Post by Kitferge on Mar 25, 2016 6:12:19 GMT
♔
coded by pinn @ thq
Kitferge blinked, his eyes scrunching slightly before opening them.
There’s a quiet rustle of wind. He opens his eyes, unprepared for the serene sight around him. The gentle weight of cotton envelops his limbs, and he can feel a dagger strapped to a sheath easily located on his thigh. His garments are lightweight, like the air, and he can barely feel them sliding against his skin. There’s a thrumming in the ground that he can feel, as if the very earth is alive. It pulls him towards the stones of the roads, and the smooth walls of the buildings, and he runs his fingers over the material. If he tries, he can imagine that it thrums underneath his touch, like the feeling that he can feel in his blood. It calls him to move, to feel, to walk through this land, to conquer, like a man dying of thirst to water. Excitement and adrenaline builds up in his frame, and he fights it, keeping himself as calm as he can. The air is fresh and pure, cleansing him. It’s a new world; one he has never thought could exist. The stones feel smooth under his shoes, the air cool to the touch. His senses are clean, sharp. He feels alive, much more so than he has ever felt before. His fingers reach for his dagger, and his fingers clench around the hilt, before unsheathing it fully.
It gleams as it catches the light. He pauses, inspecting it further. It is sharp and reflective, and he runs a finger over it, feeling the smooth metal. Kitferge wonders what he can do with this dagger, a strange anticipation building up inside of him. His thoughts are cut off by a light touch at his elbow that is feather-soft and swift, withdrawing as soon as he turns. It’s a slight, blonde girl, shorter than him. Her blue eyes are shadowed and reveal little, her blonde hair in thick curls that fall to her ankles, huge and the size of his wrist. She carries a longsword by her side, clenched in one hand, always wary, alert. The boy smiles softly and motions toward the empty meadows that seem to be part of the town, somehow, and she nods, following. Curious glances follow them, but they both ignore them, sharing short glances that reveal nothing. Even in the game, she carries herself lightly, as if she were a slim wisp of a flower that might be blown away at any second. Her movements are delicate, like crystal glass, and he can almost hear them tinkle. By the time that they reach the mint-green grass, she’s closed her eyes, listening to the wind, relaxing into the touch of the sun. He sits down, a little amused, and lays on his side, curling up. The sun is warm, but not overtly so-it washes over him, and soon he’s half-dozing, her by his side, sitting upright. It’s silent, and sometimes she cards her hands over his hair.
“Bird,” She murmurs, blue eyes bright. He knows they’re not that brilliant sapphire in real life, but he smiles faintly and curls up even more, pausing for a minute before speaking.
“Alttayir alssaghir,” He murmurs in light Arabic, indulging her for a minute. She’s quiet and shy, always withdrawn, but he likes to talk with her like this, silent and peaceful. There’s the gentle twittering of birds around him, the rough-soft feeling of grass against his skin, the feeling on fingers braiding his hair, Kathleen doubtless making a flower crown. He’s not wrong. The blonde places a ring of daisies on his head soon afterwards, and he ignores the awkward way it’s placed on his head, since he’s laying down. The sky is a warm blue that looks huge and vast. Suddenly, he feels tiny. Insignificant. The sky stretches on and on, completely endless. The girl by him hums lightly, something light and tinkling. He thinks it’s Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, though he’s not sure. He starts to hum with her, and they’re in this little bubble, warm and happy and together. Kathleen traces idle patterns on his skin, and he can feel the little scratches her fingernails make on him.
“Like,” She whispers, quiet and unassuming. He smiles silently, his eyes closed, head using his bent arm as a pillow. She picks a dandelion and blows away the fluff, watching it dissipate into a series of pixels. Her fingers rub the ends of his hair, and he can almost see the way she frowns at how much more coarse it seems, rough and darker than in real life. Of course she would be worried about that. The blonde female pokes at his frame, wondering at his now bulky frame decided by the game’s rather basic avatar frames, experimentally tugging on a lock of hair before beginning to make minuscule braids. They spill between her fingers, making the contrast between his inky-dark hair and her pale skin between him seem even greater. Kathleen could be thinking about a great number of things, but he doesn’t dwell on it for too long. What Kathleen wants to muse about, she can. It’s not his business. The tension he didn’t know he had begins to seep out of his body, making the shorter player giggle lightly and him relax into the earth.
Thoughts come and go; they touch upon him, but he doesn’t have time to compute them into words-instead, they tell him they’re there, little emotions bursting and bubbling in him. The air is the same. He likes this place, too, he thinks of telling Kathleen. He likes it much more than the real world. He knows she likes it more, too. Kitferge knows he looks much more different, though, his coffee-with-milk colored skin instead two shades darker and his hair a jet black that makes him uneasy. Even his eyes are not the proper dark brown flecked with gold, instead the closest he can get to that color a smoky black that Kathleen abhors, murmuring that it reminded her of ashes. He doesn’t ask after that, but the player above him, Kathleen-or, no, she’s Ophiuchus now, isn’t she? He reminds himself-starts to speak herself, light eyes boring through empty air. “I want to conquer this world. Let’s do it together, Avke.”
“Mhmm,” He says softly. “Let’s. We can share the throne. And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it. Paulo Coelho. The Alchemist.” When she sends him a half-exasperated look, still stoic, he sighs over dramatically and settles himself next to her, leaning on her shoulder before she pushes him off gently. “I can be your king, and you can be my queen.”
“No,” She says decidedly, blue eyes glittering with challenge and the tiniest bit of mischief, “You can be my queen.”
“Alright,” The boy gives in, a smile growing on his lips. Ophiuchus doesn’t talk much, except for when she’s really passionate about something, so he listens and takes her word for it. “We can set this world ablaze. No one will ever forget us. We’ll make the sky illuminated with the light of our victory and drown all our enemies in the sheer vengeance that we retaliate with. No court of fools?”
