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If we could put into words every second someone lives on , We feel ourselves live on like scattering words about If we could put into words every second someone lives on, We feel ourselves live on like scattering words about. Here.

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Today he felt nothing, and the words on the pages meant nothing. No matter how many times he looked over the yellowed, wrinkled, stained pages the words seemed to flee his sight, scramble and bend, unable to hold still as if he was trying to make out faces on a staticy television. His hair was a  short glossy black that seemed to wrap around his face, and his broad black glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose., revealing his dull gray eyes, dappled with flecks of black and white. Just hardly sticking out from the back of his pants was a small protrusion in his skin. A tail. It was only a small stump, covered white short white fur peppered in black. Lying on his stomach in his bed, it wagged relentlessly, making subtle fluttering sounds like the flap of a moth's wings. The novarian sighed, clapping his book shut, a cloud of dust rising in his face, not even bothering te wedge a bookmark between the pages. He let out a lukewarm sigh, rolling on his back, feeling his bangs glue to his frehead with the sweat they had collected. His teeth gritted, his throat hot as if in moments he'd be breathing fire. His skin was even more flushed of color than usual. He felt like a snowmelting slowly melting away on his bed. Today, he'd lose everything.

"CADE! CADE COME QUICK!" 

Cherry. It was definitely Cherry's voice, so shrill and squealish like a trilling flute. Cade jumped in his bed, his glasses wobbling off his noses and off his bed, skidding onto the floor. He muttered curses to himself, scrambling off his bed, pillows falling off behind him. His foot was caught in his bedsheets, and immediately he found himself flat against the floor, the paper-back books from earth that littered his floor providing a very poor cushion. Cade moaned, looking up. He had always had such horrid eyesight, the world looking like a child's fingerpainting without the help of his glasses. He struggled to find his glasses, hands searching the floor frantically, only sensing the familiar smooth feel of the plastic covering of his books that he had shipped from countries on earth for cheap prices. At last his hand came around the shape of his glasses. 

"CADE! CADE!!" 

Her voice was panicked this time, no longer a flute but a squaking clarinet. Cade put on his glasses, hurrying out of his room, slipping and sliding on books and clothes he had lazily thrown about his room. Catching himself on his doorknob, he finally- wait no, the door swung back as soon as he put his weight on it, and Cade was thrown on his back. It was as if his own room had something against him. At this point his anger was so heated he could fry an egg. The male novarian spat, teeth clenched so hard they were on the edge of shattering. He stood up, brushing off himself for the last time, and kicked a stack of books out of his way, the books' pages fanning out like white waterlilies. Cade slammed the door behind him, hustling to his precious sister Cherry's room, flingin the door open. He looked a mess after the battle with his own room, hair inkempt, chair half untucked, glasses lopsided on his nose. Cherry sat infront of her pearly white vanity, her honey brown hair curled and adorned with amber flowers. She wore a ruffled, floral dress of a lovely pattern that brought memories of meadows and prairie abundant in wildblowers. Her cheeks were red and irritated as though she had been crying for quite some time, and her eyelashes budded with silver tears. She turned to her big brother, scampering over, her curls bouncing. "Brother..." she turned her back to him. Being exclusively designed for Novarians, there was not one, but two zippers on the back. One near the top for simply zipping up the dress. The other, closer to her lower back. There was a distict bulge where the lower zipper was. It wriggled and bobbed energetically. "Unzip it for me please... It's unbearably uncomfortable..." 

Her dress. 

She was shrieking over her dress. 

Cade wiped his brow. He could not believe what he was hearing. Cherry was almost eleven, old enough to know not to scream bloody murder over her dress. His sister always acted half her age, and the frilly dressed didn't help either. "Cherise..." he groaned taking a knee behind her. "You had me thinking... Forget it..." Cade fingered the golden zipper tab on the back of her floral dress pulling it downwards, the fabric parting like lips. Instantly a bushy bunny tail burst through the opening, a fluffy golden on that bounced rather than wagged. Cherry spun around, her dress flowing around her. 


If we could put into words every second someone lives on , We feel ourselves live on like scattering words about If we could put into words every second someone lives on, We feel ourselves live on like scattering words about. Here.

