*Wow…no posts for like, 4 months! That's a first for me. 0_o… But anyway, here's my newest abomination, all out in the open for your waiting eyes1 Enjoy! ^^

"He's a real…nowhere man…" The melody floated on the dead air, whispering through the scattered wrecks of buildings and skipping along the cracked pavement, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The voice was wavering, quiet, and a bit squeaky; still, the tune was fine, and it seemed to be hitting at least half of the notes. Besides, who would care to critique, when even the singer seemed to have vanished?

"Sitting in his nowhere land…" A patch of brown separated itself from the dirty, rubble-covered pavement and began to creep along. Its color matched the brown and grey of the landscape perfectly—a walking blot of mud. For a moment, the sun appeared from behind a thick screen of cloud and shone brilliantly on the destroyed city. The shape froze, and for a moment corroded metal glinted in the pool of light. Then, the shape bolted, ducking for the cover of a collapsed hunk of metal, now rusted and decayed beyond recognition. In the gloom, the reflection of light on metal vanished and the shape was once again camouflaged.

A few moments later the shape deemed it safe to leave the shadows and skipped out into the dim sunlight. It hopped up onto a slab of black asphalt that had rose up on one side like a stony wave, almost falling and sliding down. On the black backdrop, the shape stuck out like a sore thumb: it was a stitchpunk. Two deformed hands, looking more like shovels affixed to its wrists, reflexively scrabbled for a purchase. Cautiously, it climbed up to the top, all the while singing that strange, half-remembered song. "Making all his nowhere plans for nobody…"

The top of the asphalt tower gave the stitchpunk a good vantage point. The entire city was now easier to see; block upon block of chaotic, unrecognizable destruction. Beautiful. The stitchpunk grinned to himself. "Hasn't got a point of view…knows not where he's going to…" The rag doll spun a bit and jumped happily, dancing dangerously close to the edge. "Isn't he a bit like you and—yeeee!"

Wump. After a few dazzling moments of falling, the stitchpunk hit the ground below. Luckily, the fall wasn't so bad as to injure him, instead knocking the breath out of his little body and leaving him wheezing for about a minute. Sluggishly he pushed himself up on his metal-and-cloth elbows and looked blearily to his right side.

The whiteness of bone glared back at him. A weathered skull was lodged in the crack between the asphalt pieces, one eyehole buried in the dirt. The other eye socket glared at him as the jaws hung wide in an idiotic laugh.

Tell me, that grin was saying. Why bother singing? There's no one to hear you. It's just you and me, buddy. The few survivors of our last war.

"Your war. Not our war. There's a difference." Reproachfully the ragdoll stood up. "I'm nobody, and nobody doesn't fight. Okay?" With that, he limped off, working the kinks out of his legs as he did so. There were an awful lot of places to explore still. The problem with being nowhere: there was an awful lot of area to cover before you got somewhere.