This just came while I was helping Anonymous Saru with a new crack RP for Zombiepowder (if you haven't read it yet, it's cool. From Tite Kubo before he made Bleach) and I don't even know why. But I hope you guys like it. It's just too random... Oh yeah, Death Note is belonged by the Shingami Ohba and Obata. I'm just a lowly Kira-fangirl.
by Darkness Princess
Always an interesting piece of artwork, each shape an individual in size, color, design. Each piece was different and well-crafted. On its own, it was just another piece, just one single shape of mingled colors and incomplete decorations. When fused, it was a picture with a meaning.
Sometimes, he liked seeing what they were like without the colors. Just one individual color, white, where its shape was an individual, unique picture of its own by design alone. They came together, and each one could still be spotted.
But the edges still stood out, and by the time he finished the eighth thousand-piece puzzle that week, he headed off to twirl his hair and stare out of a window.
Predictable. Fifty-two differently-decorated papers containing the same items. It wasn't difficult to predict which would come next, and he decided that the statistical formulas weren't helping him much at all.
They always held more than one function. Game. Statistical experiment. Balance testing.
His favorite one was the last one, and, after accidentally knocking down the first two, he managed to build a successful castle on his work desk.
Similar to the cards, yet harder to predict. Many different designs, different meanings, gothic designs on each one. Oddly fitting, and he had to smile. The meanings could be determined by their shape, by the order, by the design.
He had them in a circle around me, and held two. Merely two, one per hand. A third, and the meaning could change. Just one, and it would be too simple. Half of them would be unreal, not enough wouldn't make sense.
He liked to pick and guess at random, letting instincts lead him to two. The meanings could be changed to fit a person, determining on interpretation. They lacked words, it was all about a thought.
His darts. Sliced, widdled, shaved to his liking. None were perfectly round, jagged edges and unnatural curves always bad for throwing. He tested the shape, wondered if one extra shave or one less scrape made it off balance or uneven. A piece of metal was attached to the front, pressed in securely with the sharp end pointed and ready to land on the board.
They were all uneven. They soared across the room, to the target placed on the wall, with its flashy designs and unnatural pictures, and promptly fell to the floor. By evening, they had gathered a pile.
Six sides, a standard cube. Small, from boxes of two, with the boxes shaped as cubes. The numbers provided patterns, shapes and designs forming trigonometric equations if not just there for decoration. He could become crafty with these, turning some numbers to face one direction while others weren't seen, having to decide which number showed in one direction, how it connected with another, the design it would be.
They toppled easily as he shuddered. Death, in front of his very eyes. His fingers rummaged around them, and he shuffled them in a pile, then spread the pile and stared at it with a frown.
A Gamble of Fate.
On circular tracks along his flattened place. It moved up bridges, then down onto the flat surface, and he watched it travel. Predictible patterns, leaving his eyes to return to his view a moment later. He could watch it daily, remove parts, add parts, but he left it as it moved.
Remote-controlled, small, rubber. Bright yellow as always, with rich orange beaks. They didn't squeak when squeezed--rather, they were stiff. He held the remote and smiled as he turned a knob.
Six functions. Six ducks in play at one setting. A small collection of buttons determined which ducks moved where, and which shifted when which knob was turned. An easy flipping of switches could change which duck was in play, from the six active ones in the pool to the other twelve with them, to the ten on the floor close to him.
He pulled the trigger at his finger and watched them spin around, race, create waves.
It shot water. Tiny enough to fit into small, robotic, plastic palms, with a trigger meant for any child. It aimed forward at where the arm pointed, and he would squeeze and fire.
Water. It always shot out water. Often, the jets did nothing except wet places. When in close range, it caused things to topple. He liked to aim and fire at random, unscheduled yet planned just the same. He liked watching the water fly and attack, wondering if it would fall or not. He always chose where it aimed, always fired.
A Sign of Power.
A set station, trees and plants surrounding a tower and an open hatch. A small, launched rocket zoomed at the touch of a button, flying at whatever angle he set depending on the force he used on the releasing mechanism. The ship was small and oddly shaped, but it flew easily, light-weight and with little resistance in the air.
He liked to touch the trees, liked the feeling of the plastic leaves painted so carefully to look like the outdoors. Realistic, soft, proportionate... relaxed atmosphere... and then he would turn back to the ship while in command of the station.
