Work Text:
Breathless gasps, clammy hands, and sweated brows.
Desperation takes hold of a pounding heart as he flails, and his hands grasp without direction.
The flicker of static behind him sends his ears pounding, and he can only take massive gasps of air to calm his pulsating chest. His brain screeches, and both feet smash into the ground as he forces himself off of his back.
It's not long before he falls forward upon his knees, feeling them push uncomfortably as the craggy texture of the concrete rends onto his pants, and into his skin. They'll surely bruise later; but that doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
His head pounds.
Deep within' a drumming symphony plays alongside his heart as both hands slap against both ears to quell the agonizing ringing that torments him so ceaselessly. Ever since his awakening it's screamed into his ears. Teeth grit as tears prick, and necessity takes his mind as he turns towards the source of his frustrations: The Television.
Hands fly towards it as he throws his body towards the knobs, he feels his stomach press against the ground as he trips over his clumsy feet, feeling them scratch on the calloused plane beneath his feet. One hand slaps uselessly against the screen of the television, and a fuzz emanates upon the surface of his skin.
The other grabs the knob, and twists it. He doesn't care for the direction; so long as it does anything to shut the television off.
For a moment, the screen buzzes.
And then, it stops.
He breathes again. He can breath again. And each breath is deep and husky; or as deep and husky as the voice of a child can be. The headache subsides, and fear takes hold of him as he huddles. Tremors run through him, like signals through the airwave, and he retreats further into himself. Panting, gasping, huffing, shuddering, chills, shakes, terror. He feels them prick his eyes once more; the need to cry. A need to tremble and sob into the comforting embrace of another.
One whom no longer exists.
They overwhelm him. And the tears flow more freely despite a half-hearted resistance. Even without sobs, the sting of emotion welling outwards from his ducts is enough release for him. There's not a sound from his mouth besides that of his own uneven breath, and that soon fades once more.
Times passes by. But he's not sure how much.
And eventually, there's nothing left to let loose. His eyes are dry. Red, puffy, sad- but dry.
Why was he sad? He wasn't really sure. But he was. A sadness that pent so badly up inside him that it's only release was outside. He... Wasn't sure how long it'd been. How long it'd been since he'd last cried. Since the horror of a situation had finally forced itself onto him. But this wasn't just the latent horror of his world prying itself into his soul. The terror of being hunted by everything ripping itself inside of his consciousness and filling the little parts that remained unaffected.
No, he was used to that by now. This was a distinct feeling.
One so different from fear.
And he didn't know what it was.
In fact; there were many things he didn't know. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know what here was. Where was here? Why was here?
He'd sit up finally; his fetal position abandoned as many things in this world were. His mottled mop of brown hair tossing itself over his eyes just enough to hide, but not enough to blind. Pallid skin so partially stained with hints of dirt and little scars from the hostility of his environment. A worn trench coat, held over a button-up and a pair of brown trousers.
The quiver of his mouth had long since subsided with the burst of emotion that tormented him. And a sense of normalcy faded once more into him. The normalcy of a constant paranoia and fright.
His memories no longer existed. They did, actually. But what was left was so fragmented he couldn't recall a thing. As if static enveloped his brain. With only some key words layered over it. Small fragments that pieced together a picture. A picture half torn; or one that was never complete to begin with.
Mind betrays matter; and all that stuck out to him was "Mono".
Mono, that was him.
Mono.
He knew who he was; but only a little. Not everything. Barely anything. But enough to know something.
The rest; however, was hopeless. The sullen blue light of his environment gave ambience to the concrete prison he was in. Televisions were strewn without care; hanging by their wires and dangling off of ledges. Some of them buzzed with quiet static, and some of them only acted as black mirrors to yourself. With thin sets of concrete stairs that wound upwards to different floors, each in Euclidean patterns and symmetrical raises.
Mono would blink, and he'd force himself to stand after being left to sit just in a blind admirance of the world around him. Admirance... Should he have felt that? He did. He couldn't help it, just as anyone couldn't. The way the world around him functioned, how it distorted... It was something that struck his curiosity. A curiosity that was sated by mere focus from afar, rather then a deep delve; like some people.
…Like which people? He hadn't a clue who he was thinking of. Another thing he couldn't recall, he would suppose.
Little bare feet would pitter across the ground in a small beat, and he'd approach the nearest stairs as a new desire filled his head; a desire to leave as fast as he could. As interesting as this place was... He had no interest in remaining. It was the life of a vagabond; such that he allied himself with. And the golden rule was to never stick in one place for so long.
The stairs were small, unlike so many of the things he'd known. Small enough to support him; small enough so that he wasn't forced to heave and climb upwards some unknown amount of times, and work his muscles til' they fried.
When perched upon a higher vantage, he'd turn around to see where he laid.
An empty patch of concrete, with a large hole in the very center. Massive cracks that aligned the walls; and scattered fragments of rubble strewn with all the care of an explosion. Dangling wires, televisions, rocks, and a small imprint of where he once stood. His mouth was pressed into a natural frown; a resting face that one would think he'd adopted after living here for so long.
There was an opening behind him; a gaping hole with small rays that pierced against the ambient blue. A darker indigo of the night. A bleak reminder of what the outside would've looked like...
He'd close his eyes, sigh, and turn... And then, for a moment, he'd cock his head back; for he'd sworn that his eyes had laid upon the sight of another child. A pitch black one, right around the corner, behind the rubble...
Nothing would remain, and he'd close his eyes again. The stress of earlier must've been getting to him. Of course it would. It all made sense. Sort of.
Maybe.
It didn't actually make any sense in the slightest. But he had some vague understanding that he was probably delirious.
With the buzz of television being left behind, he'd approach the gaping center of the wall; and his eyes would squint a little as the natural light of the day would meet his eyes. The smell of a previous rain would sting his nose; the fresh scent of concrete and trash dampened by the elements enough to slightly ward him from venturing forward.
As Mono's eyes would crack open once again, he'd blink a little.
What laid before him was... Wreckage. Rubble, remains. That was all he could describe it as. Massive fragments of concrete and iron driven into the ground and the buildings around him. A fog hovered over the pale cityscape, and the twisted, wrenching remnants of a building were bathed in it.
How... Did he get here...?
The gap led to a slope of destruction, one that made a convenient staircase for him to slowly widdle himself downwards. His hands would strategically maneuver with a practiced expertise around each curve and jutting shard. Bare feet would hover and kick as he'd climb down, and it'd only be a moment more before he finally touched pavement...
Among him, the strewn causality of a collapsed building.
In the distance, he could see it... The small, flickering light at the top of a metal pole, with cables ripped from it and hanging like tentacles from some unknown beast.
Like a leaning tower, it was wedged into the ground, as if it'd fallen. Been forced from it's podium so long ago. Caught in the rest of the wreckage, wherever he was.
And somewhere, Mono wondered...
If he'd seen it before.
Thick mist, and weeping clouds
The Signal Tower spreads it shroud
Stood upon a rotten scape
As Black Tower stands agape
Eyes tighten from stood vantage
The Transmission beckons, an obnoxious chantage
By his side, she stands
Together they are, hand in hand