FLCL Fan Fiction ❯ Noata (Moon-Walker Through Space and Time) ❯ Deamonium ( Chapter 5 )

God, I haven't updated anything here in ages! I'm so sorry, for any of you who really care, about the delay! I've also been beta reading for a few people—and there's been school, my new English college class, plus just a big writer's slump to slow me down. When I assigned myself the task of finishing a few stories for the annual contest, I repelled from it and stopped writing for a while. Well I'm back in action, so enjoy!

 

 

The stars wink at me from all around.

 

They're like bits of nectar dribbled from a humming bird's greedy beak.

 

Frozen in the air, in a void of timelessness.

 

Some scientist toyed with the equipment.

 

Fractured the intricate parts in his curiosity.

 

This froze time here…

 

Destroyed the lovely colors…

 

And left the blackness of space to hug around us…

 

Along with the bits of nectar.

 

 

Through the gleam of the space-ship window, I can make out only distance, and distance, and distance. I can call it this because filling up this distance is the same thing. Over and over. With nothing to mark it or specialize the different parts, the distance is simply just that. If you have ever stared straight into nothingness, it is slightly like that. Yet, here the stars attempt to comfort you. They fail dismally.

 

“Moping some more?” Ninomori opens, sitting on the ledge by the window to the right of me. She takes a bite of grilled cheese sandwich to siphon silence into her constantly active mouth.

 

“I'm not moping,” I return, masking all emotion to insure that I give her no evidence to support her claim. My mind isn't finished musing over the impossible declaration that my cat is a girl, when my dad is always pointing out Miyu-Miyu's sagging genitals when they drag across the floor.

 

“Alright, then you're diet-coke moping?” There is a pause as I take in the words with the rolling of my eyes. “I think I could beat you if I tried.”

 

“At what?”

 

“Moping.” Ninomori has the way of making little to no sense. The second I believe I understand her, a second follows where I am hit with the mildly irking surprise that I have nothing under my stance. With her I'm always on my back, and she's ready to take a little punch. Slowly, but surly, the vultures of utter confusion and slight irritability of her speech will devour my rotting corpse.

 

Sometimes I think maybe she's the only sane one, though. It's my insanity in combination with her lack there of which is poisonous.

 

But only slightly.

 

“I don't get you.” One of the most truthful things I have said to the purple haired princess.

 

“I'm not difficult to understand,” she idly returns. My eyes drift over her thin, regal body, her purple hair adds to the affect. She loves to pretend. Pretending is Ninomori in a nutshell, but really Ninomori is in a box. And the box she is in is in another box. Box after box, this makes up Ninomori. At least…that's what I think sometimes. I guess I pretend as well. I pretend that it's more complex than that, so instead of reading the simple instructions inscribed on the box that tell me where to open it, I try all these complex ways to pry it open. It makes sense that Ninomori would have a phobia of boxes, there are countless ones imprisoning her right now.

 

It's better to pretend. I'm scared to open the final box. I'm scared of what might be inside.

 

Or what might not.

 

“Maybe you're not difficult to understand,” I breathe finally, taking a sip of the sugarless lemonade I grip in my hand. I don't like that thought so I add, “but it sure seems like you are.”

 

“Maybe you just don't want to understand,” she says in a half-whisper, her eyes hiding behind her violet bangs, “maybe you're scared…maybe you're…dead already…” her voice has changed; it sounds almost mechanical. I realize that her arms are noodle-y and rubbery, waving around madly like a rapid, air-born river if its existence were possible. Her pupils and eye-whites have vanished, replaced by an eerie bright and pale blue. Her arms grow toward me, palms open, ready to grab me. Frozen to the spot, my body doesn't react to the many messages my brain implores it to heed. I watch, as Ninomori becomes less and less that and more and more some inhuman being. “Why not kill the soulless body?”

 

“I need to find her!”