“Aaron,” She retorts, laughter glimmering in her sapphire irises. He nudges her in retaliation, and she pushes him back softly. Of course she would bring up his boyfriend. His mind wanders to lazy days spent with familiar green eyes and warmth, of days spent with the three of them sitting in the park, saying nothing but thinking, communication limited to looks and small gestures. She pauses suddenly, and pulls him up to a sitting position, and he blinks the tiredness out of his eyes, looking at his friend with weary eyes. She points at a pretty butterfly, and makes a swift motion that he takes to mean “follow”, though he’s not sure. He sighs and pulls himself to his feet, still unused to this much more masculine avatar. She waits impatiently before taking off after the insect, pulling him along. He stumbles along with her, huffing lightly, and clumsily avoids other players. She lets go, exasperated, and instead runs after it herself, him following at a slower pace. There’s an aura of mystery surrounding this land, shrouding him in this…thing that influences his emotion. It’s not bad, actually, but pleasant. It’s not bad.
Soon, he breaks into a sprint, now much more used to these long limbs of his. In fast pursuit, he soon spies a lone figure standing, a slender hand on her hip. Her blonde hair is mussed, just slightly, and her stance is impatient. He slows beside her, and she gives him the silent treatment for a whole of five minutes before sighing and linking arms with him. They walk alongside each other for a moment, looking for the exit, and when they do spot it, it’s far away, but reachable. There’s a silence, before Kat-Ophiuchus looks at him and bores holes into his neck, poking him just firmly enough to not hurt him but get his attention. Her longsword has disappeared, apparently in her inventory. “Say something pretty.”
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star. Friedrich Nietzsche.” Kitferge tries, but apparently that’s not pretty enough, because she merely continues looking at him expectantly. He sighs. Those were both very pretty quotes, though. The player thinks, racking his head for something that could perhaps be halfway relatable. “Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swamps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists..It is real..It is possible...It’s yours. Ayn Rand.” He murmurs, half lost in thought. The girl quiets, and it calms him, this presence of hers. It keeps him stable, in this quietly intense way that seems to be purely hers. Aaron warms him to the core, gentles him, makes this rush of scalding heat and love flow through him, but Kathleen pulls on him, calming him, makes him think and still. It’s different.
“Tell me about the sky,” She requests after a minute. They fall into step, her quick steps keeping pace with his long, stretching ones with his newly found limbs. He raises a curious eyebrow, wondering at her sudden happiness and talkative behavior, but she’s flushed pink and she’s glowing, somehow, even through this game. If it makes her happy, who is he to refuse? She makes him happy, after all. Kathleen is remarkably like the family that he never had.
“It’s blue,” He says bluntly, which gets him a swat to the head. “Alright, alright. It’s a nice, bright blue. It seems vast, endless, and somehow so saturated that I wouldn’t be surprised if it shattered in a million pieces, falling upon us. It’s beautiful, so warmly so and inviting that I feel almost afraid, cloudless and infinite. So brilliant that it’s almost unstable; so blue that it seems almost purple; so bright it blinds me. There’s nothing there. It’s empty and lacking, but it hides it with this warmth that’s so fake, so artificial that everyone falls for. No clouds mar it-no one wants to step near this coldly, warmly, paradoxical beautiful canvas. It shifts, but no one notices, grounded only by the sun.” Kathleen murmurs something lightly under her breath, and he pauses, tilting his head. A little farther away walks a rouge-haired player, her dark green eyes shifting on them for a minute. The girl stiffens, her anxiety beginning to resurface as the girl comes closer and closer. Her grip becomes tighter and tighter on his arm, and he winces slightly before returning her touch with a light pat on her back, which helps her relax minutely. The woman passes, ignoring them. Kathleen loses her tension.
They exit the meadow, and re-enter the town. Kathleen takes the time to pause by a stall filled with flowers, the NPC woman cooing at her before offering a single daisy with an extraordinarily long stem to the blonde while Kitferge pauses, waiting for his friend as she thanks the program for the flower and rewards her with a glittering smile. His eyes flit across the street, analyzing the people who pass by. An arrogant, lazy player walks by, and by his stance, he’s built like a tank, probably having spent all his points on strength and talking about his “amazing victory” against “a monstrous level one boss, called a ‘Wild Boar’”. His friends, or hanger-on clique listen raptly, oohing and ahhing. The boy rolls his eyes, and his friend rejoins him shortly, raising a blonde brow. He waves it off, leading them down the cobblestone sidewalk, both talking lightly. Actually, it’s more like him talking, but he doesn’t mind, and neither does she, making occasional noises of disagreement or contentment. The click of their shoes against the stones are not unusual, or particularly loud, but he hears it all the same, taking in information about other players as they pass.
His eyes are curious as he takes in this world again. The air is much sweeter, and he can almost taste it, sugar sweet and airy. There comes the sound of a violin, and his whole frame tenses and perks up, his ears twitching minutely. Kathleen, amused, pushes him in the direction of the sound, and they discover a lone NPC musician who seems to be playing an instrument, or, more specifically, tuning it. The ground begins to thrum again, brought on by Kitferge’s excitement. The man obliges when he asks to borrow the violin for a minute, and the boy takes the bow and settles the instrument into the crook of his body, carefully playing a few notes before adjusting the strings as needed, finishing the tuning that the NPC had already started.
After a minute of hesitation, he begins to play Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61, the familiar notes coursing through him. His fingers pluck and pull lightly on the strings, his fingers feeling odd, this body not used to such a delicate task. The notes come out a little off, but acceptable nonetheless, and he enjoyed the music that he made, attracting a couple of stragglers to watch him play, the sound echoing off the short, stoop buildings. He can feel Kathleen’s tiny smile on his back, and he struggled to conceal a light grin, finishing up the last note of the song with a flourish, bringing the bow and instrument down and carefully returning them to their rightful owner, slightly flushed but pleased. There’s a moment of scattered applause before everyone resumes their day, an occasional glance sent in his direction as he sits by the fountain with the blonde girl beside him, tired but happy.