Plastic tubes and ramps put together, some held highly, some aimed down. He'd hold a marble to part and watch it slide through the contraption, watching places in which it would become stuck or fall to the floor.
By evening, he had many marbles surrounding him and rolling around the office. Yet there would be another to add through, after a tweak and an estimate, and he would see how far it would get. He wasn't sure when he'd need to stop, but he figured it was when one passed through the entire system he designed.
Flat yet with one round end. Arranged shape of the item... aranged placement on the table. He lined them up, checking for length and any possible problems, planning. They were uniform in design, uniform in shape, and they created uniform stacks.
He placed the round, red end on the flat end of another in his squares, and they piled up, balanced carefully, carelessly dropped on top. They were mere piles, but he found himself reaching to add height to the ones farthest from reach.
A Minor Challenge.
Stacked in piles, placed in certain stacks. DVDs, each with another logical piece of information. Small, shiny, round disks in square cases which stacked so unevenly in front of him. They bothered him, yet he continued to pile them together, slipping one into the player and scanning it on four screens.
So much to understand, and the stacks changed shape in no particular order until they surrounded him.
Two radio towers, one of plastic, and its paper counterpart. The first was of bright colors, surrounded by bright blocks and other figurines. It made him seem so pale next to it, the color contrasting against his lack of pigmentation as he played with it. He placed the figurines around it, stared at it.
And used it as a model for his own. This one of paper, cut intricately as he pieced it bit by bit, designing the parts to look like the tower's ridges and decorated edges. It folded in, kept itself together. An exact copy, but holding itself as steady as its original plastic counterpart.
He attached them together in a two-thousand, four-hundred, seventy-seven piece design. Flat for space, marking territory, and around him, he was surrounded. Towers, bridges, pathways, walls... the people and cars traveled in the boundaries, and he sprawled in between the action.
The different shapes, uneven placings, nothing symmetrical except for each individual piece. Combined, this was his land, his reasoning.
Clad in his plastic design, his arms bending up and down and he looked special. His insignia would be imprinted on his chest and he would stand on top of his stack and cheer, or stare plainly. He could make him fly around his many enemies, could make them walk and communicate silently while standing face to face to the transgressor before him.
He seemed so unreal. Silently unreal, an improper hero. Not even hero, just a corrupt figurine.
But they had interesting mindframes.
Replicas. Tiny, finger-sized replicas of his life passing in front of him. Small and decorated, each on its own. They held characteristics of whom they were based. He shaped them carefully and left them to stand on their own, parting them in groups, holding them on his fingers.
They were adjusted when things happened. Words were written on fronts, scars added. His still held its slight pout and he liked to place it next to Mello.
It held the face of a hero. Held the look of an inquisitive man and the look of continuing thought. Dark hair in odd, wavy locks, calmer than the original, spiky mess. Based on the puppets, another puppet. A face of a puppet to cover his own.
Yet it held the truth. It waited for the truth and demanded to know. It served as a reminder of the past, and a legend of the future. He paid extra attention to creating this.
Aircraft. He couldn't remember being on an aircraft, but he knew the shape of the device. Large, proportioned, with small seats and a delicate tailwing. It was a model, which had been attached together with simple paste. Intricately cut, once with handheld scissors, once with a butter knife (he wasn't eating dinner), once with a box cutter borrowed from Gevani.
It didn't fly until his hand was supporting it, carrying it around room-temperature air currents as it traveled about, drifting around his head and work desk, the engines silent. When he grew tired of it, he placed it on its stand.
Robots in disguise, yet there was no disguise. They always stood proper, arms and legs straight and bulky, blocked, face set in a molded stone as it stared out. Stoic, grand. It always looked up at him and he liked how he could turn it. Maneuver. No set pattern, no predictable motion. He chose.
And he fired the arms out at Rester when he got bored. It was part of the "squad" of different robots lined along the edge of the Fortress.
Once, Roger said he'd have to give these up. Surrounded by the fortress, at the age of twenty, still in his pajamas with mussed hair and stomach still waiting for breakfast like a child on a Saturday morning, he doubted that was true.
The nonexistent toy chest held nothing, as everything lay sprawled out on the floor of a different location, or in his arms, or moving around him. It was how he liked to plan it.
And there we have it, my random fic about all of Near's toys! I got the list of toys from deathgod(dot)org and the mangas in my bedroom, and it all just fell into place after a while. Hope you guys liked.