 

“Why?” hisses something only part Ninomori, flinching back. Patches of her skin are peeling off, revealing a metal and wired sub-layer. An excruciating pain is forcing me down as insect-like spots of blackness begin to infest my vision.

 

“I need Haruko!”

 

“No, you're scared of her—you're scared of so much…like a small child.”

 

“I'm not a child,” I scarcely manage to wheeze, trying to push myself up from the ground. “I fear—everyone fears…there's nothing wrong with fear.” Another voice enters my ears, a soft one filled with reverie. It is like hearing your high school sweet heart's favorite song when you're forty years old.

 

“Naota, come here…” My eyes meet the figure of a rosy-haired teenager; she has full lips and full hips. Her skirt is too short, and her cigarette should be burned down to its last millimeter, but it remains despite all pre-established laws of physics. I crawl over to her and manage to stand up—she isn't Mamimi—as I thought she was. Maybe, formerly, she was, but now she is becoming a like being to what Ninomori is now. The screeching being that was once Ninomori, behind me sprouts ceiling-high wings. I turn away trying to reach what is partially Mamimi.

 

Suddenly, Hisa and the remainder of Hisa's gang of pirates are coming in to join the odd spectacle. The ordinarily nonchalant and stoic me is on the floor in emotional turmoil, and before me are two unspeakable beings. There are glowing lines through their metal skins flooding blue and red light throughout the room.

 

Oddly, the audience doesn't seem very concerned that suddenly Ninomori and Mamimi are bird-like, alien robots.

 

“That was weak of you, Naota,” one says, its deep, course masculine voice vibrating the room. It's chrome beak glitters in the luminescence of his and the other being's body.

 

“You were off guard and you let our powers hinder you,” says the other, its fine, sharp feminine voice pricking a small part of my temple. Something doesn't seem right, the space pirates surrounding myself and the bird-like beings are level and show no surprise whatsoever at this abrupt development.

 

“You idiot,” comes a voice. I blink in disbelief, feeling all my pain vanish in a fluttering sensation. The elation floods through my veins and every small pocket of my existence. One rational thought, the only one worth mentioning, enters my mind. Why am I so damn happy to hear it? An immense relief coupled with the happiness almost knocks me back to the ground as I manage to get to my feet.

 

The purple-haired porcelain doll has that determined look on her face, mixed with an “I'm better than you” and a “how could you be so stupid, low one?” insignia. At the moment, I'm thinking that Ninomori's return isn't as great as I previously thought.

 

“Many could fall under the spell of us—the Eagle Eyed Brethren,” says the metallic being; its gruff male voice creates a low hum in my ears after it finishes echoing throughout the room. I realize the one that has blue light protruding from within its metal shell is the female—and the one with crimson is the male.

 

“Brethren? But Claecendree…aren't you a girl?” Ninomori points out, taking a step closer the three of us. I'm really confused. What the hell just happened, anyway? Where did Mamimi go—and how did she get up here—in the middle of space? These beings…what are they…and…Claecendree? That name isn't familiar at all…yet the both of them have appearances that drag up old memories...

 

“For our kind this does not matter. We are all brethren. We ask: what is a female? What is a male? They are one and the same. We are hardly alike, but yet all the same. The paradox is not worth puzzling over,” Claecendree explains, icily. It starts to come back to me—exactly who these two remind me of…but I can't stop telling myself mentally that I'm wrong…that I can't be right.

 

“I'm somewhat disappointed in you, Naota,” Hisa begins, approaching me. And I've got to say, hearing that from your cat is somewhat disconcerting, “didn't you sense at any time that it wasn't really Ninomori you were talking to? These beings are almost unrivaled in their mastery of disguise and emotional manipulation, but there are a few who can surpass them. Out in this vast universe one must be prepared for anything and everything. You must be sharper than the rest of us, as your emotional disruption runs deeper than any other crew member.”

