桐生 義弥 「 Joshua 」 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whitefeather) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
themainframe2013-08-29 06:43 pm
whitefeather) wrote in themainframe2013-08-29 06:43 pm
[video - public]
[Hello, everyone! There's another memory coming your way, and it's slightly disconcerting.]
There's an underground tunnel, which is seemingly without end - only the faintest glimmer of light far; far into the distance suggesting otherwise. The walls reach high - incomprehensibly high actually; stained with years and years worth of exhaust fumes. In the center of the tunnel's floor, in a bolt straight line appears to be a small stream of water; almost looking white in the gloom.
Yet to the perspective of the viewer, the one that was actually there, and the one that sees the world in ways others can't even fathom the water is actually a series of graffiti symbols. The walls' patterns of grime and dirt ebb and seemingly drip, constantly changing, constantly merging. There's music everywhere. So many sounds, so much, all at once, all playing at different tempos, different pitches, different styles - that it's less music, and more a cacophony. It's discordant, it's messy, it's noise.
It's Shibuya.
Nowhere on earth was anything quite like this, much less it's underground. He's aware of that, he's always been aware of that, and it helps that there's no-one on earth quite like him. He's always been aware of that little fact, too.
If anything, only one part of the...arrangement all around him matches, syncs. It's voices. Millions of voices, all so very small, repeating the same thing, over and over. It is as if they are fighting against the chaos, in their unnaturally uniform way; conflicting against it, the very timbre of everything that they are and everything they would not be losing, simply by the fact it's so quiet when placed alongside what Shibuya was, and everything it will be.
To right the countless wrongs of our day, we shine this light of true redemption, that this place may become as paradise.
What a wonderful world such would be...
Megumi tried, at the very least. Even if it wasn't enough.
The Composer of Shibuya walked down the tunnel a few more paces, humming a thoughtful note. Soon enough, he came to a dead stop as his surroundings; the underground itself seemed to quake. It was momentary, over just as quickly as it'd began. But it was there. He turned around on his heels and he smiled.
There indeed Minamimoto, or what little remained of the Reaper was. It clung persistantly amidst what, to his calm, measured and cold gaze, was a vortex of black noise. The Reaper was almost anthropodic innature now; tanned skin turned that much blacker, yellow, harrowed eyes staring at him with what could only be described as murder, teeth clicking together in a distinctly insect-like fashion - was once was hands, now claws, grasping at the side of him alike they were tightening around his neck.
The Composer laughed; the sound distinctly melodic - piercing the dull gloom with a musical quality one wouldn't -- shouldn't expect in a place anything like this.
Minamimoto had no reason to speak. The Composer already knew what it was he had to say. And this time, he wasn't all that interested in going through the motions of listening to it, regardless. The game would very soon be up. He had little reason to pretend any longer - and in a way, it was saddening. Not like that could be heard in his voice.
"Really, now. You're acting like it's my fault you put everything you had into an attack that missed?"
The mess of Reaper and Noise merely growled, in a much more animalistic fashion to what the Composer was accustomed to.
Math related insult here. Of course. Perhaps that was the part of him which fought the Noise which now was part of his system. That grim doggedness which was mathematics and equations.... perhaps. The Composer merely smiled once more, his gaze sharpening, somewhat.
Two birds, one stone. Minamimoto was a problem which really couldn't be overlooked.
"A challenge it is, then."
Minamimoto moved with a quickness that would have been slightly disconcerting if it wasn't for the car which struck him from the sky. The ex-officer cried out- only once- as the car stopped his movement dead, joined with no mercy by a large vending machine. The floor cracked underneath the weight; yet the crash was nothing next to the distinct sound of pelvis, back, legs, ribs, hips shattering. The only thing which the Composer chose to listen to. He'd never actually killed him like this before, after all.
Cans rolled from the vending machine. The car's alarm started to resound, echoing within the tunnel, and the Composer merely walked to the pile.
Minamimoto Sho. Retired.
