Kid Zero Star

Once there was a kid zero born, and he was the moment the world divided. This was long before the Grand Process, in the days when one half lived and died, and the other never existed, and ways to awaken could be found in the
screaming fields.
Kid Zeros initiate was a godmother. She sewed streams and planted senses for the gods and creatures of the world.
In the seventh second of the fall, when the origami star had fully peeled from his bones in descent, Zero
remained asleep, potential and growth learning in a spark. But what he truly aimed for was to restitch the seams
and manifest gladly as a whole.
Kismet caught him whilst sat in the panther gally of the new colour moon. It was built by measured hands, the sam
hands that wove butterflys into the air around the jaded throne and made masks for ion crocklets to hide in. The
beauty of this place had been enough to bind both sides of the war on the planet. Cats and Ravens alike had been
unified and terrified upon the sudden appearance of an altered moon, and worked together to investigate the
apparent deity. They spent many words and ticks to build a ladder high enough to reach. But When they got there
and found nothing but common magick, pointless though beautiful, with nothing new to find unity in, they returned
to their homes to continue fighting. Kismet however understood its majesty, thanked the siclet builders and took
it as her new home where she would continue sewing falconettes and fates, awaiting for the ground to open and kid
zero to break through.
Kid Zero would build a palace that was of uncommon magick and would stop everything.
For now, Kismet knew nothing but the first stage. The initiation of the hall and the meeting of the book. 'Your
truth is for moments of necessity,' she said 'you must prepare and build a way into their world.'
The was a graphic hovel, darkened on the skyline, borrowed by emptiness just beyond where Kismet was sat. The contents of it were essentially godless and nothing, but its corners were filled with the shades of a thousand dead images and a city of discard knowledge. Though everything knew it was physically empty, they also knew that Pi, the keeper of nought, was in there day and night, ordering his collection of fume cargo, historic semblance and dotted line blue prints, and maintaining absolute balance.
'There is room for everything in that house,' said Kismet to her newfoundling 'because it is full of nothing.' and she placed the tiny child onto the floor of the cave. One solitary clockwork symbolist wire-ambled toward the now stirring boy, all cogs and gears, before slowing to standstill, frozen in awe. The sorry transmitter was so entangled in the sight of this, the manifest, here at last after all this time, that before long, he eventually tipped right over in a pit of shock and springs.
Kismet smiled.
Zero was wide awake and gauging his eyes upon the figures about him. He could hear landscapes in sepia tones, wonders talking to each other and questions growing out of the horizon. Hands of trees pushing themselves up and under through growth.
With an itch the infant laughed and petals landed before him.
He stretched to see the face of his fairy godmother towering within the cave. She pulled him by the aura to the exit and let the cobwebbed air filter in.
'Throw yrself from the moon,' clanged the pipes in her throat, clocks vibrating. 'your aim grows in that house, but we are aeons passed.' She swung her arm in an arc and splintered a glass cathedral for them to enter, the front and back of which touched satellite to common ground by spacing the malabyss between them. It was a lesson in growth, built as an add on by symbolists.
Further districts house a bold waiting, growing strong. Spilling antlers from a trough in gullys.
"beware the painted" a stitch above the riverbank speaks, the fume lay inbetween.

Elsewhere, black pearls hung collated in the sky above the last Garuda pedestrian. He attached the final cursive to his belt and smiled darkly into his pocket. His porcelain skin, built of ocular direction and speech, was a tar patchwork of cloak, illustrated time and a colour that filled his frame. He'd been eroded from rain and fog that drew in from the forth of south, yet he was ageless and strong. Raising his head, he watched as the rings around the garden where he sat lifted, as they did every morning, to let the outside in. He had spent the edge of a lifetime redeeming various lands from the vorpal dark, here and there his efforts had left chicken footprints as brief markers of clarity; a task given to him by the same Kesmet that now our zero holds. This area was, for now, juvenile again and the walk could begin along the next signal harvest. It would wear off, and again be swamped, but his target and rule were offered, freely and a choice had been made. This birdman was one of the few who knew his place.
23 dogs bark in unison. several bullets seep from a guess.