NOVEL WEB Chapter 26: Chapter 26: A Cacophony of One
The arrival of a third voice in Deadpool's head was a novel experience. He was used to his internal roommates. The white box was his Jiminy Cricket, the yellow box was his agent of chaos. They were a dysfunctional but stable psychic family. This new voice, this flowing, green, cursive melody, was an unexpected houseguest.
His first reaction was not panic, but professional curiosity. He mentally turned to his other two voices.
"Okay, guys, are you seeing this?" he thought, addressing his internal peanut gallery. "New font just dropped. Very elegant. A little artsy for my taste, but it has potential."
"INTRUDER!" the yellow box shrieked, its text jagged and panicked. "STRANGER DANGER! MAN THE BATTLESTATIONS! SHE'S IN OUR HEAD-SPACE!"
"Unprecedented," the white box stated, its text perfectly calm. "Direct, non-textual, telepathic communication. The subject's aura is consistent with that of a high-level nature spirit, possibly a dryad or sylph. It would be prudent to proceed with caution."
Deadpool ignored both of them and focused on the new voice. He cleared his throat, a gesture that produced no sound, and spoke out loud. "Loud? Lady, you haven't seen loud. You should see my brain on Taco Tuesday. It's a fiesta of bad ideas and regret."
His party stared at him, watching his mouth move, seeing the words form, but hearing only the profound, oppressive silence. He was a movie with the sound turned off.
The woman on the grass didn't turn around, but her response flowed directly into his mind, cool and clear as spring water.
"Your voice does not make sound, yet your thoughts… they scream," the green, cursive script flowed. "They are a jumble of jagged edges and shouting colors. Red and yellow and white. Clashing. A broken song. It hurts."
Deadpool's eyes widened under his mask. She could hear his boxes. She wasn't just reading his thoughts; she was experiencing his entire chaotic consciousness as a form of painful noise.
"Oh, man, I am so sorry," he said, again, to the silent air. "They can be a handful. I keep telling the yellow one to use its inside voice, but it doesn't have one."
Kazuma, watching this one-sided conversation, finally lost his patience. He marched up to Deadpool and waved his hands frantically in front of his face, then pointed aggressively at the woman, then back at Deadpool, his expression a clear "What is going on and why are you talking to yourself?!"
Deadpool held up a hand in a "one moment" gesture. He turned back to the party. Time for some award-winning charades.
He pointed to his own head. Then he held up three fingers. He pointed to the first finger and made a square shape with his hands, then drew a straight, boring line in the air. He pointed to the second finger and made a frantic, scribbling motion. Then he pointed to the third finger, pointed at the woman, and made a beautiful, flowing, wavy motion like a river. He concluded by pointing back at his head and miming an explosion.
The party stared.
Aqua seemed to think he was ordering a three-course meal. Darkness looked like she was trying to interpret it as a complex battle plan involving three different flanks. Kazuma just buried his face in his hands, convinced that his mercenary had finally, irrevocably snapped.
"Your attempts to communicate with your companions are also loud," the green voice sang, a hint of pained amusement in its tone. "So much frantic energy. So little peace."
"Yeah, well, they don't have the benefit of our awesome mental chat room, do they?" Deadpool projected his thoughts this time, testing the connection. "So, who are you? The Lady of the Lake? The Ghost of Christmas Quiet? The Wicked Witch of the West-Wing-of-the-Library?"
The woman finally moved. She rose to her feet in a single, fluid motion, her long moonlight-colored hair cascading down her back. She turned to face them. Her beauty was stunning, but not in the divine, buxom way of Aqua. It was an ethereal, otherworldly beauty. Her eyes were the color of fresh moss, and they held an ancient, serene sadness.
"I am Lyra," the voice echoed in his head. "And this forest is my sanctuary. My song. For centuries, I have cultivated the silence here. It is a composition of perfect quiet, a refuge from the noise of the world. But you… you have brought the world's noise with you."
She looked past Deadpool, her mossy eyes falling on the rest of the party.
"The blue one buzzes with frantic, needy energy," she commented, and Aqua, feeling judged, puffed out her chest indignantly. "The dark one hums with a strange, looping melody of pain and pleasure." Darkness shivered, a blissful smile touching her lips. "The young one vibrates with a constant, low thrum of anxiety and suffering." Kazuma flinched, feeling deeply and accurately called out. "And the smallest one… she is a silent volcano, a single, deafening chord of immense power, waiting to be struck."
Her gaze returned to Deadpool. "But you are the worst. You are not one song. You are a thousand broken instruments playing a thousand different tunes at once. You are a cacophony."
Deadpool placed a hand over his heart, deeply touched. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever said about me."
Kazuma, meanwhile, had had enough. He couldn't hear what was being said, but he could read the room. This woman was powerful, and they were trespassing. He grabbed Deadpool's arm and started pulling, pointing frantically toward the path they came from. The message was clear: We are leaving. Now.
Deadpool shook him off. "Hold your horses, kid. We're in the middle of a delicate diplomatic negotiation."
"Your anxious friend is wise," Lyra's voice chimed in. "You should leave. Your presence unravels the quiet. It is like holding a screaming infant next to a sleeping man's ear."
"Yeah, but we can't," Deadpool thought back at her. "We have a quest. We have to figure out what you are and report back. We're broke, you see. Crippling, soul-crushing debt. It's a whole thing."
He decided to try a different diplomatic approach. He reached into one of his pouches and pulled out the single, most pristine sock from his tribute pile, a lovely, soft, cashmere argyle. He held it out to her as an offering.
Lyra stared at the sock. The silence in the clearing seemed to deepen, to grow heavy. The gentle, sad look in her eyes was replaced by one of profound, cosmic confusion.
"You… offer me a foot-covering?" her mental voice asked, the musical quality now tinged with a flat, bewildered note. "As a gift? This is the loudest, most nonsensical thought you have had yet. It is… orange."
The lute on the pedestal next to her began to glow. A soft, silvery light pulsed from its strings, and the very ground beneath their feet began to vibrate. It was a low, powerful hum that they felt in their bones, a silent chord of immense power being struck.
"I have asked you to leave," Lyra's voice flowed, no longer sad or amused. It was firm, ancient, and absolute. "You have refused. Your noise is too great. If you will not walk out of my song… then you will become a part of the performance."