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The fragrance of blooms, the waving of petals. Spring's fingers slid down the clearing, her fingertips brushing against tall grass and bent ferns. Morning mist dusted the earth, the heart of life rising just barely above the clouds. A gray-blue melted into pink, melted into orange. Sunrise — dawn.
Among the field of flowers, a child sat, a book in hand. They weren't as ordinary as many, pointed sprouted from their head. Yet, it wasn't just their appearance that alienated them, but their functioning, — their mind.
Rushed thoughts bled into fleeting fables, slipping from the mind like smoke. Some were sketched, others written — but most lay untouched in a chamber of youth. No one had ever bothered to listen, had ever bothered to open chests of rotten wood to find the golden stones inside. What was the saying? “Never judge a book by its cover”?
It wasn't just the child's cover that was wrong. Their pages were torn, their words smudged. Sentences ran on too long or cut off completely, and chapters were always left with too many threads to tie. No one cared for a damaged novel, not when it was practically unreadable.
“May—... Maybe I was never meant to be pub—pub…lished…” The child's mind spilled from their mouth in broken sentences, half-lidded eyes watching the sky breathe. Bruised knuckles twisted around the stems of flowers, the tips of petals just barely grazing fingertips. “... or mmmm…maybe I’ve been written by the wrong auth—thor.”
They didn't dwell too long on answers, knowing such a thing doesn't simply appear from thin air. Perhaps a few years ago they would've crossed their fingers and prayed for a better throat, a better poem, but futile wishing had gotten them nowhere. It wasn't too sad, not in their eyes — after all, everything could be washed away once they picked up a piece of paper.
Writing, drawing, origami — it calmed their mind, stole their focus away from thumping heartbeats and trembling hands. They could blend in when they engaged in such activities and could pretend they worked as intended. Real people had hobbies, had interests — maybe not as strong as theirs, but they did anyway.
… They didn't feel real. Didn't feel as though they walked among the same planet as everyone else. They were a weed among the garden, a plant bent out of shape. They ruined the beauty, and because of that they were pulled from the roots, thrown into a shadow to wilt.
Weeds like them stole from the others, took too much from the others. They stole away the attention of others, stole away care. They needed it, sure, but so did others — they weren't supposed to be treated as something special.
Did spring still love them? Or did she yearn for winter to come back, hoping they'd wither away beneath a layer of merciless white? Maybe she knew to wait for summer, wait for his rays to burn away the pests.
Were there any weeds like them, out there in the world? The doctors would say so, the counselors would say so. But that could very well be a lie, a simple fantasy sewn into their mind to put it at rest.
The air was splintered by the thump of a show, the vibration of an intruder. The place wasn't theirs, but no one else was welcome. Not while they were there.
Of course, selfishness is rude. Others deserved to bloom as well. They should just leave, save the poor stranger from hearing their voice.
Palms pressed against the earth, forcing their body up. Dirt and grass were tangled within their strands, buried deep into their clothes, and glued to their skin. They didn't bother dusting them off, hurriedly scrambling to their feet as the footsteps drew closer.
They didn't look back — they feared doing so — but instead attempted to flee, body leaning forward as their heart began to race. Just moments before they could take off, a hand coiled around their arm — small, cold, barely pulsing with life. They stumbled, balance wavering as though they had shifted from a squirrel to a doe.
Stomach in knots, they turned to face the disturbance with wide, wet eyes.
Someone new, someone they hadn't memorized — someone they had a reason to be scared of. The stranger was only half a head taller, face carrying a chubby youth and a lopsided smile. Long snowy hair draped over their eyes, darkening their face.
Pale skin, round lips, a black band around the neck — this was a Guest. A species born from an Admin's magic, a gift born from imagination. Interesting creatures that were the bases of stories, plastic dolls meant to mimic the lives of lesser beings.
For a moment the two just stared, equally as nervous and reserved. Then, hesitantly, the Guest pulled away. Their hands moved before the other could, fingertips bending and flexing to form foreign shapes.
