I will teach you that there are things worse than death.

Death is nothing more than a relative term, romanticized when deemed fit. Death of self, death of hope, death of character - none of these are very lethal. Brevity of human life is nothing tragic; a single death is a pity tale yet a thousand deaths is a mere statistic. The most obscure death of all, death of self, is the one least noted or cared for. People die all the time in an effort to mask the self; sometimes to the point that who you are and who you want to be seen as blurs in an unrecognizable line of uncertainty.

Heartbeat. He shuddered in a forest of blankets.

"Ah…"

In the World, Sora murdered his own image of a fragile fourth grader, opting for the rare taste of power that could not be granted to him otherwise. Digital knives at hand, players fell. It was just a game after all, and the people didn't really die. Here was satiation, pseudo happiness and manic ecstasy granted through slaughtering with a clear conscience. The child behind the roleplay watched in half lidded longing, but the character merely scoffed.

Heartbeat. Eyes opened in the rift between sleeping and waking.

What a shame that the little boy he wished to deny wasn't completely erased. He remained dormant in the assassin's mind, looking for company. Tsukasa. It must be fun to be around with him; with so many people surrounding the Wavemaster, it has to be. Tsukasa, can I play too?

Tsukasa's declaration remained immaculate in his shoddy memory, the quiet rebellion against the Voice. "I am not afraid." Admiration was there, and perhaps a tinge of jealousy. Tsukasa had someone to meet. Sora did not.

Tsukasa-kun, let's be friends.

Pain. Silence. Heartbeat. Awake.

Existence was smothering him with stale, antiseptic air. A disoriented body sat up in reluctance, blinded by the garish whiteness of sterile walls and light. Monitors hummed in orchestral monotone, and he realized that the hospital gown thrown on him didn't close at the back. The blankets were held tighter, but coldness remained. He looked down at his arms, near emaciated from wasting away in a bed, and sighed.

Two hours passed before a nurse came, ready for a daily check up on the vegetable. She gasped at the sight of him awake.

"Oh!"

They called his parents.

"… Mama, please let go of my hand. You're crushing it."

Tires droned in the street, and trees waved briefly before melding in a verdant blur. His mother held tighter, her voice drowned in sobs. Whether it was relief or guilt, he couldn't tell, but it forced recollections of being left in a video game store, with the promise of "we'll pick you up by closing time." Machines and computers were the ones who took care of their son, and they left it at that, ignored.

Guilt. He awkwardly rested his head on the shoulder of the woman causing pain to his hand. Touch was something to be accustomed to, but the waves of discomfort were pushed aside. It wasn't reparation enough, but no one can blame him for trying.

"I think I grew taller."

Fabric loosely touched his skin. He flinched at the sensations, everything so bright, so loud.

Cars halted to a red light. Traffic accumulated.

"That's - wonderful dear. When we go - home, would you - like something to eat?"

Lights flashed green; horns blared. The father driving cursed under his breath.

The child laughed, hiding bitterness burning in his lungs. "Not really… how do I look to you?"

"…Like you said, you're - taller."

She ceased at last, and slackened the grip on his palm, only to embrace him fiercely with the clutch of a drowning victim. There was no struggle for freedom, and instead he submitted to the suffocating warmth, eyes closed in shameful contemplation of some obscure sin. The collective noise of road aggravation remained, but for a short-lived instant he felt nothing but numbness, the reluctant sensation attacking him. Time halted.

Nothingness.

It would not have been accurate to have called them bad parents, per say. Nevertheless, children still need warmth. They are not microwave meals to be left in a spot, and expected to turn out perfect by the end of the ordeal. Ignore them long enough and they'll read Niccolo Machiavelli and war strategy books, evolved into half fleshed adults in dire need of company. They left their son with his eyes attached to a monitor, drinking the empty static.

It would not have been accurate to call him a bad child either, but he wouldn't have known that.

The car parked at their home, deceptively normal in every right. He was called by his old name once again by the strangers who took him in. The name was a foreigner, unspoken and unacknowledged. Sora could not attach himself to it, barely managing to keep silent while the adults to be called his parents escorted him inside.

I am not made out of glass. I will not break into pieces. I don't want your pity.

"I'll be in my room."

"But…"

"I'll be fine… good night."

Peace was broken with the sound of a door slamming. Artificial light from the computer bathed the otherwise dark space.

Log on. User name? "Sora."

Password? "…Isolation breeds contempt."

