Characters--Minamimoto, Joshua, Megumi, mentions of Neku, Beat, Shiki
Rating/Warnings--PG-13. SPOILERS FOR LAST DAY OF BEAT (AKA END OF THE GAME), violence, small blood scene.
Summary--Minamimoto had to correct them; after all, it was god, not demon. //Experiment!fic; witten in a differnt style than how I usually go.//
A/N: This was A) a challenge, to see how short I can make something, and B) very experimental. This probably isn't my greatest work. I...may or may not have fudged some specific details of the end of the game, as well. See if you can see what the title means.
When he first came upon them—Orange and his (third) idiot sidekick—they writhed and slithered and shouted in amazement. The dead can’t come back. They were wrong, as always; the dead can when they were never truly dead.
Orange said leave, told him they had to move on now. The Third said he would be becoming the next Composer. He ignored their foolish, inaccurate outbursts, ignored and rejected them like so many other miscalculations they had spawned. They wouldn’t understand what had blessed (and befallen) him; no one ever did.
Demon, they whispered. Dirty and rotten, a psychotic social reject that found a home with non-terminating decimals and the very enemies they fought.
(They meant god; Minamimoto would make sure they were corrected.)
They came along to his precious heap, the first idiot sidekick now with Orange and the Third; they fake-mourned, worried with all the concern of hunting rats, then robbed him and went on their merry way. Their “blessed” way.
They were wrong, though. He wasn’t dead; the gods can’t die. It was immortality brought (and bought) with his life. Crushed by his creation, yes, but not squeezed and killed by it. His work, calculated and beautiful, would never lash back at him.
Minamimoto crawled out from underneath his creation, brushed the dirt off him and went to fulfill his divine duties of teaching the hapless and ascending the throne.
He saw Orange (and, to an extent, his two idiots) defeat Megumi. Easy, Orange murmured after the first; devil, he murmured after the second. The prize for him winning was a cold knife in his untrusting back—returned memories that ripped through all his forged progress. It was a betrayal that cut open an old wound; surprise, fool, the truth always stung like that.
No wonder the boy had chosen the loner life.
Minamimoto sighed, growled, raged internally before leaving. He’d no wish of seeing this ridiculous not-reunion of friends who were still enemies.
Life was too easy. Before, his mortality had been the bet that had made it endlessly interesting. Now, the morality was gone and (almost) nothing was left to capture his interest.
He’d completed one of his divine duties by letting Orange find out that trust was truly poisonous; he might as well complete the other.
The Composer had left himself open when he sent his trio away—what a foolish mistake. Minamimoto was all for showing him the consequences.
The Composer lay dead on the ground, a bullet from his own gun having taken his life.
As Minamimoto stood over the body, studying the cold blood that inched down the pale face, the power enclosed in the body rushed into his own, synchronized and emphasized with the Noise he had consumed. He smiled.
(It’s god, not demon. Joshua was a testimony to that.)
A/N: Each section's word count decreases by 15. "15 Down".
God, it's been forever since I updated with an actual fic, hasn't it?