Press Play, Sing Me My Song // KinKi Kids
Press Play, Sing Me My Song
KinKi Kids, 4U, Machida, They
PG-13, 2582 words, vocaloid!AU, [Warning]Character death (...sort of?)
There's a reason mysterious songwriter SHAMANIPPON only writes for Koichi.
PAUSE
With precise, split-second timing, Koichi pauses in the middle of a dance step. One leg is raised slightly off the ground and both arms are flung out, yet he retains this position for the duration of the 15 minute break without visible sign of strain. Even his hair is obedient to the command, not a single well-crafted strand moving out of place though his head is tilted sharply to the side and back.
Below the stage, Matsuzaki reaches out a hand to hit Tatsumi over the head, though he's laughing and doesn't actually follow through when Tatsumi ducks out of the way. "Poor Kou-chan," he says, "You couldn't have paused when he had both feet on the ground at least?"
"Kou-chan prefers the challenge," Tatsumi says, gesturing with a tilt of his chin to the figure frozen in motion on the stage, "Remember all that talk about winning against himself and stuff?"
"Ah, you're right," Matsuzaki concedes. "He was that kind of person, after all."
PLAY
When the music starts again, Koichi picks up the song right where he left off, as though the 15 minutes' break hadn't happened at all. He has perfect rhythm, perfect pitch, perfect poise.
REWIND
"Good morning," Fukuda greets the intern who offers him a cup of coffee. He glances through the glass panel that separates the live room from the control room, surprised to see Koichi standing at the ready behind the microphone already. "Oh, I see Kosshi's already been by?"
The intern, a kid with a round face and quick grin, nods eagerly. "Yep, Koshioka-kun said to start without him, Koichi's ready to go."
Ruffling the kid's hair affectionately, Fukuda nods. "Roger that!"
He takes his time settling into work first, however, scrolling through the list of things he has to get done on his PDA and shuffling through the papers that have gathered on his desk overnight. He notes, with sudden interest, that a new song has been wired in, from the songwriter named SHAMANIPPON.
It's been maybe half a year since the last song had come in, which is too long by Fukuda's reckoning, especially as SHAMANIPPON is their best writer by far. Whoever is behind the pseudonym, the person is an absolute creative genius. Fukuda only wishes he-or she-weren't so damned elusive. The songs are always wired to their office from anonymous connections, completely untraceable. Fukuda toys briefly with the idea of setting Eda, their smartest junior tech, on the trace again, but gives up on the thought with a quick shake of his head. It's been done in the past, and proved fruitless.
At any rate, Fukuda's glad to see the handwritten score. He pores over it for a full minute, drinking in each of the little black dots with stems and curlicues with his eyes, though he doesn't understand a word of it. The only way to decode musical notation these days is with the supercomputer up in Tsukuba (Fukuda makes a note on his PDA to send Tatsumi over with the task tomorrow), which just makes this SHAMANIPPON even more of an enigma for being able to write musical notation.
A flash of red out of the corner of Fukuda's eye catches his attention, and brings him back to the reality of work. It's Koichi, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck idly. Koichi has been waiting this whole time, shifting his weight from time to time and fiddling at the hems of his clothes with crisply de-interlaced fingertips. Koichi is always patient, never complains, and Fukuda feels a little bad for making him wait so long.
"Sorry, Kou-chan," he apologizes (rather pointlessly) through the intercom. "Let's get started, shall we?"
As expected, there's no response from Koichi until Fukuda turns the music on and the powerful beat of the dance track they're working on sends Koichi into motion.
FAST FORWARD
"I'd like to speak for our entire production team and say that it's so wonderful to finally meet the mastermind behind SHAMANIPPON," Machida says, bowing a precise 90 degrees. He knows he's at 90 exactly because he can see Koichi out of the corner of his eye and he matches his own body to Koichi's programmed algorithm.
"Please, call me Tsuyoshi," the man in front of them replies. His voice is soft and rather musical, and Machida's businesslike mind is already racing to figure out how it would be to have Tsuyoshi record a duet with Koichi. The man's been elusive for so long, evading identification, they certainly don't want to scare him away. Yet it would be so perfect, so fitting, to have these two work as a duo.
Machida is shocked, however, when he straightens up, to find Koichi staring at the man with an intensity of feeling that he hadn't thought possible. He glances at Tsuyoshi, ready to apologize if the man looks uncomfortable with Koichi's scrutiny, and finds that Tsuyoshi is looking right back at Koichi with equal intensity and his hand half-raised, like he'd started to reach towards Koichi unconsciously.
Glancing back and forth and back again between the two, Machida, not for the first time, wonders just why this Tsuyoshi chooses to write for Koichi and no other vocaloid in the industry.
B-SIDE
Tsuyoshi sits inside a Starbucks in big, busy New York City, the ultimate anonymity. He has a big fluffy scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face which he pulls down from time to time to take a sip of his caffe latte; he wears a black wool coat from Barneys and carries around a tablet notebook and a copy of the latest New Yorker. He looks, in short, like the quintessential New Yorker.
He feels like one too, somber and uncomfortable and stressed out, whereas what he really wants to do is lounge around in big, colorful knits that go down to his knees, patterned leg-warmers, and maybe a big fluffy hat. But that sort of deviation from the norm has generally been looked at with deep suspicion and he certainly can't risk an Inspection. Except it's not illegal anymore, he has to remind himself, to be a bit bohemian. A bona fide musician. Tsuyoshi doesn't need to hide his gift anymore.
