Chapter Text
In the absence of sight and touch, darkness is less a tangible substance and more a subject of theory; it does not exist just as the concept of existence does not exist, but it is there all the same. Unassuming and unaware, even of itself.
In this state, thought is reduced to black globs of corruption that blink in and out of existence with little rhyme. Consciousness is only the static of TV interference. Glimpses of peresence flit by on dust particles, but nothing lingers. Nothing feels real. Nothing feels.
Weak impressions of colour make fleeting appearances; the garbling of far-off noise even rarer. Sometimes there is the ghost of touch, like fading fingerprints in window condensation. Sometimes there is smell, or the impression of smell. There is no nose, though, so what even recognises smell? What, in this state, sees colour, or hears static?
The darkness is sharp. It has blades that drive deep into nonexistent organs. The darkness is binary; it's code and mesh. The darkness is still, and quiet, almost silent. The darkness is colourful, sometimes, but mostly it is dark.
Memory is what's left, but it fades just as everything else does. Static forms silhouettes of a bygone life, up against an evaporating background. There is the shape of a kitchen, somewhere in here, bathed in zeros and ones. There is the casting of shadows in evening sun. A glimpse of city lights flutters by. The sound of passing cars drifts, even with no ears, and the muted roar of a plane soars overhead. Birds chitter springtime song in a nearby tree, and somewhere else an owl cries beneath moonlight.
These ghosts die where they're born, and in their place the endless, suffocating darkness settles. There is nothing else. There is only nothing.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
There is a name in here.
How is there a name in here? There are no words in this place.
No, it isn’t in here. It’s out there. It comes from somewhere else.
It reaches in, crawls between the code.
There is a name out there, casting itself inside.
“Jax?”
Jax.
Jax. Jax. Jax. Jax. Jax.
Can you hear me?
Did I say that?
What is 'I'?
Who is Jax?
“Jax, can you hear me?”
No.
Yes?
“I’m just gonna sit here, okay?”
Okay.
“I brought you someth. . .”
The rest is gone, rises and dissipates like smoke. Nothing else follows. The darkness has returned.
But there is something else; something new. New is not allowed in this state. How is there something new?
A glimmer, or the twinkling of a distant star. There's a new light.
Jax? Jax, can you hear me? I’m just gonna sit here, okay?
The pain is less now. The static recedes just enough.
I heard you.
Who are you?