 

 

So I'm part of the stupid crew—even with my dismal performance on the “test.” Who'd think that I'd ever be a space pirate—and my cat would be my captain—and a girl? I still don't get what Hisa meant by “emotional disruption”, I think I'm the least emotionally disrupted out of all of them. Half of these weirdoes have severe drinking problems, and almost all of them have highly disturbing personality quirks. No one on this ship ISN'T annoying.

 

It also turns out that Claecendree and her brother Neutroesk are siblings of Atomsk. I know they would be helpful in our search for Atomsk—but can we really trust them? The aliens don't care—but Atomsk almost squished my puny home-planet Earth. He seems little more than a power-hungry beast in a ruthless pursuit to get more pumped. He doesn't care how many planets—how many lives are in his way. How do we know that this isn't a great big trap?

 

I'm not the slightest bit surprised, but I managed to get the crappiest, smallest room on the ship. A few minutes ago, I briefly wondered how my dad was doing. He's definitely not worried about me, that's for sure. I don't think my father's worried about me a second of his life—maybe he's never really worried about anything a second of his life. One thing that strikes me as odd is the fact that Canti's been scarce for the last few hours. Since we got on the ship, I really haven't seen much of him. Truthfully, though he's a robot, I'm more concerned about him than Dad.

 

All that's in this pitiful room is a small bed, a desk (I guess they expect me to do some sort of paper work—great), and a shelf that hardly is tall enough to reach my kneecap. The walls are a dingy gray color and the room looks as if it has a good few decades of age under its belt. I suppose I'm the lowest rank and this what I get for earning that lovely title. There are several things that really disconcert me about this entire arrangement:

 

They put my guitar in storage. Somehow, I really would rather if I still had it in my possession. I almost feel as if that thing's a part of me—it actually IS isn't it?

Atomsk's only known family is on board the ship—Atomsk, the giant bird thing that nearly wiped the minds of my race—mankind—clean.

Almost all of the people—no—aliens (which is just another reason to feel uneasy) on board are wanted in over a hundred galaxies.

Like I said before, Canti's sort of…missing…the only one I can honestly say I know on this ship.

The Eagle Eyed Brethren aren't only related to Atomsk, but they can disguise themselves and manipulate people's feelings. This is definitely cause for concern.

The captain of this entire crazed charade? My cat.

My cat—who I'm almost certain at least at one time possessed grotesquely noticeable male anatomy—is somehow female—and an alien.

I keep randomly despising the idea of seeing Haruko again—then—regrettably—really wanting to. Which doesn't make sense, because I'm indifferent of course.

The worst part: I'm in the middle of deep space with a whole bunch of crazed people who drink more than their weight in alcohol.

 

Well, except Ninomori.

 

But, you know, she thinks she's all mature and high-and-mighty, so I wouldn't be surprised if she thought she deserved to drink wine. I for one, hate wine, and have learned that I don't really need to do anything to prove I'm grown up. I used to think that way—but I guess that's the only positive bi-product of Haruko's crash-land into my life, my gained insight into what grown-up really is.

 

“Naota.” See, most people say your name like: Naota? You know why? It's because most people aren't sure if you really want to talk to them or really care to respond. I guess my cat has some narcissism to work through. Her ego almost seems to be swelling now that she has over ten members in a crew to order around. Even though I have to look down at the floor to see her at my doorway, she still manages to look down on me from her high throne. Something she's perfected beyond Ninomori's abilities, who, I admit, has abandoned that side of her personality somewhat since Haruko screwed around in her life too.

 

“Um…Commander Hisa—ma`am?” I manage to say without laughing. Ordinarily, I find myself incapable of feeling emotions others seem to let slip from their conscious. I've always felt they were sort of a waste of time. The circumstances lately, however, really prove to put a level of difficulty on maintaining my stoic persona. Some of this stuff is just too out there. Hisa coughs authoritatively.

