Chapter Text
Chapter Text
Who am I?
The person(person?) breathes out a stream of white smoke into the cold air, lips as pale as his(his?) skin. He(he?) pulls down the hood from over his head, releasing purple(or maybe black? There's nothing but black) hair from its captivity and suffering his cheeks to the cool weather.
Everything was pale. The cloudy sky, the ruined buildings, the street. There was nothing but him and the desaturated earth. White. Blue.
It was a desert. A plain in the middle of a city. A memory of a catastrophe that struck many, many years before, now forgotten along with its people.
(Or was it? How did he know that? How could he ever be sure? He didn't even know who he was)
His feet(he's wearing shoes. Where did they come from? Whose are they?) crunch on the pavement.
(Maybe he's dead. Maybe this is Hell. Maybe this is Heaven)
He doesn't feel anything. He can't feel anything. (He does not feel anything. He can not feel anything)
There's a feeling he can't quite describe as he walks(Walks but can't really see). It's in the back of his head. Or neck. Or feet.
I can't feel anything.
He can not feel anything.
---
How long have I been walking?
He does not know how long he's been walking.
---
There's no one around. The streets are empty, the architecture is rotten, and there are no street signs. Every road looks the same. There aren't any cars. The foundations are turning to dust.
He's walked for hours(or maybe two minutes?) and found nothing. Nothing sticks out in the bright cloudy sky. He can't see the sun. But the clouds are blue and white. Slate. (Maybe he actually can't see?)
What do I do? There's nothing here..
He can't imagine what people look like. He can't imagine what a real place looks like. This couldn't be a real place(could it?).
I should look for food.
(He's not hungry. Maybe he'll never feel hungry. He's not a human, is he?)
He keeps walking. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. He can never find the edge of the ruin. It goes on for miles.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
He feels fine( Nothing's wrong. Why should he feel bad?). His life has always been like this. From when he was born hours(minutes?) ago to this very moment.
It's not cold anymore, rather he feels the sun on his cheeks, despite the fact that the sky is filled with one long, continuous, bright cloud(yeah, he definitely can't see). There are no trees to shade him from the warmth he has. He wonders where it's coming from, and then doesn't.
He keeps walking.
Where to?
Nowhere.
Why?
Why not?
Where's nowhere? Is it a place?
Yes. No.
What will be there?
Nothing.
Things that don't exist?
Space. Time. Aliens. Dogs.
Dogs?
There aren't any dogs here.
The earth underneath his feet seems more blue. Sky blue. Skier bluey.
Is it sand?
It's concrete.
Is it?
Maybe cement.
Is it?
Pavement?
Is it?
Is there a difference?
Is there?
He kicks the sand/dust/rocks/debris.
I want a dog.
I want a ship. To see the aliens.
He laughs to himself. Then looks confused. He didn't know he could do that.
What will I do with the aliens?
Take them as my pet.
Like a dog?
But they'll be better! I can name them!
I can name a dog.
I don't even know my own name.
A name. A name.
He looks around. Sees it.
He decides his name is .
takes his first step with a name. He grins, energy coursing through his veins, his feet moving under him naturally. He begins dancing down the road. He’s never felt happier than with this name.
quickly gets bored with that name after a while, so he changes it again. This time to Weather. He moves silently through the air, everywhere and nowhere at all. There’s twists and turns but inevitably he ends up in the same place he started. Then he changes his name to something more predictable: Time. He has no idea what it(he) is, no idea what it’s(he’s) for, but it’s(he’s) always around. Always a thought in the back of someone’s(Who? Who? Why?) head. (Isn’t he the only one to ever exist?)
And yet, utterly useless.
I’m getting closer… but that’s not it.
So he keeps searching. One name after the other. One ability to the next. But he can't quite find it. Time seems to feel the most fitting, but that's not it.
It’s something longer. Something specific. It lasts, and continues lasting. It’s an enemy and an ally.
He hates it, and all of a sudden he wants to cry.
Why?
Why why why?
He blanks.
Then blinks.
A tear slips down his cheek. Oh…
I’m not the only one here.
The army of men surrounding him in this empty, sky blue desert(city) say nothing, their heads bowed, all on one knee, all dressed in black(or maybe purple?), a fist to their chest and the other on the dusty ground. (He can finally see)
Who am I?
He’s going to live forever.