“I d-d-... ” A deep breath, an attempt to steady a broken tongue. “Don't uuu… understand.”
A frown, a sigh. The child's heart quickened again, an anxious chill coming over them. Had they made a mistake, caused an unnecessary conflict?
“I can—I-I…I have a book!” They snatched the Guest's hand into theirs, sprinting towards the edge of the valley, where the trees began to claw at the heavens.
There, a backpack sat, worn and threadbare yet sturdy and reliable. Like clockwork their hands slid apart, the rodent child hunting for some form of communication, some form of connection. Eventually, they found it, an object sacred to them, important to their very identity.
Flipping past practiced sketches and rushed paragraphs, they landed on a blank page, turning back to their new acquaintance. To their surprise, they remained beside them, silently watching their movements.
After a long pause, the book was handed over, and the Guest slid a pen from their pocket.
When the page was turned back, it read:
‘Thank you.’
With a wobbly smile, the child nodded, lowering to the ground. The other continued to write, joining them on the grass as they did so.
‘I'm sorry, I can't talk.’
“I-it's—it’s okay, I can barely talk m-myself.” They shrugged, twisting together as the page continued to be filled.
‘Then you don't have to. You can write too, I don't mind.’
A blink, slow and processing, as though that had never been an option before. The pen was handed to them, the cold metal feeling wrong in their hand. Seconds dragged by, eyes locked onto the writing device, before it was slowly lowered.
‘My name is Noob, like my sub-species’
The Guest grinned widely, quickly nodding. Then, their expression faltered, shoulders tensing as they accepted the pen back.
‘I am Guest 666.’
Noob tilted their head tail slowly swaying. The name felt familiar, etched into pages and filmed within motion pictures. A myth, a curse, a nightmare.
A child's tale.
‘Can I call you Sixer?’
‘Please.’
‘Nice to meet you Sixer :))’
‘Nice to meet you, Noob.'
The two clicked together within mere hours, mixing into a melody hidden from ears. Similarities brought them closer, differences gave them conversations. Defenses were lowered, anxiousness faded — there was no reason to fear a fellow weed.
Things weren't rushed, but they weren't dragged on either. Noob understood when Sixer didn't want to tell them about the show they enjoyed, and understood that they kept it too close to their heart. Sixer understood when Noob would suddenly shift, abruptly changing positions as though they couldn't stand being in the same one for too long.
They understood each other as no one else had. They didn't care when conversations came to a sudden halt, when both got lost in their thoughts. They didn't get offended when one walked off, tired of being near the other.
The reason they couldn't grow in a garden is that no one understood how to properly care for them. No one understood how much water they needed, how much sunlight they required. They didn't realize that dandelions, no matter how evasive, could look just like flowers.
Flowers fought over things constantly, argued what was wrong and right. Weeds didn't fight as often only told each other why they believed in something. They usually agreed on things that flowers argued over.
‘How weird do you think birds are’
‘As weird as a Noob boy trying to eat raw cookie dough for dinner.’
‘It was for BREAKFAST and’
Noob paused, hand trembling for a moment. Most adults didn't like it when they said this. Most adults told them they were too young to think this way.
… But adults were flowers, and Sixer was a weed.
‘and im not a boy’
Sixer tilted their head.
‘I'm not either, not today.’
‘What are you today?’
‘I don't know. Maybe I will later, or maybe I will tomorrow.’
‘i hope i know what i am tomorrow.’
And that was that, no further exploring needed.
By the time the sun began to set, and a familiar voice began echoing through the forest, Noob had decided Sixer was someone safe. A rare thing, a rare label. They hadn't called anyone safe before.
The two departed with nothing but a hug and a quick paper passed to each other, scribbled numbers folded into pockets. They left on separate sides of the field, a silent agreement fading between them. They would see each other again, maybe every day, maybe in a few years.
It didn't matter, because weeds always grew back.