They stay like that for a while, just next to each other, not really saying anything. Kathleen starts to sleep on his shoulder, her blonde hair covering his chin, and he doesn’t mind, keeping perfectly still, not daring to move. Soon, he can’t help it, and begins humming Byssan Lull, an old Swedish lullaby that Kathleen sang once. Some words slip out, and soon, he’s singing the lyrics gently, which makes Kathleen lean into his frame more, perhaps hearing him through her sleep. There’s a quiet lull as he finishes, and a group of players walk by, talking rather loudly, but he lets out a quiet “shh” that makes them turn towards him and they turn, surprised, and spot Kathleen. The players nod and continue on, whispering and sending secretive little smiles to the duo, probably over how cute they are as a couple, though they’re nothing of the sort. Kathleen is the only friend he’s had, and he hers, so they have a deep bond, one deeper than he thought could possibly exist.
It’s nothing like the one he has with his mother, which is tenuous at best, shaky and one-sided. Nothing like the one he has with Aaron, too, which is utterly romantic, filled with wordless moments and tinkling music. Aaron. He had been on a walk with his boyfriend before he came here-the day before, actually, and it had been nice. Time with his boyfriend was always nice, actually, and he smiled softly at the thought of his significant other, before noticing the pink-streaked sky and nudging Kathleen. Her eyes open blearily, blinking up at him. Sitting up straight, she yawns a little before stretching, catlike, and her eyes are unfocused and hazy. If she were a cat, her ears would have twitched, but as it is, she merely blinks again, eyes finally focusing. They are suddenly caught off guard when a bell starts tolling, the sound loud in the silent afternoon.
Both heads swivel, curious, to where the sound seemed to come from, but they see nothing, just the vast expanse of sky. Sharing an equally bewildered gaze, the two players stand, shaking off their lazy mood easily, and Kitferge’s hand pulls out his dagger, and he sends a cautious look around. What did it mean? Was there something wrong? He turns, about to mouth something to Kathleen, but when he turns, all he sees is empty air. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, only to be enveloped by a strange light. His frame stiffens, and he tries to speak, but no noise comes out of his mouth. This is wholly new, and he is underprepared for this, shock and fear beginning to seep into his mind, his body shaking slightly as he finds himself kneeling on stones. There’s a brief moment when he reaches out with a trembling hand to rub the cold material before withdrawing, leaning back with a haggard sigh before realization sets in. Kitferge scrambles to his feet, looking around desperately for Kathleen.
“Kathleen!” He calls desperately, then remembers himself. “Ophiuchus! Are you here? Kat-Ophiuchus!” He screams, trying to get his voice heard. A head suddenly turns, hearing him, and he sags in relief, running toward her figure. She’s trembling and frightened, utterly unsure of what’s happening. The confusion and fear around them seems nearly tangible, poisoning their every thought and it seems to affect them physically, too, and the girl begins to shudder, fear coursing in her. Her breaths become shallower, eyes losing their kind, tame look. He catches her before she collapses, and murmurs comforting words into her ear, rubbing her back soothingly. He hates being like this, so helpless and yet not. She twitches helplessly against him, hiccuping, her tears not even real, disappearing as soon as they fall on the ground.
And suddenly, the sky starts to turn red, dripping, bleeding, utterly crimson. Kathleen tries to turn, to see what all the commotion is, but he keeps her back to the spectacle, knowing that she would most likely fall into a panic attack if she saw what was going on. Her struggle goes limp, and she whispers “okay” before leaning back into him, utterly exhausted. Kitferge says something to her, he’s not really sure what, but it works, and he watches what’s going on, utterly horrified at what he finds out. As more words are exchanged, he grows more and more outraged and fearful, because what’s going on, what the hell is that thing in red-
"Attention players. Welcome to my world. My name is Kayaba Akihiko. As of this moment, I am the sole person who can control this world. I'm sure that you've already noticed the logout button is missing from the main menu. But this is not a defect in the game. I repeat... This is not a defect in the game. It is a feature of Sword Art Online. You cannot log out of SAO yourselves, and nobody on the outside can shut down or remove the NerveGear."
Kayaba Akihiko. Holy fuck-it was that guy who created Sword Art Online. This was a prison, an ultimate cage-it was no different from the real world. His emotions churned and shifted, crazed, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat. Kathleen stiffens in his grip, feeling his distress, but he calms, telling her it’s alright, when it obviously is not, telling her that what she’s hearing is a quest. She mutters that he should let her see, if it is a quest or not, but her relief is palpable, and he doesn’t want to tell her the truth. Perhaps he should have, but she’s not in good condition right now. People are beginning to scream, to cry, to hyperventilate, but it’s all in silence, thanks to Kayaba. Bile rises in his throat, and he clasps a hand to his mouth, trying to resist the urge to throw up.
This was a prison. He should have known.
"Should this be attempted, the transmitter inside the NerveGear will emit a powerful microwave, destroying your brain and thus ending your life. Unfortunately, several players' friends and families have ignored this warning, and have attempted to remove the NergeGear. As a result, two hundred and thirteen players are gone forever, from both Aincrad and the real world. As you can see, news organizations across the world are reporting all of this, including the deaths. Thus, you can assume that the danger of a NerveGear being removed is now minimal. I hope you will relax and attempt to clear the game. But I want you to remember this clearly. There is no longer any method to revive someone within the game. If your HP ever drops to zero, your avatar will be forever lost, and the NerveGear will simultaneously destroy your brain. There is only one means of escape. To complete the game. You are presently on the lowest floor of Aincrad. Floor one. If you make your way through the dungeon and defeat the Floor Boss, you may advance to the next level. Defeat the final boss on Floor 100, and you will clear the game. Finally, I've added a present from me to your item storage. Please see for yourselves. "
“Avke,” Kathleen murmurs, oddly calm, “Let me see.”