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The burial ground wasn't far from sight. Kiyoteru's grip loosened on the girl as a tall shred of scrap of metal bent into an upside-down "v" came into view like a lone lighthouse in a great fog. He had used it as a visual landmark every time he transported a corpse, despite the fact he was equipped with maps of the City of Japan. Surrounding him were untitled graves, some the grimy, unhealthy gray dirt still freshly layered on top of the small, hurriedly made tombs. A large stack of metal boxes had been exported from the protected city for 'gravediggers' such as Kiyoteru and some other vocaloids to use as coffins for the departed. There were hundreds of them, dingy, rusted brown in the corners, stacked like cards, piled like hay, some mysteriously lying stray thousands of yards away from the burial ground. Kiyo glanced up at a pile of metal coffins, his hazel eyes frosted like an old oak in winter (though nobody has ever seen an oak tree before). The coffin at the top was wrested so badly it had begun to bend and distort. A glossy black crow perched itself on its open lid, preening his feathers. From what Kiyo's internal systems could identify, there was more organic matter inside the coffin. Fledglings, crow fledglings. Birds were beginning to make nests in the untouched metallic caskets. His eyes brewed with anger. Humans were such lazy, ignorant creatures, dumping poorly made, unmeaningful, ugly metal boxes out into the danger zone. That was there way of showing their appreciation and farewell to the dead.

Disgusting.

A seemingly endless row of perfectly identical rectangular holes in the meshy, crummy earth. Kiyoteru crouched, lying the girl on her back, abandoning the body momentarily to choose a coffin. He pried one from the middle of the largest pile, the other coffins protecting it from acid rain. It glinted silver, even under the dark smoggy skies, almost void of imperfections, other than a few small rusted spots on the side. The pile tumbled, the awful moan and cry of metal against metal polluting the air. Kiyo didn't flinch once, watching briefly as the pile faltered like a great beast, the coffins spreading out over the burial grounds, knocking over other stacks and piles. He didn't bother cleaning up the mess. It wasn't worth it. Exhalinf through his nose, the coffin seemingly weightless in his arms, he turned on his heel, returning to the gravesite. He inched to the edge of the pit he had chosen, gently placing the industrial casket inside, the earth beneath his feet loosening and chunks of ground and soot falling in. The vocaloid picked up the corpse yet again, her body seeming lighter and hollower the longer he dwelled around it. Her stringy bangs had shifted over her eyes. He brushed them away, stroking her air. Like a mother laying her babe in a cradle, he lay her in the metallix box, the the hinges of the lid groaning as he slowly shut it. It was the last glimpse of the dust-bunny skies that pair of unseeing eyes would ever get. He began to scoop dirty black soil in his cupped hands, dropping it into the grave, not slowing until it was completely filled.


The crack of a sniper shattered the silence in the air.


The crows cawed, their wings beating against their chests as the took off, leaving a handful of feathers behind. Kiyoteru turned in the direction of the sound, eyes wide. His system was immediately responding, and soon text and a rotating diagram of the type of gun that had been fired off appeared in his vision. He had seen it before. Who did it belong to? Kiyo checked his energy level, represented in a golden bar. It had risen and replenished a fair amount since he stopped to rest and bury miss Yukiko. He took a deep breath. Something exciting would be up ahead. This would be a refreshing sprint. He walked a few steps. Then, jogged. Soon, his internal pedometer was going off the charts as he took off in a dash towards the sound of the sniper, his energy level wavering. Arms pumping, legs stretching out ahead of him, coat flapping, he had run almost 3/4 of a mile when to distinct pink and one crimson head of hair became visible ontop of a nearby skyscraper. His systems instantly caused his eyesight to zoom in on the three figures. MEGURINE LUKI. MEGURINE LUKA. CUL. Soon, his system was filling up with basic information on the three. Then, he took notice in something less pleasant. His vision tinted red as he system blared "DANGER DANGER DANGER". Minors, a large amount of them, scaling up the side of the building. Convulsing, twitching, bobbing like hideous metal insects.