The video should end at a quiet observation of oil, soda, gasoline and black blood seeping from the mess of machine and metal; and the Composer turning on his heels again, humming a tune as he walks onward toward the light.
There's an underground tunnel, which is seemingly without end - only the faintest glimmer of light far; far into the distance suggesting otherwise. The walls reach high - incomprehensibly high actually; stained with years and years worth of exhaust fumes. In the center of the tunnel's floor, in a bolt straight line appears to be a small stream of water; almost looking white in the gloom.
Yet to the perspective of the viewer, the one that was actually there, and the one that sees the world in ways others can't even fathom the water is actually a series of graffiti symbols. The walls' patterns of grime and dirt ebb and seemingly drip, constantly changing, constantly merging. There's music everywhere. So many sounds, so much, all at once, all playing at different tempos, different pitches, different styles - that it's less music, and more a cacophony. It's discordant, it's messy, it's noise.
It's Shibuya.
Nowhere on earth was anything quite like this, much less it's underground. He's aware of that, he's always been aware of that, and it helps that there's no-one on earth quite like him. He's always been aware of that little fact, too.
If anything, only one part of the...arrangement all around him matches, syncs. It's voices. Millions of voices, all so very small, repeating the same thing, over and over. It is as if they are fighting against the chaos, in their unnaturally uniform way; conflicting against it, the very timbre of everything that they are and everything they would not be losing, simply by the fact it's so quiet when placed alongside what Shibuya was, and everything it will be.
To right the countless wrongs of our day, we shine this light of true redemption, that this place may become as paradise.
What a wonderful world such would be...
Megumi tried, at the very least. Even if it wasn't enough.
The Composer of Shibuya walked down the tunnel a few more paces, humming a thoughtful note. Soon enough, he came to a dead stop as his surroundings; the underground itself seemed to quake. It was momentary, over just as quickly as it'd began. But it was there. He turned around on his heels and he smiled.
There indeed Minamimoto, or what little remained of the Reaper was. It clung persistantly amidst what, to his calm, measured and cold gaze, was a vortex of black noise. The Reaper was almost anthropodic innature now; tanned skin turned that much blacker, yellow, harrowed eyes staring at him with what could only be described as murder, teeth clicking together in a distinctly insect-like fashion - was once was hands, now claws, grasping at the side of him alike they were tightening around his neck.
The Composer laughed; the sound distinctly melodic - piercing the dull gloom with a musical quality one wouldn't -- shouldn't expect in a place anything like this.
Minamimoto had no reason to speak. The Composer already knew what it was he had to say. And this time, he wasn't all that interested in going through the motions of listening to it, regardless. The game would very soon be up. He had little reason to pretend any longer - and in a way, it was saddening. Not like that could be heard in his voice.
"Really, now. You're acting like it's my fault you put everything you had into an attack that missed?"
The mess of Reaper and Noise merely growled, in a much more animalistic fashion to what the Composer was accustomed to.
Math related insult here. Of course. Perhaps that was the part of him which fought the Noise which now was part of his system. That grim doggedness which was mathematics and equations.... perhaps. The Composer merely smiled once more, his gaze sharpening, somewhat.
Two birds, one stone. Minamimoto was a problem which really couldn't be overlooked.
"A challenge it is, then."
Minamimoto moved with a quickness that would have been slightly disconcerting if it wasn't for the car which struck him from the sky. The ex-officer cried out- only once- as the car stopped his movement dead, joined with no mercy by a large vending machine. The floor cracked underneath the weight; yet the crash was nothing next to the distinct sound of pelvis, back, legs, ribs, hips shattering. The only thing which the Composer chose to listen to. He'd never actually killed him like this before, after all.
Cans rolled from the vending machine. The car's alarm started to resound, echoing within the tunnel, and the Composer merely walked to the pile.
Minamimoto Sho. Retired.
The video should end at a quiet observation of oil, soda, gasoline and black blood seeping from the mess of machine and metal; and the Composer turning on his heels again, humming a tune as he walks onward toward the light.
Private
Efficient as always, I see.
Private
...Oh well.
Private
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