High above the swelter of Haulani’s sky-spliced streets, where the jungle heat gives way to cloud-slick stone and bird-bothered railings, something begins to hum.
Not the breeze. Not the cicadas. No, this hum’s got teeth.
At the very top of the city—perched like a monstrous gargoyle where stilts give way to spires—stands Vox. All twitching limbs and swaying static, his hat tipped at a dangerous angle, his eyes (?) scanning the world below with equal parts melancholy and manic delight. The air warps faintly around him. It smells like ozone and spilled slushie syrup.
Then—he throws back his many arms, curls his limbs like a theatre curtain, and bellows:
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
The sound reverberates off rooftops and restaurant awnings. Windows rattle. Hels evacuate in furious clouds.
And then the rain begins.
Only it’s not rain.
It’s bouncy balls.
Thousands of them.
Candy-coloured, jewel-toned, neon-bright or glitter-packed. Translucent. Swirled. Shaped like hearts, stars, strawberries, one of them might be shaped like Noe’s face (alarming!) (beautiful!). They pour from nowhere and everywhere—out of his coat, his hat, the sky itself—and they bounce. They boing. They ricochet. They wreak absolute havoc.
They fly through fruit stands, knock over baskets of shrimp, ping off street signs with the velocity of a rubber meteor storm. A whole tray of mai tais is sent hurtling skyward. Somewhere, a small dog is riding a broomstick-sized drift of them like a wave. Children scream with delight. Adults scream with taxes. And still they bounce—down alleyways, over balconies, through open windows, under skirts, into seafood chowder.
And scrawled on each chaotic sphere in shaky, glittery ink are messages like:
At the top of it all, Vox stands with his arms wide, twirling slowly like a deranged ballet dancer as he watches the mayhem rain down.
"For you, Noe," he purrs, letting a final orb fall from his hand—this one shimmering like oil-slicked starlight, inscribed with nothing but a small, hand-drawn heart.
It bounces once.
Then twice.
Then sails off a rooftop to knock over a city guard's hat.
Perfection.
Not the breeze. Not the cicadas. No, this hum’s got teeth.
At the very top of the city—perched like a monstrous gargoyle where stilts give way to spires—stands Vox. All twitching limbs and swaying static, his hat tipped at a dangerous angle, his eyes (?) scanning the world below with equal parts melancholy and manic delight. The air warps faintly around him. It smells like ozone and spilled slushie syrup.
Then—he throws back his many arms, curls his limbs like a theatre curtain, and bellows:
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
The sound reverberates off rooftops and restaurant awnings. Windows rattle. Hels evacuate in furious clouds.
And then the rain begins.
Only it’s not rain.
It’s bouncy balls.
Thousands of them.
Candy-coloured, jewel-toned, neon-bright or glitter-packed. Translucent. Swirled. Shaped like hearts, stars, strawberries, one of them might be shaped like Noe’s face (alarming!) (beautiful!). They pour from nowhere and everywhere—out of his coat, his hat, the sky itself—and they bounce. They boing. They ricochet. They wreak absolute havoc.
They fly through fruit stands, knock over baskets of shrimp, ping off street signs with the velocity of a rubber meteor storm. A whole tray of mai tais is sent hurtling skyward. Somewhere, a small dog is riding a broomstick-sized drift of them like a wave. Children scream with delight. Adults scream with taxes. And still they bounce—down alleyways, over balconies, through open windows, under skirts, into seafood chowder.
And scrawled on each chaotic sphere in shaky, glittery ink are messages like:
"YOUR EYEBROWS ARE SYMMETRY MADE FLESH"
"I THINK OF YOU EVERY TIME I SEE SOMETHING ROUND (WHICH IS A LOT)"
"YOU ARE THE CIRCUIT THAT MAKES MY FUSES MELT"
"BOUNCE BACK TO ME, BEAUTIFUL BIRD"
"YOUR FRIENDSHIP WAS MY FAVOURITE GLITCH"
At the top of it all, Vox stands with his arms wide, twirling slowly like a deranged ballet dancer as he watches the mayhem rain down.
"For you, Noe," he purrs, letting a final orb fall from his hand—this one shimmering like oil-slicked starlight, inscribed with nothing but a small, hand-drawn heart.
It bounces once.
Then twice.
Then sails off a rooftop to knock over a city guard's hat.
Perfection.
vox
