It was hard adjusting to the new change within a town she lived all her life in. The adults had wanted to change the city from an industrial dump into a more ecologically safe environment for humans. And she rather hated it.

Or rather, the process into this change.

At first these floors were empty, with nothing to give them meaning. The time it took to acquire each piece of ancient music was hours of digging through countless remains and gunk the ancients had left behind. Added in with the required assistance of constructing the dome, it was a difficult duty to find the time for music finding.

But over time, Saash made it work. From lunch breaks, to the short clean up periods, she made quick trips to the remains of buildings hoping to find pieces of music. Most days, she found ancient documents and faded décor. But in rare cases, she was able to find discs or covers of songs, and in rarer times, even entire albums!

With the help of her technological booming city, they were able to produce ways to listen to the songs, whether it be by sticking them into a developed record player, or even powering up ancient music players not lost to the elements. Whatever the case was, she had been able to reproduce ways to listen to the music left by the ancients, and even took her turn at making music similar to her personal favorites.

The instruments were some of many different kinds she had never heard of. In each scene of music, a new sound rivaled the last, bringing a new and curious anticipatory feeling of wondering ‘what new sound is it gonna be this time!’

Eventually, finding new music became more than just a hobby. A new song meant a wondrous pleasure for the ear. And the pleasure brought an insatiable craving for recreating the music of the old world, and bringing it to the new.

“My my my my my! Listen to this one Traz!” Happily bursting up and down, Saash held a tape quite dear to her. “The sounds on this one are mesmerizing...here!”

“Yaay, a new lullaby!” Traz joined in excitement, though muffled from an object over her face.

Calling the music a lullaby was her term for understanding it, which added tons of cuteness points to Saash. Saash didn’t care what or how she indulged in listening. If the energetic girl found her tune of melody she enjoyed, then she would consider her job a success.

Swapping from a jazz mix to a hip hop song, Saash placidly strapped the headphones to compensate for Traz’s smaller head. Turning the dial on the player, sound covered Traz’s ears.

“Mesmerizing...the sound swallows us whole, for we are but slaves to noise. Isn’t that right...my sweet, pure beauty?”

Beady bloodshot eyes watched intently as the girl rocked in swaying motion to the music. She was pure. Innocent. Saash had to do everything she must to protect that purity. So, she “took” her home in the act of protection from impure contact. She made Traz wear gloves to protect her from the soiled mess of objects all around, and even a gas mask to keep her own air clean from the rest.

“Aw, yeah! This song is similar to the one you first played, I just know it! Though, I wish Mr. Rye could be here to listen.” Traz muttered in a melodic tone, to which Saash felt a vein or two bulge from her fist. She dug her nails deep into her palm with blood seething from her roots. Hide the pain, even if that man is brought up. Saash repeated the clutching thought over and over.

“Forget about him.” She grudgingly muttered wrapping her hands around the little girl's cherubic grin. “All you need is me, and my music. Feel the vibrations within your marrow seethe into your mind, forging a path from this trapping life into a pure vision of Ataraxy.”

With swaying nods on every beat of the rhythm, Traz vicariously lived through the words of the artist. If she remembered correctly, the artist was Guardin, and she grew to love his songs. The emotion, vivid imagery, his clear feelings. They all created a neatly wrapped present of emotional feelings for her, even if most words breezed through her head.

Traz was very thankful to Saash for bringing her the joy of music. Even now, she was kind enough to lend her own melodies she collected.

But Traz, no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t overlook the languid feeling of chills she received with each passing second she was near Saash. She was hardly knowledgeable, but not entirely ignorant. Oftentimes when the chills grew to be unbearable, she would shift her eyes adroitly, wondering what kind of expression Saash was making.

—But once she got the courage to look up, she met a single, beady eye watching her with a mystifying intent. The other eye was gone, or had overturned into a gaping red. Terrified, Traz returned to looking at her feet, allowing the blaring music to let her escape from her reality.

Please Mr. Rye, come find me. I’m scared.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

The little girl begged alongside the melody, hoping the old man that saved her would come and break her free from this place encasing her sanity.

***

Sailing breezes of white mist poured into the city, encasing the area with a miasma of death. The only thin barrier preventing Rye’s mind from collapsing was his gas mask; a divers best tool when moving, and keeping alive, in the above. Fidgeting his mask, he found the oxygen filter nominal. So, he continued his search onto the next building, clearing it floor by floor. And after clearing that building, he would move on to the next towering creation, doing the same for every one until he found Traz.

