[b][i]???[/i][/b] Time. Such a distant concept. Where had it ... when had it ever mattered? It is a question, unbidden, bubbling from the depths of that murky sea of rust that tightly clings to him. The voices, so gentle and sick and beautiful like steel fork meeting blackboard, chitter intensely in response, the sharp vibrations tickling the inside of the ear canals. It hurts. The things twist and wriggle inside of him, each motion bringing with it the sharp sting of burning splinters. The sounds are their ambrosia. In the corner of his eyes, even in the dim, blood-red light refracting through the wrapping, their legs are happy. Happily dancing, each tap of milliard limbs against his whites an unscratchable itch. Not just there. Everywhere. Every time they move, he itches. As if cut with cold iron knives. They nibble. He can hear them chewing at the sinews. Bulging masses of gangrenous flesh and clotting blood, crawling underneath the patchwork skin. Burrowed too deep. Too deep to scratch out. He can't do it. The ends of his fingers are long crushed and shrivelled, nails cracked open and keratin shards digging into vulnerable meat. Trillion itchy nibbles, working further and further into his body. His body? Heehee. The voices shriek soothingly that it is. They twist and turn harder and the pricks intensify. It can't be it. It can't be his body. There can't be some cystic growth creeping closer to his mouth, leaking viscous neon green. The things like it. The clammy, rotting skin near it buzzes with delight. They, rooted inside, twist and wriggle. Do they eat it? The tang, a mild sweet odour, agree. The voices never answer that question properly. Their seraphic chitter stabs into his eardrums. Something pops and there is pain. It's a beautiful sound. The smell is addicting. His tongue can't reach it. He doesn't have a tongue? The insides of his mouth feel empty. Weightless. A thing digs into it. Its crusty surface is rough and harsh against the skin, drawing blood and tearing meat. Sandpaper. That is what it reminds him of. What is sandpaper? His thoughts are distracted as humid air rushes in. A left eyes droops down. Ah. A hole. The things want to feed him. The ooze drips. Fluid leaks down the side of his drying face. Ah, it is his body after all. They wouldn't like it to go to waste. He slurps and slurps and slurps. The voices are so loud. Clammy lips snap together. Ah~ The film of rust fragments. Unsettlement builds inside him.. The things shift and his naked back? His? Meets jagged stone. A million cold skewers pierce inside. It's hot and tight and the chattering voices grow distinct. The fluid pools inside. He drinks happily. He's happy, and they laugh with him. Flesh peels away in a flood of hurt. Because they know what they're to do. He knows. And he cries a million buzzing, knowing, happy cries. [hr][b][i]7am Saturday, April 23rd, 2016[/i][/b] "[i]... investigations regarding the cause of the accident that occurred yesterday afternoon are still ongoing. Police have refused to comment on the veracity of the rumours suggesting a supernatural origin ...[/i]" A tired yawn left Hanazawa's mouth as she clicked off her television with the remote. The third-year student of Uchima Senior High rolled onto her back, staring up at the bright pink ceiling of her bedroom. Everybody from the old man at the clockwork place to her mum was talking about that weird truck crash that happened yesterday. It'd hit a wall while turning and released a horde of evil robots or something onto the streets, except by the time emergency services arrived, there was no sign of any invading AI army. She'd heard rumours about it being some demonic infection, malfunctioning shady weapons, aliens or a shady secret society, but it was all super unbelievable to her. Shikatsu had always been a weird city anyway, but just because there were always unexplainable things going on didn't mean it was like, actually something outta a story. And not even a good story! She was a writer, after all. If she'd written something like that they'd totally have kicked her out of the club. But bad propositions for the origins of whatever that stuff was aside, she really wasn't too keen about it being the biggest thing on the news. She thought it was super exciting too, but when [i]everybody[/i] was talking about it, other interesting tidbits she could look into were getting drowned out. Aargh, and she just wanted to get over this writer's block, but when the only thing in the news that could inspire her didn't even fit the setting, it was really annoying! Her phone rang. Hanazawa turned herself over again, stomach now flat against her mattress. Her pale yellow smartphone was sitting next to the pillow, vibrating as a cheery anime opening played. Most of her friends wouldn't be calling at such an early time on the weekend, so who was it ...? A glance at the caller ID answered all her questions. "Okacchin~!" she exclaimed immediately, the phone having rapidly made it to her ear. "What's my fave uk-, uh, doormat need on a Saturday morning?" Even though she'd managed to correct herself, a sigh could still be heard from the other side of the call. Hanazawa made sure to memorise how he made the sound. It was definitely something she could use for one of her characters at some point. "We will be practicing one of the scenes you wrote today," was the reply from the Drama Club's introverted vice president. "I was wondering if you would be willing to spare some of your time and come watch ... unless you have other business to attend to?" "Don't be foolish, of course I can!" Maybe seeing one of her scripts being acted out by the club could give her that push to get over the writer's block. And she was never somebody who would pass on hanging out with Okacchin, especially if Oogami was around too. They were just so cute together! "When is it going to be?" "Practice is at nine, so come earlier if possible." She smiled, even though she knew full well her friend couldn't see it. "I'll be there, so don't you worry!" The call ended with a beep. It was definitely going to be a fun day.