The three had managed to take out some of the monsters, a few still remaining. Might as well take out the last few for them, make his presence known to the three. Kiyo held out his arm, closing his eyes. "Activate Inventory Weapon MNPF Type-A to left arm..." he muttered. ACTIVATING: MESH_NET PROJECTILE FIREAM, TYPE A, TO LEFT ARM was his system's response. There was a mechanical clank that came from inside him. He silently rolled up his sleeve, exposing the bare, artificial skin. Suddenly, the skin on his arm began to tear, his arm beginning to separate and rearrange. Red, green, and gold rubber wires could be seen through the metal, all zapping and sending signals that directed the changes that were occuring. Soon enough, his arm had completely shifted into a url=http://www.google.com/imgres?q=black+rock+shooter+gun&um=1&hl=en&sa=N&qscrl=1&nord=1&rlz=1T4GGHP_enUS460US461&biw=1280&bih=751&tbm=isch&tbnid=hn799f8GXELZzM:&imgrefurl=http://cosplaynewzealand.forumotion.com/t7025-damn-you-black-rock-shooter&docid=gwBcsCAzcMmOSM&imgurl=http://www.notcliche.com/universalstrikers/KyouranKyodai/Images/Figurines/BRS/BRS_Miku_Final_8.jpg&w=500&h=319&ei=a50IULq6GMq2rQG2mM3FBA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=198&vpy=384&dur=2215&hovh=179&hovw=281&tx=109&ty=105&sig=106019554497251715111&page=3&tbnh=135&tbnw=241&start=57&ndsp=31&ved=1t:429,r:19,s:57,i:318]strange, broad gun. An ammo-count untensil appeared in his vision, as well as a status bar determining how each shot affected his energy. Kiyo glanced at his changed arm before pointing it at the towering wall of the skyscraper, eyes narrowed as he looked through the scope. Once he was aimed at a cluster of the minors, he fired, his heels digging into the earth to prevent himself from being blown backwards by the force. There was no bang, no sparks, no smoke, but a black capsule which shot from the barrel of the heavy-duty gun. It seemed to swell as it cut through the air. Moments before it hit the wall, the capsule split open like a pill, expanding and releasing a large, black mesh net. Kiyoteru watched blankly as it sealed over the group of minors, trapping them. "Finish them off..." he called.

x

ＤＡ ┋ ❥ ┋ Ｌａｒｅｕ

xx ★ ( HIYAMA KIYOTERU ) ❜ ▬▬

xx★ ★ ★
「AGE❜ 23
「HEIGHT❜ precisely six feet
「BODY TYPE❜ thin, but nicely toned around the shoulders and arms
「SEXUALITY❜ ...now that you mention it......
「OCCUPATION❜ professional trumpet player--specializes in jazz. Also a music educator and vocalist on the side.

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• 
  The Hiyama family was an overachieving family, and its youngest child, Kiyoteru, was aware of this. Kiyoteru was privileged to have such dedicated parents, both of which took great care into molding their children into hard-working leaders. While his father helped him learn his school material, his mother taught him skills for studying, for socializing, and for daily life. Though Kiyoteru appreciated the immensity of his parent's love, he felt constant stress that kept him from enjoying his leisure time. Trying to be perfect in every area of study left him fatigued. Few things interested him (he had little time to dive into passions) and had little desire to see friends. As he grew older, he'd procrastinate excessively until this behavior became commonplace and it was hard to stay on task. The older Hiyama siblings were a marvel to him, showing hardly any reluctance to do their work. His siblings often dragged him through his own problems, which he was consistently landing himself in due to a lack of effort in and out of school. In spite of his grades, he was a troubled teen. Throughout his childhood, he would have a sour relationship with his siblings, who seemed more interested in criticizing him than encouraging him to succeed.
  
  Unlike his siblings, who participated in athletics, Kiyoteru pursued music in middle school. For a year, he took chorus, simply to impress his first crush. While his voice proved remarkable, the girl he fawned over turned out to be shallow and rude, and he promptly quit the class, which never truly interested him in the first place. Kiyo then turned to band. He chose a popular instrument, the trumpet, and was fascinated by the "lifestyle" of instrumental music. Music required similar skills to that which his family had beaten into him, only in different forms. The language of sheet music and the idea of expresses emotions and sensations without words or explanation captivated him. Especially notable were his hard-working directors, who amazed him much like his siblings, except their determination would inspire him. Kiyo took comfort in the fact that his directors held such similar values to his own parents, yet expressed them in a way he understood. For the first time, he had a passion that he felt would kindle for the rest of his life.
  
