A/N: HI GAIZ!

I wanted to delve into Sho's past some and try to figure out what exactly made him the way he is by the time you meet him in the game. Symbolism and kinda vague events abound! I'll try to make everything clear by the end, though. And don't worry -- I haven't forgotten about Dividing by Zero or my other fics. My muses just seem to want to do something a little different (uncooperative little bastards they are), so I hope this will suffice in the meantime. Thanks for keeping up with my stuff, guys. Y'all are the best!

SO! READY FOR A DEPRESSING STORY? YOU BET YOU ARE.

In all seriousness though this story is going to get hella depressing hella fast. It's gonna have some dark themes and some kinda disturbing stuff later on that won't set well with you unless you're a Nobody. Just a warning. It's rated M for a reason.

Enjoy!

~*~

He was dreaming. He had to be.

He had never seen so many seagulls in his life. Blinking slowly, he raised a hand over his face when the cloud of seagulls dissipated, leaving only the scorching sun above to shine down into those too-light amber eyes. He sat up and glanced around. Mountains of junk surrounded him from every direction, stretching out as far as he could see, except to the south. To the south he saw the ocean, lit afire by the blazing sun.

He stood. Seagulls keened overhead, seeking leftover scraps in the hills of the wasteland. Some of them were flying towards the ocean; he followed them. Stumbling through materialism's graveyard, he walked for what seemed like an eternity, not noticing the sea getting closer until it was just in front of him. He stared at the waters and at the image reflected back to him.

It was a lion.

You seem to think the world is only what's behind you.

He blinked and turned around, but saw no one; only the infinite stretch of garbage, reaching up into the bleak gray sky.

But it's like the ocean, right? Beautiful – stormy at times, but ever-changing, ever-moving, just like life.

He looked to the waters again. They seemed closer. Reaching out, he touched the surface with his hand, watching the tiny ripples spread out and then fade as bigger waves dominated them. His reflection flickered, briefly disappearing to reveal the dark murkiness beneath.

You can't change the ocean, you know. Like life itself, no one can really master it.

He pursed his lips in thought, then scowled, splashing the image of the lion. He peered into the brown waters and saw the reason for their murk; the trash behind him was beginning to fall into the ocean, turning it to a filthy soup of grime, rust, and decay.

"The garbage is corrupting it," he stated aloud, perhaps in reply to the voice. "Over time, the whole ocean will be affected."

The voice chuckled. You catch on fast. So what are you going to do with it all?

He went silent for a bit, studying the waters, then the horizon, before slowly turning to look at the garbage.

"Too much to throw away," he muttered. "I'm sure if we just...found a use for everything... made use of everything...it wouldn't be like this."

More laughter. It wasn't evil or mocking – it seemed genuinely amused by his answer.

You want to recycle it all?

"Maybe. Or maybe I just need to show people its beauty."

Silence.

You know, kiddo, you have one heck of an imagination. Don't change.

He woke up.

The alarm buzzer had been going off for fifteen minutes.

"Damnit."

~*~

As always, his parents weren't around. The apartment was empty, though the television was blaring and the radio in the kitchen was on, playing nothing but static. Once again he didn't shower – fourth day straight. He didn't have time. He knew he stunk, but...well, he'd just have to deal. Opening the fridge, he frowned, shoulders slumping in disappointment. They didn't even leave him any breakfast – just a two-week old open carton of milk.

He went to school hungry again.

He really only went to school for math. Everything else, he was failing. Badly. Mainly it was due to attendance, though Literature was a different story – even when he actually tried to do well in a literature class, he'd crash and burn hard. Dyslexia didn't help much. He stopped caring though, after...what, eighth grade? Who cares. All he needed was math.

Besides...school wasn't a very hospitable environment.

...12 times. He made his way through to the back of the school, having taken a few back alley shortcuts to get to the basketball courts. Somehow, I'll end up in the garbage at least twelve times today. Shoved into a locker...three times. And provided no one's in the bathroom, there's only a 30% chance I'll get a swirly. Climbing over the chain-link fence, he headed towards one corner of the school, where an open window could lead him straight into a boy's bathroom – easiest way to get in late without getting caught.

And to his great fortune, there was no one currently in that bathroom. Slipping through the window, he snuck out and checked the hall, first looking for the clock. Honors Calculus wasn't going to be for another hour, so he had every intention of just staying in the stall furthest from the door and fiddling with his TI-89 until then.

Instead, he fell asleep.

~*~

Same sounds. Same seagulls crying from above, same waves crashing in the distance.

