Her mind is held constant by a spiderweb of infinite numbers, looping around the cerebrum curve of her skull to pattern walls in silver threads, the twist and flow of each perfect, pure number a self-contained rainbow in muted, impossible, monochrome shades. Words don’t work here, not really – instead, they are broken down into their core parts, pitch and tone blending with the rise and fall of first harmonics and fundamental frequencies to create thoughts born of numbers, serenading in woven lambda. She knows her mind holds more colour now than Hermann’s, but it is secondary; an excess layer that skims beneath the tiled, endless floor, formed of impossible triangles of three right angles, curving in on themselves to create a non-existent, open ground. Archimedes can see the stars through it. She can see the stars everywhere.
Here, in this space, her space, the frozen galaxies and celestial orbits are likewise deconstructed, broken down into more waves, pulsars and neutron stars tasting sharp and empty on her tongue. She doesn’t have to walk here, instead letting herself be drifted along on coils of numbers and formulae and Greek letters.
Sometimes, Hermann drifts with her.
Little Wing’s mind is spun through and about with gilded light, warm gold tasting of flat, molten honey in the colour cascade landscape, where the trailing threads arc into the distance, reminiscent of distant solar flares and harsh, rough-edged orange light tastes like fire, like smoke and copper coils. His landscape is oddly lacking in scenery, in a way – everything is made of warped colour, shades blurring and mixing and contorting to form objects of their own, all brief wisps of smoke that fade and reform as soon as they are made. It is unstable, yes, but beautiful for it, making a land of entropy and hue with the only constant contained within being the golden threads, each one self-contained opalite in a different light light means colours and colours are thoughts of mine and others.
Somehow the colours are never discordant, the tones and tastes of each always complimenting and combining perfectly, flawlessly into an intricate concerto painted in dusken purple and ancient blue, dark tones resonating in open, half-clouded velvet skies.
All of Little Wing’s thoughts are colours to him, but he doesn’t mind. And neither does Newt.
[[Written by MQAnon. I felt like Newt and Hermann were going to be a bit lonely without Little Wing and Archimedes to join them. I can only hope I’ve done these wonderful Kaiju babies justice.]]
I was good. I was in control. And then I read this over two, three, four times, and then I am just an emotional mess. You did them BOTH such wonderful justice. Archimedes is lovely and eloquent with that musical undertone, and Little Wing is a chaotic storm of color. And they match Newt and Hermann better than I think I could have ever done myself.
And now I might really just be emotionally compromised because I know how exactly these minds break.