“No, what if you-”
“I won’t.” With that cold, distant remark, so unlike the girl he knows, he lets her go, and she pulls her wrist down, swiping at thin air. Soon, her inventory pops up, orange and white. She opens it, and sees an entry in gray, and soon, Kitferge does the same, copying her motions. It says, “mirror”. He summons it easily, and it appears in his hand, utterly ordinary, but then, another flash of light completely surrounds him, and he’s powerless once again. Once the boy opens his eyes, he turns over the mirror and suppresses a scream, instead letting his eyes widen. It’s him, actually, the skin color and eye color different, but definitely him, down to the slender neck and beauty mark. His skin is originally a pretty coffee-with-milk color, his hair dark as milk chocolate. Even his eye color is dark-a dark brown that’s streaked with gold and has flecks of that metallic color. But otherwise…
Kathleen pulls on his arm, and he looks at her, merely an inch taller than him, lilac eyes wide and slim limbs exactly as he remembers them. Even her hair color is similar, merely a shade lighter, her skin one shade too dark. But otherwise, this is the girl he knows, the girl he bakes with and sits with and talks to at lunch under the blooming flowers. Her longsword, gripped in her hand this entire time, clatters to the ground, and he takes a step towards her, only to see her shake uncontrollably, falling down. Around him, many player do the same. The man-no, the monster-in the air begins to talk again, and Avke wants to scream, to stop, to kill this man with every fiber of his being.
"Right now, you're probably wondering, 'Why?' Why would Kayaba Akihiko, developer of Sword Art Online and the NerveGear, do all this? My goal has already been achieved. I created Sword Art Online for one reason...to create this world and intervene in it. And now, it is complete. This ends the tutorial for the official Sword Art Online launch."
"Good luck, Players."
“Kathleen,” He murmurs, taking a step closer. She’s shaking, and he wraps a hand around her, doing his best. He’s not very good at this, but he’s decent, and she trusts him, but it’s not helping. Her breaths are getting ragged, and she’s gulping air in, perspiration beading on her forehead. Her hands are cold and clammy, body tense and lax all at once. Kitferge wants to help everywhere and nowhere, and feels so, so helpless. She can’t do this. Her face is reddening and she makes helpless choking noises.
He pulls her toward a secluded corner,, and it's a goddamned good thing that they're at the very edge of the town, so that he can pull her out of it and near to the plains, where it's completely deserted, out of the safe zone, and tries to calm her down. Every second seems so short but so long. He tries singing, even, but it doesn’t calm her, not one bit. Her shuddering is brought to a new height, her gasps desperate and short, and he feels so useless, so utterly alone, and he hates this, hates Kayaba, and he’s so fucking desperate, he doesn’t even know anymore, and it’s-it’s just. He feels like screaming, feels like hitting something, feels like shattering into damn fucking pieces of nothingness-and he pulls out his dagger and just stabs the wall, getting all his anger out as he tries to calm Kathleen. Please, please, just fucking work for once, just please-
It’s all accelerating and it roars in his ears.
Then, suddenly, something changes. Kathleen’s breaths become less dangerous, but her eyes are glazed and not quite right, and the whites of her eyes are just-is she
And he stabs her.
Her eyes go wide, and her mouth slowly opens to say something, and then her grip on his shirt relaxes, and then her eyes close, and then-
nothing.
She’s gone, disappeared in a shower of blue pixels. It’s empty. He’s empty.
Kitferge leans back, surrounded by nothing but horrified silence. He just killed Kathleen, holy shit, he just killed someone, he just killed his best fucking friend, how the fuck-He breaks into laughter. Hysterical, manic laughter, because what the literal fuck just happened and he’s not even sure anymore, he might be going insane, he might be going into existentialism, because what the literal fucking hells just happened, he just killed his friend. His best friend. His only friend. His only link to the real world. But then again, what is real? What if she just woke up? He’s not sure, he’s not even sure anymore, he doesn’t know anything, he doesn’t know anyone, and he doesn’t care, he realizes with a jolt. He just killed Kathleen, and he’s not even sure he cares.
Does he care? Maybe. There’s an aching gap where his heart is right now, but he doesn’t think he cares enough, not really. There are people crying and screaming, and he just feels like sitting. Hell, he feels hungry, even, through his emotions. So he guesses he’s not human, not really, now. Would Kathleen cry? Most definitely. She would sit by where she killed him and weep for hours and days and minutes and seconds. But Kathleen is Kathleen, and she’s his friend, or she was his friend, and he doesn’t know anymore. He just feels-he just thinks-there’s just-
What is this? He’s not sure. It’s just-
Aching. That’s the word. He’s hollow, though he doesn’t know why. Laughter bubbles up in him again, building up and up and up, and he can’t breathe anymore, can’t think or breathe or taste or feel or smell or whatever, and he’s gasping for breath and he can feel himself not breathing for a couple of seconds, needs that air, wants that air, just like Kathleen did. A manic smile grows on his face, and he doesn’t know, feels terrified, but it’s happening to him, why is he smiling, why is he laughing, what is going on, who is this person-but he smiles and he cackles and he laughs and he shudders.
But he feels euphoric, he realizes with disgust and horror. He feels lighter, somehow, and less chained down. There’s a sense of happiness around him, something that he hates and abhors and oh-so-despises, and he just can’t think. It’s all red. It’s all crimson, so brilliant crimson, like the way the sky bled-
“Tell me about the sky,”
-and he’s just giggling like mad now, isn’t he? But he can’t care, can’t bring himself to care, because what is there to care about, who is there to care about? It doesn’t matter, because there’s no one who cares, no one who wants to care, no one who exists that he cares about either. It’s just him. Alone. Utterly, severely, completely alone. He blinks and he can almost see his mother throwing a glass bottle at him, the scent of cheap beer filling the air, her drunken slurs loud and clear. He screams himself hoarse, and no one hears. His heart seems to shatter. That’s funny, he thinks dully, I don’t even think I have a heart anymore. Ha. Ha. Ha.
He can see his demons rise up from the ground, haunting him, taunting him, dragging him down with them. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t try to resist, because who is he doing this for? Blood rushes in his ears, thrumming beneath his fingers, and the boy is utterly still. He doesn’t try to fight it. “Some feelings sink so deep into the heart that only loneliness can help you find them again. Some truths are so painful that only shame can help you live with them. Some things are so sad that only your soul can do the crying for them.” He whispers. “Gregory David Roberts.”
And then he throws his head up and laughs, because who is listening? Who cares enough to listen? He certainly doesn’t. Those lilac eyes of hers, they'll haunt him forever, won't they? He looks down at himself and pulls his dagger out of the ground.