 

“Well, Naota, I need you to make sense of these charts.” She walks up to that knee-high shelf on the left wall and places a large stack of dusty, aged papers onto its white surface. I watch in amazement, as the pile becomes a translucent ghost and soon vanishes altogether. With a high-pitched whoo, the papers re-solidify on the ebony desk on the opposite wall of the shelf. I feel my rear teetering off the edge of my tiny bed. With this small display of impossibility within all this tangled mess of improbable and inconceivable events, I finally realize the sheer oddity of it all. A single, entirely meaningless notion plants itself in my brain. I am not going to be able to tell this stuff to anyone. Who would believe me? Even those who witnessed the quirky mayhem Haruko subjected my hometown to…they wouldn't believe hardly any of the occurrences that have taken place this night.

 

These events stay with me.

 

And Ninomori.

 

If we even live through this.

 

Now I look to suddenly find myself on my feet. How that happened—who knows? After the numbing buzz in my head has lifted, I realize that a huge load of paperwork has been bestowed upon my thirteen-year-old back.

 

“Naota,” Hisa addresses once more, like a drill sergeant, “we need you to complete the task of transposing these charts.” I gawk at her, truly gawk. Several swear words enter and leave my brain until I'm left with a slightly pleasant emptiness in there.

 

“Transposing them to what?” I blurt in astonishment, feeling greatly overwhelmed at the prospect already. I'm not map person—or whatever you call it. Cardiographer, I hear Ninomori's voice in my head say. Now that's just unspeakably frightening. Before I even blurted my question to my cat, I knew I'd be incompetent in this mission that I've been assigned. I don't know the first thing about maps.

 

“The maps are labeled in Japanese—the humans the Interstellar Immigration Bureau partnered with on Earth during the birth of Meta-Mechanica, when I was with them, translated the Galactican language. This was done with the help of some qualified IIB affiliates of course…but really, I haven't the first idea how to write Japanese,” Hisa explains to me. My gut is beginning to feel heavier and heavier. So is my jaw. How am I supposed to be able to read “alien language?” After a prolonged pause, Hisa begins again. “It is, in a way, how your planet's measurements are. Almost the entire earth uses degrees Celsius to measure temperature. America, however, still uses Fahrenheit to measure temperature. In space, we have all converted to the same written language. Earth, remains isolated and blatantly ignores this and still uses their many languages, though the span of their planet compared to that of the vastness of space is like a marble in a football field.”

 

This fails to help me at all. Finally, I explode under the intense pressure I feel all over my body, “This is insane!!! I can't read alien language! I'm an isolated earthling, remember? And I don't know a single thing about maps—I—”

 

“Is that any way to speak to your commander?” Hisa hissed, interrupting my incredulous ranting. A stiff silence engulfs me and I'm still shaking. I can't believe the anger that's pushing against my face with such force I can hardly take. “You will stay in this room until you finish transposing these maps.” The heavy feeling in my gut has increased to the point that I'm starting to get the sense that I'm carrying another person inside me.

 

“But I don't—”

 

“You will learn the written Galactican language,” Hisa states, as if the words are chiseled in some monolith somewhere, “and when you do you can transpose the Japanese labeled maps. Some of the distances are a little inaccurate. You can fix those too.” Immediately, I've figured out I'm a prisoner, but that's the only thing I know at this point. I am desperately trying to keep up with a doom that is unfolding far too fast for my mind to keep up with. Half of me feels numb and I'm incapable of conceiving the utter cataclysmic value of this new information. A great portion of my mind is still stuck on the lack of reasons why I was chosen. Why would they trust me—an unknowing earthling; someone without any experience in space; without any experience with maps; and who, in their opinion, is emotionally disrupted?

 

“This is really stupid,” I finally get out, eyeing the open door, but quickly noting that I'm in the middle of space surrounded by people who would die if Hisa gave the command, “why can't I work with someone else, who knows the Galactican language—why me? Why am I so special? How could ever correct maps that were made by someone a lot more qualified than me?” I manage to keep my voice level and rational, because at this point I'm the only one with any sense in the room. It should be very apparent to Hisa at the moment that it's a fool's errand to leave such a great responsibility in my hands. I don't know anything about maps or space travel, but I do remember plenty of history lessons including famous ocean ventures that ended up in messes because of the tiniest errors on their maps.

