Work Text:
Over & Over — Rio Romeo
Over and Over
I fuck myself over
And under and under
I do it again
~*~
No One stared up at the ceiling of her room.
Well—room was generous. It was more of a cell, a place to hold her while she recovered from her death and subsequent revivals. The cuff around her wrist was only proof of that.
That being said, it was much larger than the word cell implied. It had a comfortable enough bed, a lamp that she could turn off and on to her leisure, and the ceiling was dotted with red and black spikes of virus that almost resembled constellations.
Overall, it was the most comfortable room-cell No One has slept in since she thought Dark died the first time, and she could come and go as she pleased, outside of her recovery period. She tried to count her fortunes from time to time.
Unfortunately, that didn't make the rest of her situation any more comfortable.
Nightmares were as common as there were desktops in the skygrid. That was normal. That was expected. There was no one around to help her through them. There hasn't been since almost seven years ago. That was fine. There was hardly anyone left besides her, not for lack of trying. That, strangely, didn't make it any easier.
It was probably worsened by the fact that the two people she wanted the most in the world wide web were just out of reach. For one reason or another, Dark didn't recognize her, and she'd only let her see Second about once a month, if that much. And that was only as long as she kept herself alive.
It was getting harder and harder to not succumb to the rest of death, especially since being fully aware never brought her any good.
Strangely, No One's mind flitted back to her years of terrorism, back to a website she likely shouldn't have even bothered with reading. It was filled with Animator stories, of ancient gods and heroes and philosophers and more—and how strange it was, to learn that their unfeeling gods had people and objects of worship themselves. One of the stories in particular was about a king, one who felt spited by his gods and so in turn, he invited them for a feast and fed them his own son. He was banished to a death of unrest, forever starving and thirsty while food and water sat right in front of him, just out of reach.
The king's name was Tantalus.
Oddly, No One felt quite like Tantalus.
So her punishment for her destructive youth, to get back at the god she'd escaped the cruel clutches of, was this hell. Lonely and longing and yearning for a friend that was right in front of her, but just out of reach. Always out of reach.
Maybe she deserved it.
Maybe they all deserved it.
(Everyone except Second. The little stick deserved nothing but happiness and bliss, and yet they'd also been pulled into this madness. Despite all she's done to change for the better, No One has instead been the catalyst for this hell, and she has dragged Second, kicking and screaming, into it.)
Just as she was settling into her bed for another day of despair and thinking, the door to her room-cell burst opened, halting her thoughts. No One jumped upright at the sudden sound, temporarily blinded by the light that poured it.
"Hey, Bug!"
She didn't need sight—or sound, smell, taste and touch—to know the feeling of Dark. If No One was Tantalus, then The Dark Lord was her food and water: just in sight, but never attainable.
"No One, don't go zoning out on me!" Dark intoned in a singsong voice. She was now standing directly above her—when did she get there?—looking expectant.
At the very moment, words escaped her mind, which was already lagging behind apparently, so No One simply hummed questioningly.
Dark tilted her head, contemplating something. It seemed she found what she was looking for, because she then leaned back with an almost thoughtful expression. "You're more depressed than usual, huh?" She asked rhetorically. Or, at least No One hoped it was rhetorical. With the way her mind swirled with thought, she didn't really have the energy to respond. She still shrugged, just in case Dark wasn't just asking for the sake of it.
It seemed like the right response, because Dark continued. "Y'know, my Angel used to get just like you, sometimes." And that made No One feel even worse. Dark was always referencing her, but she just didn't see her. Her throat felt tight, eyes burning at the edges. Just in sight, never in reach.
No One just wanted to hold Dark again without her pushing her away. She didn't deserve that kindness, but No One always craved the things she didn't deserve.
"…which is ironic, consideri—hey, why're you crying?" Her beloved's voice registered in her ears again, and No One quickly wiped her face with her unchained arm. "No reason." She tried to say, but the words trembled more than they flowed and her breath hitched audibly, sounding more like a hiccup. Only a fool would believe her, and Dark was no fool.
Confused and possibly amnesic, but never a fool. That was No One's job, back when she was Chosen.
Dark raised a brow at the obvious lie, unamused. "Well, I was going to let you go, but clearly you're not feeling up to it." She concluded, and No One was mad that she couldn't even deny it. If she were released now, she'd either find another way to die again or just not leave her bed at all. It made no difference whether or not she was still chained. No One lowered her gaze to the cuff binding her wrist to the bedpost.
"Don't start pouting, Bug," Dark patronized, lightly patting No One's head. "I have just the thing for you!"
And with a flourish, she pulled out…a flute? Of some kind? She tossed it, and No One fumbled to catch it. It was a smooth plastic and was dark in color. She wasn't entirely sure what color it was. She looked back up, a silent what the hell is this on her face.
At her incredulous look, Dark's grin sharpened. "I know, I know, absolutely amazing gift. This, my dear No One, is a recorder." She sounded so proud of herself for it, hands planted on her hips, that No One's mind instantly cleared, ready for a rant that wouldn't come. She idly twirled the plastic recorder in her hand, considering it.
"Look at you! So eager!" Dark giggled, absolutely delighted. "Well, I'll leave you to it! Maybe you can play me something later!" She then turned on her hell, leaving No One with the sickening reminder that she was no longer Dark's Angel and wouldn't hear Dark's thoughts.