The World beckoned. He equipped a backup pair of blades and smiled, eyes shut, tasting the simulated wonderland. The glass fourth grader was dead, as far as he could tell. He would remain dead until the time to log out came. It was best not to think of the child, or the real world while playing. Yes, the real world had little to offer to him, if anything at all.

Sora hummed something inane, his character's mind returning to him. "Someone's going to die today..."

Familiar gold rings teleported him to the nearest field, where he vented his cooling anger on the emotionless monsters. The child controlling the actions infuriated him. Such weakness… weakness is deplorable. Weakness was something to be masked. Several bodies disintegrated into useless data, impaled through the bowels by the jaded player killer.

"Boring."

At a certain point, leveling up becomes too much of a chore for the easily distracted. Sora decided a long time before that hunting down people was far more satisfying. Why do they care so much, anyway? It was just a game, with no true casualties, no real world repercussions. At least, it was at one point-

It was best not to dwell on those things. He returned to the root town with a burgeoning pain in his head.

Stars audaciously raided the otherwise black sky, a stark contrast to the empty city. It was late out; no normal players would access at such an ungodly hour. Sora contemplated the ghostly Calmina Gaderica, wondering if he had been playing for too long. He had no intention of returning so soon - not yet. For now, he decided, it would be proper to simply enjoy the view, the 2 o'clock a.m. charm of the normally bustling town.

Then, a voice.

“Sora?”

“Crim.” A stutter. That sounded too weak. The boy repeated himself, speaking confidently now. “Hello.”

“What happened to you?”

“None of your concern.” He choked on his words, a small lump forming in his throat. “Just- leave me alone okay?”

“Sora...” It sounded an awful lot like pity.

“Whatever the kind of sorry for me speech you want to say, I don't want to hear it.”

A pause. Then, “We were worried. Tsukasa was wondering about you.”

He perked up at the sound, and briefly considered attempting casual disinterest, but thought against it. “Where is Tsukasa?”

An address. Crim didn't know exactly, it seemed but all he did know was a park used as a meeting place. And for Sora, that was enough. He logged out shortly afterwards, his heart fluttering.

"So, where exactly do you want to go?"

"Uh, the park. The one near the hospital I stayed in."

"Why would you want to go here?"

His father's query was well justified. The fourth grader was a creature of technology and bright monitors, his skin pale from lack of sunlight. He could not remember the last time he played on swing sets, nor did he care to remember. Probability was the call of reason, but the stubborn wishful child in him refused to think common sense. Who could say for sure that Tsukasa was going to show up that day?

That was a simple answer. He would try everyday. He would look everyday.

"I want to go because… I never did." Well, half of this was true.

And so the decision was made. They dropped him off and promised to pick him up by sunset.

Closing time, of course. He waited for hours, and his hope left like fleeting butterflies.

Children, all sinless, amused themselves in the metal and sand enclosure called the playground. Sora was on the outside looking in, staring numbly at the idyllic scene, frozen on a walkway where cyclists and walkers made their rounds. He couldn't call to mind a time when he was like them. Ah, to be young and innocent - and stupid. Blessed are the ignorant, may they experience bliss.

And they'll all grow up miserable adults, kissing up to their bosses for a better pay. Cubicles will overtake them.

A tiny girl was foolish enough to ransack the rose bushes, only to cut her fingers in thorns. Her potentially more idiotic parents weren't watching, but instead were making pointless commentary on how lovely the day was. The boy took the scene in, speechless, before walking toward the little girl and talking the flower away from her.

He stripped off the thorns, face lacking expression as his palms bled. The parents were not exactly pleased, and pushed their children safely away from him.

"I'm stupid for doing this."

There were two teenage girls on walking the pathway, their hair playing off bits of light. Pretty girls, they were. The elder was on a wheelchair, looking concerned.

"I don't mind," she said quietly, "but sometimes it conflicts with my new college schedule. I try to make time whenever I can."

"No, it's my fault." That face… it looked hauntingly familiar. "I'm still a bit apprehensive going back, Subaru - eh, sorry. It's so hard calling you by your real name."

Subaru?

That means… Tsukasa. Tsukasa!

It didn't take long for them to notice him, a little boy with bleeding hands, unsupervised by an adult, and soon enough he found himself surrounded. Before they could open their mouths, the floodgates opened.

“I- Tsukasa... I. Oh, I am so sorry.” He was a pitiful scene now, sniffling in wild abandon. How very much like a child. He hadn't been one in so long, and it felt like a sharp, poignant needle in his chest. Sora, for one of the first times in his life, felt so, so small.

He felt arms around him, and was enveloped in warmth.

Consummation.