Title: Turn it Upside Down
Fandom: The World Ends With You
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1646
Prompts: Challenge 251: Reflect, and the 'Up' square on my bingo card.
Content notes: None needed
Summary: Nothing at the top stays there forever, and Sho Minamimoto's going to make sure the city knows it.
Author notes: I really like using prompts to get myself to try writing characters I don't often write, or haven't at all; cautiously testing Sho out here.


"Ah, Minamimoto, there you are. A word."

Sho doesn't look up from his seat at his workbench. "What do you figure would be left of this thing," he says conversationally, "if I tossed it off the top of 104?"

This thing is a massive old desktop computer from 1983, liberated from the back corner of a dusty storage room at Aoyama Gakuin. State of the art when it was made; hopelessly and hilariously antiquated by the start of the twenty-first century. The hard drive's got a whopping 10 megabytes.

"A mess of wiring, twisted circuit boards, and shattered plastic, I imagine." If Megumi Kitaniji, Conductor of Shibuya is at all amused by the idea of dropping antique electronics off a shopping center rooftop to smash against the pavement ten stories below, it isn't audible in his voice; he's as solemn as ever.

Guy needs to live a little, Sho thinks. Metaphorically, obviously, and he chuckles at his own silent joke. "Commentary," he says. "The fleeting nature of human achievement, the despair of planned obsolescence, the inescapability of physics. What goes up must come down, right? Eventually. Unless you're better than gravity."

The Conductor is silent for a long moment, his face expressionless. Then he says: "What are you up to?"

Sho gives him a grin that shows his teeth as he tugs on the brim of his hat to twist it rakishly sideways. "Art project. A reflection of the plane."

He hasn't been a Reaper long, but he's been here long enough to figure out something that seems to be over the heads of most of his coworkers: that power in the Underground is all about who has the strongest vision, the keenest eye for beauty, and the will to bring it into existence. Art here has meaning: all the trite truisms about holding up a mirror, but the end goal here isn't to reflect the world; it's to create a world that reflects the vision, sings it back.

In Sho's case, the vision is a reflection in the mathematical sense: swapping all points with their opposites across a given line, the highest of the high becoming the lowest of the low, and the lowest catapulted to heights beyond mortal comprehension. Turn the world upside down, shake out the trash. If he messages that idea, broadcasts it on all frequencies as loud as he can, the city will answer, and the city will follow. He's seen enough since his death that he believes that.

All of which is to say it's treason, he's been here a month and he's just told the second-most-powerful person in Shibuya's Underground that he's planning treason—but he figures it won't get through. The guy's a pretty face in an expensive suit, the long hair and the shades and the shiny red audiophiliac phones all a desperate attempt to pretend he's something more than that as he bows and scrapes to his master. Him and the Iron Maiden make a perfect pair—spineless and soulless, dead to the core. Shibuya deserves better.

"Ha!" The deep, resonant laugh isn't the response Sho was expecting, and he glances askance as the Conductor shakes his head. "I see. Well, no doubt He'll be pleased to hear it. He's been lamenting a lack of ambition in the talent pool of late."

"Huh." Sho snorts to hide his unsettlement, because the way the Conductor says it he almost sounds like he heard the real meaning under the words. If that's how the Composer really feels, Sho's right there with Him on that one; the difference is he's going to do something about it. "Yeah, but His pool, His rules, right? If there's a problem He can't solve…"

He leaves that dangling, doesn't say: Then He's starting from flawed assumptions. Doesn't say: No more a god than the rest of us, despite your worship. Though the Conductor's expression is unreadable, the dark glasses hiding his thoughts along with his eyes, Sho has the impression he's being watched with keen attention that only grows keener as he speaks, sharpening to laser-point focus.

"Oh," the Conductor says softly, "don't misunderstand. He solves His problems. He always solves them."

And then a hand lands on Sho's shoulder, cold and heavy. Sho jumps in spite of himself, biting back a curse, and goes carefully still. Pretty Face is a silent mover, apparently, and fast; guy's right behind him now, though half a second ago he was all the way over in the workshop door. Sho didn't even blink.

