belonged to s o m e o n e els—" creatia almost jumps. aaahhh!
as she notices creator wake up—or should I say the sound made by his fall to the
ground that woke him.

nonetheless, creatia scrambles to sort everything up, putting back pages and papers as one slips out, while a head now hurting-flat-on-the-floor creator
tries to stand up as if his bones are broken, creatia though, still panicking,
leaves in time, grabbing the paper on the way before it falls to the floor.

"what in the actual fuck was that." creator talks to none but himself.

...aghh she ventilates. huff steadily. "well, that went smoothly."
creatia affirms to herself while she lays down, noticing the peculiar page
still in her hands, lifting it up above to see. '—it's like a... something.' trying to,
but failing to understand. "seems familiar (though I don't know how)."

and comes the realisation of her epiphany.

voices fade, echoes are swallowed, only a shadow is left. she faints.

chapter.six: aesthetics_of_an_anomalie