The Rainbow Road shimmers beneath a pastel sky, its volcanic stone radiant with unnatural hues—lavender and peach, coral and cyan, a palette poured straight from some dream or memory too old to name. The waters froth at the shore in opalescent whorls, bubbling with secret geysers that hum like distant voices.
And just above the horizon, far out where the sea meets sky, a ripple of static begins.
It is faint at first, like a smudge on the air. But it moves. Closer. Closer. A flicker between the colours, a shape where shapes shouldn’t hold. The silence of it is heavy—too quiet for comfort—and then, like the sound of a television tuning in from nowhere, it speaks: "…Noe."
The voice isn’t loud, but it’s layered. Sweet and sad and reverent. The static coalesces, gently now, and Vox does not swoop—not this time. His many limbs unfurl as though underwater, graceful despite their wrongness. A mouth opens where a shoulder ought to be. One eye looks sideways, the other upside-down. His form flickers in and out of itself, but holds—tentatively—as he touches down on the edge of the rainbow shore.
His grin is smaller than usual. Still far too wide, but not unkind. [sy]"I didn’t want to frighten you," he says, tentacles folding politely behind his back. "I came slowly. Like a snail. Or an idea."
The silence stretches. A geyser pops in the background with a cheerful plorp.
"I’ve come to say goodbye."
The words carry a weight not often found in him. They tumble out strangely clean, untouched by metaphor or misplaced jokes. Raw, almost. His limbs twitch.
And just above the horizon, far out where the sea meets sky, a ripple of static begins.
It is faint at first, like a smudge on the air. But it moves. Closer. Closer. A flicker between the colours, a shape where shapes shouldn’t hold. The silence of it is heavy—too quiet for comfort—and then, like the sound of a television tuning in from nowhere, it speaks: "…Noe."
The voice isn’t loud, but it’s layered. Sweet and sad and reverent. The static coalesces, gently now, and Vox does not swoop—not this time. His many limbs unfurl as though underwater, graceful despite their wrongness. A mouth opens where a shoulder ought to be. One eye looks sideways, the other upside-down. His form flickers in and out of itself, but holds—tentatively—as he touches down on the edge of the rainbow shore.
His grin is smaller than usual. Still far too wide, but not unkind. [sy]"I didn’t want to frighten you," he says, tentacles folding politely behind his back. "I came slowly. Like a snail. Or an idea."
The silence stretches. A geyser pops in the background with a cheerful plorp.
"I’ve come to say goodbye."
The words carry a weight not often found in him. They tumble out strangely clean, untouched by metaphor or misplaced jokes. Raw, almost. His limbs twitch.
vox