~*~
For about a month, the recorder got no use. It sat on No One's bedside table and collected dust through three different revivals. If Dark was getting annoyed by how often she took her life, she didn't say anything.
It was during another recovery period when No One finally took interest in the stupid plastic tube that sat just beyond her peripherals. She turned her head, staring the thing down in the warm light of her lamp. Apparently, it was dark blue in color. She reached over and grabbed the recorder, running her fingers over the smooth surface. There were some holes and bumps, and she felt the seam line from the mold that made it.
It felt cheap. It felt nice.
Experimentally, she blew lightly into the mouthpiece, resulting in a hissy, shrill sound. It was unpleasant and grated on her ears.
No One loved it.
~*~
As it turns out, learning to playing an instrument was hard.
After the first few days, the high, breathy sound stopped being fun and started becoming frustrating. No matter what No One tried, the recorder refused to produce a smooth note.
After another ear-piercing screech, she brought the plastic tube down with a huff. It didn't help that her breath control was bad—that was important for wind instruments, right?—because of all the smoke and dust in the air.
Logically, No One knew that she wouldn't be good with the recorder since she'd just picked it up. She didn't even have an instructor to help her. That didn't make the miniscule progress any less infuriating.
Idly, it reminded her of just how fast Dark could pick things up. Often times, it felt like she could just look at something and automatically know everything there was to it. No One never minded before because that's just how Dark was, talented and smart and capable, but now she envied the ability.
An excited gasp came from behind her. "You're finally using it?!"
Speak of the devil, and she shall appear.
Dark came bounding into her view, full of energy. She looked at No One the way she used to look at her when she was Chosen. It made her traitorous heart flutter. "Yeah, uh. It would be a waste to let it rot in my room." She replied, trying to get her heart under control. "I'm not sure how to play it, though." Her brows furrowed as she recalled her earlier annoyance.
"Ehh, you'll figure it out." Dark wave away No One's, frankly, valid concerns. "You seem to have a whole library in your head—surely there's something on music theory in there!"
As much as she loved Dark, No One should've guessed that was about as much help as she'd be.
~*~
Contrary to apparently popular belief, No One did not have a whole library in her head. She just had a good recall ability and an abundance of knowledge she picked up from the websites she destroyed.
At the worst of times, it sent her spiraling into despair. At best, well…
"I wish I could cover my ears," Second groaned miserably.
"Sorry," No One replied sheepishly.
At the best of times, it was only semi-helpful. She figured out how to stop the screeching, but had to rely on Second for specific notes. Apparently, they learned something from their friend, Green ("If he heard that, he'd probably ban you from instruments entirely."), and it was going decently.
(Second and Dark would beg to differ, but it was Dark's fault for giving No One the stupid recorder anyways, so she only felt bad for Second.)
~*~
The first time she managed a short song—an Animator nursery rhyme about stars—No One had been ecstatic.
The first time she played it without a single note or beat out of place, she'd been over the moon.
The one hundred and thirty-first time, it had become second nature. Her fingers knew which holes to cover, her lungs knew how to breathe on certain notes, and she's even added a little flair to it, much to Dark's amusement.
In the time it took to master the song, No One had committed suicide only once.
~*~
Four years after the disaster, a lone stick figure knelt in the debris of Stick City. His hand brushed dust off of a faded plushie. For how long it's been exposed to the elements, the thing stood the test of time gracefully.
Celadon stood, plush in hand. Not long ago, he came across a young animation. Normally, he wouldn't even entertain the idea of letting her join him—a child would slow him down, no survivor could be trusted, they'd likely be targeted by the desperate—and yet, she'd carved a place for herself in his heart.
Annoying, spunky little thing.
He checked his surroundings again, just to ensure that he was truly alone. Although the once glamourous city was now reduced to nothing but rubble, he wouldn't take his chances. The only building left standing was the Stick Embassy, though it was so thoroughly trashed that there was no hope of anything being there.
Just as Celadon was about to leave, he heard…something. It was faint and a little haunting. The melody floated through the air with little care for anyone listening. Celadon was tempted to follow it, just to see who was audacious enough to expose their position. Logically, he shouldn't even bother—he had a little girl relying on him, now—but…
A little curiosity never hurt him before.
Celadon moved quickly, following the sound. It sounded like a type of flute, if a little higher in pitch. He slunk past overgrown parks and stepped over downed buildings before finally coming across the source of the music.
Sitting on a rusted swingset was another stick, maybe a little younger than himself. Her long, black hair was braided back, and she wore jeans in the same color. In fact, the only pops of color in her clothes were the white fur lining the hood of her jacket and two pins, one red and one orange. At first glance, she seemed unassuming, but when Celadon looked closer, he saw it.
She was a hollowhead.
And not just any hollowhead, she was the Angel of Death.
And the haunting, lilting tune came from the navy flute she was playing.
He quickly fled the scene. If she noticed him, she didn't react. If she didn't, all the better. The last thing he needed was a superpowered stick focusing on him.
He wished he never let his curiosity get the better of him.
(From behind a tree, a lone virabot watched the pale green stick as he left. It clicked its mandibles before skittering after him. Celadon never got back to Little Rose.)