It’s the birth of a new person, and he hates who he’s become.
He doesn’t think he can’t.
There’s a quiet rustle of wind. He opens his eyes, unprepared for the serene sight around him. The gentle weight of cotton envelops his limbs, and he can feel a dagger strapped to a sheath easily located on his thigh. His garments are lightweight, like the air, and he can barely feel them sliding against his skin. There’s a thrumming in the ground that he can feel, as if the very earth is alive. It pulls him towards the stones of the roads, and the smooth walls of the buildings, and he runs his fingers over the material. If he tries, he can imagine that it thrums underneath his touch, like the feeling that he can feel in his blood. It calls him to move, to feel, to walk through this land, to conquer, like a man dying of thirst to water. Excitement and adrenaline builds up in his frame, and he fights it, keeping himself as calm as he can. The air is fresh and pure, cleansing him. It’s a new world; one he has never thought could exist. The stones feel smooth under his shoes, the air cool to the touch. His senses are clean, sharp. He feels alive, much more so than he has ever felt before. His fingers reach for his dagger, and his fingers clench around the hilt, before unsheathing it fully.
It gleams as it catches the light. He pauses, inspecting it further. It is sharp and reflective, and he runs a finger over it, feeling the smooth metal. Kitferge wonders what he can do with this dagger, a strange anticipation building up inside of him. His thoughts are cut off by a light touch at his elbow that is feather-soft and swift, withdrawing as soon as he turns. It’s a slight, blonde girl, shorter than him. Her blue eyes are shadowed and reveal little, her blonde hair in thick curls that fall to her ankles, huge and the size of his wrist. She carries a longsword by her side, clenched in one hand, always wary, alert. The boy smiles softly and motions toward the empty meadows that seem to be part of the town, somehow, and she nods, following. Curious glances follow them, but they both ignore them, sharing short glances that reveal nothing. Even in the game, she carries herself lightly, as if she were a slim wisp of a flower that might be blown away at any second. Her movements are delicate, like crystal glass, and he can almost hear them tinkle. By the time that they reach the mint-green grass, she’s closed her eyes, listening to the wind, relaxing into the touch of the sun. He sits down, a little amused, and lays on his side, curling up. The sun is warm, but not overtly so-it washes over him, and soon he’s half-dozing, her by his side, sitting upright. It’s silent, and sometimes she cards her hands over his hair.
“Bird,” She murmurs, blue eyes bright. He knows they’re not that brilliant sapphire in real life, but he smiles faintly and curls up even more, pausing for a minute before speaking.
“Alttayir alssaghir,” He murmurs in light Arabic, indulging her for a minute. She’s quiet and shy, always withdrawn, but he likes to talk with her like this, silent and peaceful. There’s the gentle twittering of birds around him, the rough-soft feeling of grass against his skin, the feeling on fingers braiding his hair, Kathleen doubtless making a flower crown. He’s not wrong. The blonde places a ring of daisies on his head soon afterwards, and he ignores the awkward way it’s placed on his head, since he’s laying down. The sky is a warm blue that looks huge and vast. Suddenly, he feels tiny. Insignificant. The sky stretches on and on, completely endless. The girl by him hums lightly, something light and tinkling. He thinks it’s Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, though he’s not sure. He starts to hum with her, and they’re in this little bubble, warm and happy and together. Kathleen traces idle patterns on his skin, and he can feel the little scratches her fingernails make on him.
“Like,” She whispers, quiet and unassuming. He smiles silently, his eyes closed, head using his bent arm as a pillow. She picks a dandelion and blows away the fluff, watching it dissipate into a series of pixels. Her fingers rub the ends of his hair, and he can almost see the way she frowns at how much more coarse it seems, rough and darker than in real life. Of course she would be worried about that. The blonde female pokes at his frame, wondering at his now bulky frame decided by the game’s rather basic avatar frames, experimentally tugging on a lock of hair before beginning to make minuscule braids. They spill between her fingers, making the contrast between his inky-dark hair and her pale skin between him seem even greater. Kathleen could be thinking about a great number of things, but he doesn’t dwell on it for too long. What Kathleen wants to muse about, she can. It’s not his business. The tension he didn’t know he had begins to seep out of his body, making the shorter player giggle lightly and him relax into the earth.
Thoughts come and go; they touch upon him, but he doesn’t have time to compute them into words-instead, they tell him they’re there, little emotions bursting and bubbling in him. The air is the same. He likes this place, too, he thinks of telling Kathleen. He likes it much more than the real world. He knows she likes it more, too. Kitferge knows he looks much more different, though, his coffee-with-milk colored skin instead two shades darker and his hair a jet black that makes him uneasy. Even his eyes are not the proper dark brown flecked with gold, instead the closest he can get to that color a smoky black that Kathleen abhors, murmuring that it reminded her of ashes. He doesn’t ask after that, but the player above him, Kathleen-or, no, she’s Ophiuchus now, isn’t she? He reminds himself-starts to speak herself, light eyes boring through empty air. “I want to conquer this world. Let’s do it together, Avke.”
“Mhmm,” He says softly. “Let’s. We can share the throne. And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it. Paulo Coelho. The Alchemist.” When she sends him a half-exasperated look, still stoic, he sighs over dramatically and settles himself next to her, leaning on her shoulder before she pushes him off gently. “I can be your king, and you can be my queen.”
“No,” She says decidedly, blue eyes glittering with challenge and the tiniest bit of mischief, “You can be my queen.”
“Alright,” The boy gives in, a smile growing on his lips. Ophiuchus doesn’t talk much, except for when she’s really passionate about something, so he listens and takes her word for it. “We can set this world ablaze. No one will ever forget us. We’ll make the sky illuminated with the light of our victory and drown all our enemies in the sheer vengeance that we retaliate with. No court of fools?”