Same stench. The stench of decay, of things once loved now neglected, of rot and rubber and rust and the briny, moldy, salty scent of the nearby ocean. It should have been a refreshing scent compared to what was surrounding him, but the other scents were too overpowering. His eyes stung from it.

Despite the pain, he opened them.

The sky was still gray just above him, but it was darker, no longer illuminated by a midday sun. He sat up and looked for a source of light, finding it towards the south once more – towards the ocean, the only thing the garbage did not obscure. The southern sky was a brilliant crimson that brightened to an orange where the sun met the water.

He frowned. Why was the sun setting in the south..?

Don't worry. The sun will be back tomorrow.

There seemed to be more trash than there was before; it took longer for him to reach the ocean, and when he did, he was still wading through trash. It slowly and steadily fell into the waters, moved by some unseen, unfelt force. The smell was worse than before, too; while it was easier to breathe at the shore, it was impossible to ignore such a strong odor of filth. He turned, eyes following the junk mountains skywards. Black smoke rose from somewhere far away, filling the skies without direction or design, without winds to guide it. The air was stagnant here. Every breath was stillborn.

Amazing how much people throw away, isn't it? The second they get tired of something...

He looked for his reflection in the water and saw the same lion, distorted by small, short waves. Something was different about it, though. Looking closer, he noticed two small round bumps on its head that weren't there before. Fascinated, and perhaps without really thinking, he reached out to touch them, as if he could actually feel them.

He felt bone.

"What the factor–?!" Drawing his hand away with a sharp gasp, he stared down with widened eyes – and there was nothing. Nothing but water and the distorted image of the lion staring back at him, looking equally afraid.

He heard laughter.

"What the factor?" Never heard that one before.

Feeling his fingers slick with something a little thicker than water, he lifted his amber eyes to glance at his hand. Another stagnant breath caught in his throat as fear struck him anew: blood. His hand was covered in blood. But it didn't smell like blood. Blinking in confusion, he brought it closer to his nose and breathed in a little deeper – and immediately began to cough.

Oil.

Lifting his hand, he tilted it away from the light and saw that what he mistook for a dark red was just pitch black reflecting the red skies. He dipped it in the waters again, intending to wash it off, and paused when he felt the cool liquid against his skin. He was reaching into the lion's mouth – it was black now. All of it. It was an ocean of oil.

Black gold. The words sounded just as slick as that which they described, especially in that voice. For something so valuable, it's pretty disgusting, huh? Corrupts everything it touches.

He drew his hand from the polluted waters and lifted it up, watching the inky blackness roll down his arm. The way the tendrils of oil branched out as the droplets fell...it was almost reminiscent of a flame. Black flames consuming him, starting from his left arm.

Now you tell me...

All of a sudden it felt like there was someone there, someone directly in front of him, kneeling with him – but he glanced up and saw no one, nothing – nothing but the sunset before him and the ocean of oil – and then he felt something grasp his blackened hand, as tangible as flesh and bone. Instinctively he jolted away, but the grip held despite the slickness, unyielding. Its strength wasn't human. Instinctively, he looked up to where a person's eyes might be.

...what you're going to do with it all.

He was trembling, trembling with fear, with absolute terror, and he shouldn't have been able to speak – but he spoke without thinking, two words spilling from his lips before he could take them back.

"Burn it."

Silence.

The air grew heavy, and his chest tightened. He was looking at nothing, but he felt for all the world he was looking into the eyes of someone. Someone very disappointed.

...As you wish.

And then his arm lit up with pain – searing, burning, as if he were on fire – and when his eyes shifted from the invisible figure to his arm, he realized that was exactly what was happening. The burning spread to his throat as he screamed, straining his vocal cords, and he began to thrash, twisting and writhing to try and escape the heat. The invisible force lifted, and the next thrash freed him–

–he touched the water on his way down–

–and just like that, the sea of oil became a sea of flames...

"No–!"

He bolted upright, eyes snapping wide open.

He was awake. The heat he felt a moment ago was replaced by the feeling of cold sweat, but he was sure he still felt the stinging pain in his left arm. But it was all a buzzing, distant sensation; his thoughts were more focused on discerning where he was, what had just happened, and...

The bell rang.

He let out a slow, silent breath, never more relieved to see the chipped green paint of the stall walls. His beloved TI-89 laid at his feet, screen blank. Everything was normal. Everything was as it should have been.

"Just a dream," he whispered, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his face.

He froze, staring at his arm.

It was completely burned.