  Kiyoteru's parents were pleased with the lasting effects of their son joining band. His life became more organized and his grades more secure. However, like most scholarly parents, music was an "impractical" career choice, especially the specific music subgenre their son loved most: jazz. They did not foresee Kiyo investing so much time in his music. Lacking the same appreciation for the art, his parents hoped his musicianship would earn him a spot in a decent college, where he would drop the hobby and major in engineering. Kiyo had other plans. Throughout high school, his relationship with his family would become more and more strained as siblings and parents alike became critical of his choices. For several years, the Hiyama household would be plagued by endless fighting and arguing. Kiyoteru's grades would take a dip when he realized the amount of time he'd have to put into his trumpet in order to be great. Playing in an out-of-school jazz ensemble (which his parents were not aware was mostly composed of adult members that performed at bars) required Kiyo to drive to the city immediately after school and return close to midnight. All of this Kiyo felt was necessary to be a great trumpet player, and he wasn't wrong.
  
  Kiyoteru fought repeatedly with his parents over where he would attend college. His parents, sick of his lifestyle, refused to pay for him to attend /any/ university should he shape his career around his trumpet. It was only when he received a generous scholarship for musical achievement did his parents agree. Upon moving into college, his father grimly warned him that they would not help him financially should he face any obstacles. From that point on, phone calls home would be few an far between.
  
  The music industry was a nightmare, riddled with uncertainty. Kiyoteru continued to push forward nonetheless, living on pocket change, microwavable dinners, and minimal sleep. To keep himself from going utterly broke, he taught lessons to young locals in his free time Still holding his family's morals, he refrained from parties, lust, and substance abuse, all of which were tempting amid the stress of music. He composed small works for brass ensembles along with jazz ensembles, continuing to engulf himself in music theory and learn as much as possible about the guidelines of music. In one of his recorded works, mimicking the dual talent of Chet Baker, Kiyoteru included vocals. His professor was so impressed by this he convinced Kiyo to post the recording online, where it gained mild attention. Unbelievably, he was called up by Vocaloid, who asked him to audition privately before a panel of judges.
  
  In a matter of weeks, he was signed by Vocaloid. Vocaloid did not /adore/ his "normalness" and dislike for pop culture, though they appreciated his talent on the trumpet. He had no desire to sharpen his vocal skills, to their dismay, and saw Vocaloid as a doorway into working with the best ensembles.
  
  Currently, he receives a meager pay from the company, though it's more than he ever earned before in his entire life. He hopes to make pop music more about talent and music theory than about glamour and scandal. Most of all, he wants the public to respect instrumentalists and jazz music. In return, Vocaloid wants to exploit his singing talents for other uses and make Kiyoteru into a "real" rock-hard celebrity.

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"More coffee, hun?"

"Oh, yes please! Thank you." Kiyoteru held out his mug.

"Sure thing." It was perhaps the most typical diner imaginable, a linoleum-tiled relic of the Cold War. Its color scheme was akin to that of an elementary school Easter egg hunt. Everything was either a yellowing white or a whitening yellow. The pastel seat cushions on the chairs, chapped and reptilian, were made from an unforgiving school-bus leather. Incandescent bulbs dangled over the tables, buzzing angrily. As the day shifted from morning to afternoon, so did the menu. Being precisely midday, the scent of the air stood in greasy limbo somewhere between eggs, sausage, french fries, and cheap burgers. The breeze from a plug-in fan on the lunch counter kept the odor from resonating, rattling the newspaper clippings on the back wall.

The waitress, a middle-aged women with auburn curls, poured his coffee. Kiyoteru nodded his appreciation. She flashed a wrinkly, lipstick-caked smile. "Call me over if you need anything else dear, and I'll come a-runnin'." Kiyo hugged the mug to his chest, letting the steam tickle his chin. The diner was barren today, has was his schedule. His pocket radio chirped merry big band tunes in poor quality---just the way he liked it. There was nothing more charming than a touch of static.

The waitress retreated to the kitchen, and all the noises and disturbances around Kiyo shriveled away. His radio lost its signal. Kiyo was alone, which wasn't necessarily a terrible thing. He had always considered himself a thoughtful introvert, and even took pride in this. When he stared at the vacant booth across from him, however, he fidgeted as though someone were dropping ice cubes down the collar of his shirt. Clearly, this was not an uncommon sight for him, though he tried to convince himself otherwise. Being Kiyo, he thought it immature to dwell on such this. Thus, he sighed with forced contentment, and directed his eyes to the window. That's right. Being alone was wonderful.


AND I'M FLOATING IN A MOST PECULIAR WAY. AND THE STARS LOOK VERY DIFFERENT, TODAY

☇☇ my funny valentine ⇢ sweet comic valentine

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