"I'll ask this now," the Conductor says, "because I find it best, personally, to make things as clear as possible from the start so as to avoid… awkward misunderstandings at a later date. Is your ultimate intent to usurp the Composer's throne?"

"Zetta—" Sho ducks away from the Conductor's grip and scrambles to his feet, scowling.

The Conductor chuckles. "At ease, Harrier. As I said: I simply find it simplest if everyone's on the same page. But to answer me or not—honestly or not—is entirely up to you. Rest assured that your continued existence is not contingent upon your choice, and that your answer will remain entirely confidential."

Sho stares at him. "You're joking. You expect me to believe you'd betray—"

An invisible wall of solid brick slams into him, and the next thing he knows he's flat on his back on the ground and blinking away stars, everything stinging like fire from the impact. He growls and moves to push himself to his feet, but the air crystallizes around him, pinning him in place.

Kitaniji hasn't moved; he stalks closer now, and crouches down at Sho's side. "No," he says, very quietly. "I would give my life and my soul for Him, and were it my choice, I would strike down any who dared think of opposing His rule, without hesitation. But it is not my choice, do you understand? It is not, and never has been, my duty to choose." He pushes his glasses up slightly, settling them on the bridge of his nose. "My duty is to obey His will. And so I do."

Sho swallows. A month in and he's still getting used to the reverence with which people in the Underground, and this guy in particular, talk about the Composer. If he were to say his earlier thought aloud—no more a god than the rest of us—he's still not sure he wouldn't be erased on the spot, but even so he can't bring himself to take it entirely seriously, can't quite keep the acerbic note from his voice. "So you're saying what, that He's got a death wish?"

"No," Kitaniji says. "He simply believes anyone willing to risk their life for their convictions should be given the chance to do so." He tilts his head, leaning over to peer into Sho's eyes. "So just how strongly do you believe in this art project of yours, Mr. Minamimoto?"

Sho glowers up at his own distorted image in the dark glasses for a long moment, chewing this over, then reaches a decision. Maybe it's a stupid decision, but what the hell, they're all dead already, and if he's not dead on his own terms, then eventually he's going to wind up dead like the guy staring implacably down at him. So he flashes his reflection an insolent smirk, drops his voice. "Guess we're gonna find out, aren't we?"

And the Conductor smiles back, and Sho thinks, just for a moment, that he sees scales sliding and shimmering underneath the man's skin. He blinks, and the vision is gone, and at the same time the pressure weighing him down lifts and he finds he can move again.

"That's the spirit," the Conductor says, standing up and brushing invisible dust from his coat. "I won't aid you, of course, but nor will I stand in your way unless He orders it. The one piece of very general advice I'll give you is to keep things as interesting as you can."

"Interesting," Sho echoes as he pushes himself back to his feet, and the word comes out more weakly than he'd like. He's just made plain—well, within an epsilon of plain—his intentions, and this is the reaction?

Whether his eventual solution's a reflection or a revolution, he's going to be doing everybody a favor. This place needs turning around.

"Yes," the Conductor says. "Make of that what you will. He has a soft spot for dissidents in general, but He's far more likely to indulge the ones who show a modicum of creativity."

Indulge? Arrogant creep, Sho thinks. The Conductor and the Composer both. "I'll keep it in mind."

"I shall look forward to your efforts," the Conductor says gravely. "I'm sure you'll impress us all. Ah! Which reminds me." He tosses something small at Sho; it glimmers in the air between them and Sho reaches out and bats it telekinetically into his hand.

It's a keypin, shiny and new. Sho blinks at it. "A month here and two Games under your belt," the Conductor says, "and your performance has already earned you your first promotion. Well done, Harrier. Keep up the good work and you'll make officer in record time. But I've interrupted your efforts long enough; I won't keep you."

…Huh.

When the Conductor's gone, Sho tosses the keypin up and catches it a few times, staring down at the ancient computer that he still hasn't decided how best to smash to pieces. Catapult it into the center of the scramble, maybe, and let its arc be a perfect metaphor: once the zenith of human creation, now so much outdated scrap.

Then he tosses his head back and laughs. A promotion. A promotion. The messaging's working already.

He's on his way up, and when he gets there, the bastard at the top is going down.