“Aaron,” She retorts, laughter glimmering in her sapphire irises. He nudges her in retaliation, and she pushes him back softly. Of course she would bring up his boyfriend. His mind wanders to lazy days spent with familiar green eyes and warmth, of days spent with the three of them sitting in the park, saying nothing but thinking, communication limited to looks and small gestures. She pauses suddenly, and pulls him up to a sitting position, and he blinks the tiredness out of his eyes, looking at his friend with weary eyes. She points at a pretty butterfly, and makes a swift motion that he takes to mean “follow”, though he’s not sure. He sighs and pulls himself to his feet, still unused to this much more masculine avatar. She waits impatiently before taking off after the insect, pulling him along. He stumbles along with her, huffing lightly, and clumsily avoids other players. She lets go, exasperated, and instead runs after it herself, him following at a slower pace. There’s an aura of mystery surrounding this land, shrouding him in this…thing that influences his emotion. It’s not bad, actually, but pleasant. It’s not bad.
Soon, he breaks into a sprint, now much more used to these long limbs of his. In fast pursuit, he soon spies a lone figure standing, a slender hand on her hip. Her blonde hair is mussed, just slightly, and her stance is impatient. He slows beside her, and she gives him the silent treatment for a whole of five minutes before sighing and linking arms with him. They walk alongside each other for a moment, looking for the exit, and when they do spot it, it’s far away, but reachable. There’s a silence, before Kat-Ophiuchus looks at him and bores holes into his neck, poking him just firmly enough to not hurt him but get his attention. Her longsword has disappeared, apparently in her inventory. “Say something pretty.”
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star. Friedrich Nietzsche.” Kitferge tries, but apparently that’s not pretty enough, because she merely continues looking at him expectantly. He sighs. Those were both very pretty quotes, though. The player thinks, racking his head for something that could perhaps be halfway relatable. “Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swamps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists..It is real..It is possible...It’s yours. Ayn Rand.” He murmurs, half lost in thought. The girl quiets, and it calms him, this presence of hers. It keeps him stable, in this quietly intense way that seems to be purely hers. Aaron warms him to the core, gentles him, makes this rush of scalding heat and love flow through him, but Kathleen pulls on him, calming him, makes him think and still. It’s different.
“Tell me about the sky,” She requests after a minute. They fall into step, her quick steps keeping pace with his long, stretching ones with his newly found limbs. He raises a curious eyebrow, wondering at her sudden happiness and talkative behavior, but she’s flushed pink and she’s glowing, somehow, even through this game. If it makes her happy, who is he to refuse? She makes him happy, after all. Kathleen is remarkably like the family that he never had.
“It’s blue,” He says bluntly, which gets him a swat to the head. “Alright, alright. It’s a nice, bright blue. It seems vast, endless, and somehow so saturated that I wouldn’t be surprised if it shattered in a million pieces, falling upon us. It’s beautiful, so warmly so and inviting that I feel almost afraid, cloudless and infinite. So brilliant that it’s almost unstable; so blue that it seems almost purple; so bright it blinds me. There’s nothing there. It’s empty and lacking, but it hides it with this warmth that’s so fake, so artificial that everyone falls for. No clouds mar it-no one wants to step near this coldly, warmly, paradoxical beautiful canvas. It shifts, but no one notices, grounded only by the sun.” Kathleen murmurs something lightly under her breath, and he pauses, tilting his head. A little farther away walks a rouge-haired player, her dark green eyes shifting on them for a minute. The girl stiffens, her anxiety beginning to resurface as the girl comes closer and closer. Her grip becomes tighter and tighter on his arm, and he winces slightly before returning her touch with a light pat on her back, which helps her relax minutely. The woman passes, ignoring them. Kathleen loses her tension.
They exit the meadow, and re-enter the town. Kathleen takes the time to pause by a stall filled with flowers, the NPC woman cooing at her before offering a single daisy with an extraordinarily long stem to the blonde while Kitferge pauses, waiting for his friend as she thanks the program for the flower and rewards her with a glittering smile. His eyes flit across the street, analyzing the people who pass by. An arrogant, lazy player walks by, and by his stance, he’s built like a tank, probably having spent all his points on strength and talking about his “amazing victory” against “a monstrous level one boss, called a ‘Wild Boar’”. His friends, or hanger-on clique listen raptly, oohing and ahhing. The boy rolls his eyes, and his friend rejoins him shortly, raising a blonde brow. He waves it off, leading them down the cobblestone sidewalk, both talking lightly. Actually, it’s more like him talking, but he doesn’t mind, and neither does she, making occasional noises of disagreement or contentment. The click of their shoes against the stones are not unusual, or particularly loud, but he hears it all the same, taking in information about other players as they pass.
His eyes are curious as he takes in this world again. The air is much sweeter, and he can almost taste it, sugar sweet and airy. There comes the sound of a violin, and his whole frame tenses and perks up, his ears twitching minutely. Kathleen, amused, pushes him in the direction of the sound, and they discover a lone NPC musician who seems to be playing an instrument, or, more specifically, tuning it. The ground begins to thrum again, brought on by Kitferge’s excitement. The man obliges when he asks to borrow the violin for a minute, and the boy takes the bow and settles the instrument into the crook of his body, carefully playing a few notes before adjusting the strings as needed, finishing the tuning that the NPC had already started.
After a minute of hesitation, he begins to play Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61, the familiar notes coursing through him. His fingers pluck and pull lightly on the strings, his fingers feeling odd, this body not used to such a delicate task. The notes come out a little off, but acceptable nonetheless, and he enjoyed the music that he made, attracting a couple of stragglers to watch him play, the sound echoing off the short, stoop buildings. He can feel Kathleen’s tiny smile on his back, and he struggled to conceal a light grin, finishing up the last note of the song with a flourish, bringing the bow and instrument down and carefully returning them to their rightful owner, slightly flushed but pleased. There’s a moment of scattered applause before everyone resumes their day, an occasional glance sent in his direction as he sits by the fountain with the blonde girl beside him, tired but happy.