 

“You don't realize a lot about yourself, do you, Naota?” At this point, I wouldn't have much trouble fathoming the possibility that my cat actually knows more about me than I know myself. Everything else that's happened is just as disturbingly out of realistic proportion. “And there is a lot that happens around you that you are equally oblivious of.” Just when she finishes saying that, two crewmembers, both only equipped with one eye, toss in what becomes a heap of shorting wires and metal.

 

Okay, what does this have to do with anything? I wonder, prepared for anything. Well, if Hisa's gone mentally insane, she better not expect me to feed her that favorite tuna brand of hers anymore. Somehow, I'm actually not that surprised that the pile of seemingly useless robotic parts is beginning to move. To annihilate me for insubordination to the feline queen of the entire universe? Go ahead. It's better than being sentenced to an eternity of transposing a mountain-high pile of space maps.

 

Oh no.

 

How could I be such an idiot?

 

You know, Hisa's right. I'm totally oblivious—brain dead too….

 

That sparking pile of metal?

 

My heart stammers when I realize its Canti.

 

Despite what anyone else might think, the only person—and I think Canti's the most human person I know—who's really been my friend is Canti. I don't care if I cry, because I know it's all my fault.

 

My knees slam into the cold, hard floor. My eyes are stinging and the skin around them is uncomfortably hot. I hardly notice this, my aching arms tightening around Canti's dismantled body which is now twitching in a seizure-like fit. The tears are pouring down my face and they won't stop. My body is a helpless piece of plastic, melting and bending in the fire, hopeless and alone. It reeks, its stench filling up the room with the end of its artificial life, clinging onto wood—pleasing with god to have a natural body. Pleading to rid of its man-made shell and become something with a spirit. My fingers caress with one friend I've touched that never hurt me.

 

I don't recognize the voice that ejects itself from my body, “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?” It's hoarse and shrill, cracking and dying, loud in a last scream. All of my soul is pouring out of my eyes and my throat. “FIX HIM! BRING HIM BACK!” Hisa stares at me wordlessly as I sob over Canti, squeezing him as hard as I can, hoping to transfer my life force into him. No one needs to speak right now, because my pain fills ever inch of the room, I can feel it pushing me from every side of my existence. It must seem silly—like a small child losing his or her toy—but Canti was never that to me. He was more than a friend—more than a person—he was the reminder of the things that made my life worth anything. He was a symbol of something that perhaps never existed—someone who never wanted anything for himself, but only things for those who cared for him.

 

“Such foolishness…humans put on such theatrics,” Hisa stoically put in, fragmenting the silence. “Canti isn't broken, the circuitry is a little over-whelmed by the programming we implanted in the robot's hard-drive.” These unemotional words fed the fire of hatred burning inside of me. My grip eased from Canti somewhat, and forgotten was my relief that Canti lived on, but my disgust for Hisa expanded.

 

“Why would you do this to him? What program did you give him? Why can't you leave him alone?” I cry, my face soaked with hot tears that are no longer falling.

 

“How else would you learn the Galactic language? We placed a learning program in its system. Don't fret needlessly, the robot should be in fine working order soon enough.” At these words my face is met with the back of Hisa's tail as she marches out the door, which slides closed behind her.

 

“Wait! Let me out!!!” I scream, dashing to the door and pounding it with my fists as hard as I can. I can feel the minutes wearing me down as I continue to throw my entire remaining strength into smashing the door. With every collision my body suffers, I feel more of my energy wasting away. Soon, the struggle my mind wants to pursue and the fuel my spirit provides are separated from my body which I can sense around me sagging and empty. The bone shielding the front of my brain clashes with the surface of the door before my body melds with the ground, and no longer stirs.