The method wasn’t very effective, but what else could he do? He was hardly even sure if Traz was still alive from the Mist

Or worse, if she turned…

“Traaaaaaz! Yell if you can hear me!” Rye shouted from the third floor of a tower’s window. He risked his location being revealed by the Inhaled and tossed all concern for being hunted aside. Any bit of help would surely benefit him in a desolate city of falling technology.

As he peered outside of a window, Rye pressed his arms against the inner walls to prevent falling. Putting forth his full vocal support, he shouted and yelled amongst the white, hoping to receive a single vibration of sound as a response.

But apart from howling screeches, an unexpected response erupted from below:

“Hey’a dumbass! Why don’tcha shut the fuck up and get down here!”

Stunned, Rye shifted his focus to the rude muffled shout of a man draped with black robes as he tossed an ostentatious red flare. Rye recognized the sign and man instantly: the blacksmith waving as he tossed out another flare.

“Best ya hurry, else the damned bastards’ll start swarming us!”

Hardly a few moments later, countless silhouettes of Inhaled began slithering from inside the mist. Typically when it comes down to the point of more than three, keeping track of the total number of inhaled lost all value and top priority should be rooting an escape path. The escape was often left for the victim to decide on, whether it be running, or even finding the quickest way of killing themselves to escape the horror of being shredded alive.

Rye quickly decided he was hardly keen on dying. He ensconced his supplies within his bag and bolted towards the stairway exit. His weapons were both pre-loaded after his last encounter as a precaution for when he struck up a meeting with another Inhaled. Even if countless monsters were outside now, that didn’t prevent him from fending off at least a couple.

Rooms filled with furnished architecture waltzed past Rye as he sprinted. Maybe in another life, he would have settled here after retirement. Rooms like these were precocious compared to the ones back in his hometown. But now was hardly the time for chair appreciation. Reaching his hand out for the handle, Rye bit his lower lip softly in hopes the Inhaled weren’t in the building yet. But…

—!! “K...s...shhhhhhh!!!”

The door bashfully flung open with enough force for Rye to be shot backwards. Rye entered a motion of rolling, grabbing hold of passing furniture attempting to slow his slide, eventually grabbing hold of a stout recliner.

“Shit…” Rye ignored the enthralling pain he felt in his arms, paying more attention to the stairway door.

“...skkkkkkk…”

Three, four, five… They kept coming. Some walked in normally, others attached to another, and there were few even crawling from every angle inside. But no matter how they got in, they all repeated the same analogous sound of tongue clicking.

“kks...liGHt, one fails to capture the light…!”

“Lost man; fAIled man...”

Varying patterns of crimson or blank eyes rested upon Rye. Each muttered a nonsensical phrase with a similar grin as if they had found an oasis among terror.

Rye got a small glimpse of the withering, from both flesh and mind, before getting a chance for a sudden sprint away from the Inhaled.

But only for a second, as Inhaled lunged from every direction towards Rye. Chairs broke, glasses shattered, and iron-like nails scathed the wooden floor, followed by piercing screams. If even one step was off beat, he was sure he’d be gouged in an instant.

Rye did the only logical thing he could think of in a half-moment's notice by firing two rounds into the window and bashed head-first into the cracked glass.

He leaped from the twelfth story floor, biting his lower lip in deep desperation.

Textures of air similar to water brushed his skin as he nosedived into a void of white. A sort of white sea reflected the horrors in pursuit, elegantly painting the mirroring crimson.

—A drainage pipe. One that ran narrowly along the side of windows stretching downwards. His savior from falling to his death.

Rue held tightly as he descended. The metal felt like a fire had ignited his hand, as if it were gripping him instead. But it was a necessary pain to endure, for his only enduring thought was finding Traz.

Landing relatively safely, Rye sprinted over to the red smoke and noticed an array of sticks spread around the road. Noticing the blacksmith likely fled the scene, Rue discovered a flare that lay atop a sewage manhole.

And to Rye’s gratitude, the cover had been partially lifted allowing for it to be easily removed. Down the hole was a pitch black mask where the mist began quickly seething in. Behind him, a thunderous horde of Inhaled sprinted, leaping, or crawled their way near him. As he dove in, he tossed a few explosives above. With the creatures practically hovering above, Rye quickly recovered the hole.

A flash of light and noise erupted in a distance clarifying his safety from the backdraft, as did the screeching cries of the monsters reaching his head. They sure weren’t human anymore, but their deathly screams were nearly identical. Similar to the point where a dreadful chill ran through his bones.

A narrow drainage flowed in a pathway of water. The waterway led down for someway, with the sound of wet squeaking sparks from his boots to keep his mind occupied. A passage of time granting freedom, even if the dread of the outcome loomed outside from various angles. The fragment of Traz, remaining in his mind, began to bleed from the realization of truth.

There’s no other way of seeing it; she’s dead.