They stay like that for a while, just next to each other, not really saying anything. Kathleen starts to sleep on his shoulder, her blonde hair covering his chin, and he doesn’t mind, keeping perfectly still, not daring to move. Soon, he can’t help it, and begins humming Byssan Lull, an old Swedish lullaby that Kathleen sang once. Some words slip out, and soon, he’s singing the lyrics gently, which makes Kathleen lean into his frame more, perhaps hearing him through her sleep. There’s a quiet lull as he finishes, and a group of players walk by, talking rather loudly, but he lets out a quiet “shh” that makes them turn towards him and they turn, surprised, and spot Kathleen. The players nod and continue on, whispering and sending secretive little smiles to the duo, probably over how cute they are as a couple, though they’re nothing of the sort. Kathleen is the only friend he’s had, and he hers, so they have a deep bond, one deeper than he thought could possibly exist.
It’s nothing like the one he has with his mother, which is tenuous at best, shaky and one-sided. Nothing like the one he has with Aaron, too, which is utterly romantic, filled with wordless moments and tinkling music. Aaron. He had been on a walk with his boyfriend before he came here-the day before, actually, and it had been nice. Time with his boyfriend was always nice, actually, and he smiled softly at the thought of his significant other, before noticing the pink-streaked sky and nudging Kathleen. Her eyes open blearily, blinking up at him. Sitting up straight, she yawns a little before stretching, catlike, and her eyes are unfocused and hazy. If she were a cat, her ears would have twitched, but as it is, she merely blinks again, eyes finally focusing. They are suddenly caught off guard when a bell starts tolling, the sound loud in the silent afternoon.
Both heads swivel, curious, to where the sound seemed to come from, but they see nothing, just the vast expanse of sky. Sharing an equally bewildered gaze, the two players stand, shaking off their lazy mood easily, and Kitferge’s hand pulls out his dagger, and he sends a cautious look around. What did it mean? Was there something wrong? He turns, about to mouth something to Kathleen, but when he turns, all he sees is empty air. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, only to be enveloped by a strange light. His frame stiffens, and he tries to speak, but no noise comes out of his mouth. This is wholly new, and he is underprepared for this, shock and fear beginning to seep into his mind, his body shaking slightly as he finds himself kneeling on stones. There’s a brief moment when he reaches out with a trembling hand to rub the cold material before withdrawing, leaning back with a haggard sigh before realization sets in. Kitferge scrambles to his feet, looking around desperately for Kathleen.
“Kathleen!” He calls desperately, then remembers himself. “Ophiuchus! Are you here? Kat-Ophiuchus!” He screams, trying to get his voice heard. A head suddenly turns, hearing him, and he sags in relief, running toward her figure. She’s trembling and frightened, utterly unsure of what’s happening. The confusion and fear around them seems nearly tangible, poisoning their every thought and it seems to affect them physically, too, and the girl begins to shudder, fear coursing in her. Her breaths become shallower, eyes losing their kind, tame look. He catches her before she collapses, and murmurs comforting words into her ear, rubbing her back soothingly. He hates being like this, so helpless and yet not. She twitches helplessly against him, hiccuping, her tears not even real, disappearing as soon as they fall on the ground.
And suddenly, the sky starts to turn red, dripping, bleeding, utterly crimson. Kathleen tries to turn, to see what all the commotion is, but he keeps her back to the spectacle, knowing that she would most likely fall into a panic attack if she saw what was going on. Her struggle goes limp, and she whispers “okay” before leaning back into him, utterly exhausted. Kitferge says something to her, he’s not really sure what, but it works, and he watches what’s going on, utterly horrified at what he finds out. As more words are exchanged, he grows more and more outraged and fearful, because what’s going on, what the hell is that thing in red-
"Attention players. Welcome to my world. My name is Kayaba Akihiko. As of this moment, I am the sole person who can control this world. I'm sure that you've already noticed the logout button is missing from the main menu. But this is not a defect in the game. I repeat... This is not a defect in the game. It is a feature of Sword Art Online. You cannot log out of SAO yourselves, and nobody on the outside can shut down or remove the NerveGear."
Kayaba Akihiko. Holy fuck-it was that guy who created Sword Art Online. This was a prison, an ultimate cage-it was no different from the real world. His emotions churned and shifted, crazed, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat. Kathleen stiffens in his grip, feeling his distress, but he calms, telling her it’s alright, when it obviously is not, telling her that what she’s hearing is a quest. She mutters that he should let her see, if it is a quest or not, but her relief is palpable, and he doesn’t want to tell her the truth. Perhaps he should have, but she’s not in good condition right now. People are beginning to scream, to cry, to hyperventilate, but it’s all in silence, thanks to Kayaba. Bile rises in his throat, and he clasps a hand to his mouth, trying to resist the urge to throw up.
This was a prison. He should have known.
"Should this be attempted, the transmitter inside the NerveGear will emit a powerful microwave, destroying your brain and thus ending your life. Unfortunately, several players' friends and families have ignored this warning, and have attempted to remove the NergeGear. As a result, two hundred and thirteen players are gone forever, from both Aincrad and the real world. As you can see, news organizations across the world are reporting all of this, including the deaths. Thus, you can assume that the danger of a NerveGear being removed is now minimal. I hope you will relax and attempt to clear the game. But I want you to remember this clearly. There is no longer any method to revive someone within the game. If your HP ever drops to zero, your avatar will be forever lost, and the NerveGear will simultaneously destroy your brain. There is only one means of escape. To complete the game. You are presently on the lowest floor of Aincrad. Floor one. If you make your way through the dungeon and defeat the Floor Boss, you may advance to the next level. Defeat the final boss on Floor 100, and you will clear the game. Finally, I've added a present from me to your item storage. Please see for yourselves. "
“Avke,” Kathleen murmurs, oddly calm, “Let me see.”
“No, what if you-”
“I won’t.” With that cold, distant remark, so unlike the girl he knows, he lets her go, and she pulls her wrist down, swiping at thin air. Soon, her inventory pops up, orange and white. She opens it, and sees an entry in gray, and soon, Kitferge does the same, copying her motions. It says, “mirror”. He summons it easily, and it appears in his hand, utterly ordinary, but then, another flash of light completely surrounds him, and he’s powerless once again. Once the boy opens his eyes, he turns over the mirror and suppresses a scream, instead letting his eyes widen. It’s him, actually, the skin color and eye color different, but definitely him, down to the slender neck and beauty mark. His skin is originally a pretty coffee-with-milk color, his hair dark as milk chocolate. Even his eye color is dark-a dark brown that’s streaked with gold and has flecks of that metallic color. But otherwise…
Kathleen pulls on his arm, and he looks at her, merely an inch taller than him, lilac eyes wide and slim limbs exactly as he remembers them. Even her hair color is similar, merely a shade lighter, her skin one shade too dark. But otherwise, this is the girl he knows, the girl he bakes with and sits with and talks to at lunch under the blooming flowers. Her longsword, gripped in her hand this entire time, clatters to the ground, and he takes a step towards her, only to see her shake uncontrollably, falling down. Around him, many player do the same. The man-no, the monster-in the air begins to talk again, and Avke wants to scream, to stop, to kill this man with every fiber of his being.
"Right now, you're probably wondering, 'Why?' Why would Kayaba Akihiko, developer of Sword Art Online and the NerveGear, do all this? My goal has already been achieved. I created Sword Art Online for one reason...to create this world and intervene in it. And now, it is complete. This ends the tutorial for the official Sword Art Online launch."
"Good luck, Players."
“Kathleen,” He murmurs, taking a step closer. She’s shaking, and he wraps a hand around her, doing his best. He’s not very good at this, but he’s decent, and she trusts him, but it’s not helping. Her breaths are getting ragged, and she’s gulping air in, perspiration beading on her forehead. Her hands are cold and clammy, body tense and lax all at once. Kitferge wants to help everywhere and nowhere, and feels so, so helpless. She can’t do this. Her face is reddening and she makes helpless choking noises.
He pulls her toward a secluded corner,, and it's a goddamned good thing that they're at the very edge of the town, so that he can pull her out of it and near to the plains, where it's completely deserted, out of the safe zone, and tries to calm her down. Every second seems so short but so long. He tries singing, even, but it doesn’t calm her, not one bit. Her shuddering is brought to a new height, her gasps desperate and short, and he feels so useless, so utterly alone, and he hates this, hates Kayaba, and he’s so fucking desperate, he doesn’t even know anymore, and it’s-it’s just. He feels like screaming, feels like hitting something, feels like shattering into damn fucking pieces of nothingness-and he pulls out his dagger and just stabs the wall, getting all his anger out as he tries to calm Kathleen. Please, please, just fucking work for once, just please-
It’s all accelerating and it roars in his ears.
Then, suddenly, something changes. Kathleen’s breaths become less dangerous, but her eyes are glazed and not quite right, and the whites of her eyes are just-is she
And he stabs her.
Her eyes go wide, and her mouth slowly opens to say something, and then her grip on his shirt relaxes, and then her eyes close, and then-
nothing.
She’s gone, disappeared in a shower of blue pixels. It’s empty. He’s empty.
Kitferge leans back, surrounded by nothing but horrified silence. He just killed Kathleen, holy shit, he just killed someone, he just killed his best fucking friend, how the fuck-He breaks into laughter. Hysterical, manic laughter, because what the literal fuck just happened and he’s not even sure anymore, he might be going insane, he might be going into existentialism, because what the literal fucking hells just happened, he just killed his friend. His best friend. His only friend. His only link to the real world. But then again, what is real? What if she just woke up? He’s not sure, he’s not even sure anymore, he doesn’t know anything, he doesn’t know anyone, and he doesn’t care, he realizes with a jolt. He just killed Kathleen, and he’s not even sure he cares.
Does he care? Maybe. There’s an aching gap where his heart is right now, but he doesn’t think he cares enough, not really. There are people crying and screaming, and he just feels like sitting. Hell, he feels hungry, even, through his emotions. So he guesses he’s not human, not really, now. Would Kathleen cry? Most definitely. She would sit by where she killed him and weep for hours and days and minutes and seconds. But Kathleen is Kathleen, and she’s his friend, or she was his friend, and he doesn’t know anymore. He just feels-he just thinks-there’s just-
What is this? He’s not sure. It’s just-
Aching. That’s the word. He’s hollow, though he doesn’t know why. Laughter bubbles up in him again, building up and up and up, and he can’t breathe anymore, can’t think or breathe or taste or feel or smell or whatever, and he’s gasping for breath and he can feel himself not breathing for a couple of seconds, needs that air, wants that air, just like Kathleen did. A manic smile grows on his face, and he doesn’t know, feels terrified, but it’s happening to him, why is he smiling, why is he laughing, what is going on, who is this person-but he smiles and he cackles and he laughs and he shudders.
But he feels euphoric, he realizes with disgust and horror. He feels lighter, somehow, and less chained down. There’s a sense of happiness around him, something that he hates and abhors and oh-so-despises, and he just can’t think. It’s all red. It’s all crimson, so brilliant crimson, like the way the sky bled-
“Tell me about the sky,”
-and he’s just giggling like mad now, isn’t he? But he can’t care, can’t bring himself to care, because what is there to care about, who is there to care about? It doesn’t matter, because there’s no one who cares, no one who wants to care, no one who exists that he cares about either. It’s just him. Alone. Utterly, severely, completely alone. He blinks and he can almost see his mother throwing a glass bottle at him, the scent of cheap beer filling the air, her drunken slurs loud and clear. He screams himself hoarse, and no one hears. His heart seems to shatter. That’s funny, he thinks dully, I don’t even think I have a heart anymore. Ha. Ha. Ha.
He can see his demons rise up from the ground, haunting him, taunting him, dragging him down with them. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t try to resist, because who is he doing this for? Blood rushes in his ears, thrumming beneath his fingers, and the boy is utterly still. He doesn’t try to fight it. “Some feelings sink so deep into the heart that only loneliness can help you find them again. Some truths are so painful that only shame can help you live with them. Some things are so sad that only your soul can do the crying for them.” He whispers. “Gregory David Roberts.”
And then he throws his head up and laughs, because who is listening? Who cares enough to listen? He certainly doesn’t. Those lilac eyes of hers, they'll haunt him forever, won't they? He looks down at himself and pulls his dagger out of the ground.
It’s the birth of a new person, and he hates who he’s become.
He doesn’t think he can’t.
coded by pinn @ thq