The Oto Revolution several years back had legalized music again, ending a nearly century-long global regime of silence, and people with musical talent like Tsuyoshi are encouraged to step up these days. People like him have suddenly become valued and revered in the past few years, since there are so few people alive who have retained any gene for musical talent anymore. Nearly a century ago, all the recording studios and concert halls of the world had been wiped out in one fell swoop; music had been outlawed and all those who loved and made music had been persecuted relentlessly. The population of the world had been cut nearly in half in a genocide of the most epic proportions, and music had been almost entirely wiped out.
It was a travesty, Tsuyoshi thinks, a travesty that had left the world stunned silent. And now, a century later, unmuzzled and freed from auditory oppression, there's barely anyone left in the world to make real, true music. Japan, the country of Tsuyoshi's ancestry, has been making efforts to build up a new music industry, experimenting with vocaloids in the place of real people. They're robots and holograms, inferior though not cheap imitations of popular idol singers of the past, and the music is founded upon mathematical algorithms rather than heart and soul.
Tsuyoshi could go there, if he wanted. He could go public with his notebook full of songs that he'd written, the tunes that spring unbidden into his head. He'd grown up thinking it was normal to always have a song in his head, but it isn't - it's a gift of genius, passed down to him through his DNA like a family heirloom.
His ancestor had been a musician, one half of a record-breaking duet. Tsuyoshi had known about it all his life, in the vague way that children know their fathers work in big offices with other men who wear ties and carry briefcases, but he'd really found it out when he'd come to the big city for college and had discovered the tiny, dusty, hidden-away antiques store just around the block from Bryant Park. It had been startling, even frightening, to discover record albums in such a locale-at the time, only New Harlem had dared even whisper the word "music"-and Tsuyoshi had suffered a double shock because he'd found the splitting image of himself on one of the albums.
He hadn't dared to buy the disc but he'd come back again and again, to read the liner notes and feel the thin edges of the optical disc, still smooth though no longer playable because the technology is so archaic. KinKi Kids, the duo had been called. He'd wondered what the songs had sounded like, what sort of tune went with lyrics like
The vividly colorful thoughts that flutter and dance
I can't go back, can't return to those days
A new season passes me by...
That was when he'd secretly begun writing down the melodies he heard in his head.
Now, post Oto Revolution, there's really no reason for him to be so secretive about his song writing anymore. He has songs hidden away in his room like a junkie, creative hiding places from hollowed out books to crumpled pieces of paper that look like trash in his dust bin that he hasn't emptied out in years. (It had been too risky to digitize them, with the superhighway as all-encompassing and invasive as it is.) He chuckles to himself as he thinks about just how apt the metaphor is - he could make quite a tidy sum with all his songs if he sold them.
But Tsuyoshi doesn't want to be in the public eye. He likes fitting into the crowd and doing the things that everyone else does just fine. He has a 9-to-5, and a dog, and a flatmate with whom he goes out to the bar around the corner every Friday night, and on Monday mornings before work, he gets a latte and spends thirty minutes reading the news on his tablet in his favorite corner of his favorite Starbucks.
Today there's not much of interest in the news. He's about to get up and leave when he scrolls just a little more, just in case, and he sees an article-a photo-that makes him actually leap out of his chair in shock. His tablet clatters to the table and it's a mercy he's almost done with his coffee because he knocks the cup over and it rolls, dribbling a trail of brown droplets across the table. The other customers around him look at him with concern, and Tsuyoshi quickly rights his cup and murmurs something incomprehensible that's half apology and half reassurance.
When he looks down at the photo on his tablet again, he's half expecting it to have disappeared, perhaps a figment of his imagination since he'd been thinking about music and his ancestor so much this morning. But no, the photo is still there, of a man with straight brown hair and delicate features. A face that looks masculine despite having feminine features. A face that's been burned into Tsuyoshi's mind because it's the same face he's seen so many times next to his own on those old KinKi Kids albums in the antique shop.
"Japan's Latest Vocaloid Technology Unveiled," the article is titled. The vocaloid's name is Koichi and he isn't a hologram or a well-constructed robot like the vocaloids before him have been. He's a new kind of cyborg, a hybrid build using the latest in stem cell technology and mechanical robotics. Someone had found recognizable the remains of one Domoto Koichi, well known for having been a popular singer-songwriter during the turn of the Millennium, in one of Neo Osaka's concrete junkyards, and specialists had extracted the necessary biology to build this "new and improved" vocaloid. Koichi the vocaloid, specialists maintain, retains the same look and sound that had made Domoto Koichi such a popular figure in pre-regime Japan. Old records-CDs, media appearances, image scans-had been dug up. There is hope that Koichi can help to rebuild the music industry that is so lacking in today's world.
Tsuyoshi doesn't manage to get any work done all day.
At night, shut up alone in his room with all his musical secrets around him, he tries to tell himself that it shouldn't mean anything to him. He's not the same Domoto Tsuyoshi as his great grandfather, and this Koichi is definitely not the same Domoto Koichi as one who had lived a century ago. Still Tsuyoshi feels compelled towards Koichi somehow, the same way he feels compelled towards the crazy turbans and colorful afghans that he never quite has the courage to buy at street fairs.
Slowly, he reaches into his dust bin and pulls out one of the crumpled balls of paper at random. Slowly, he unfurls it and reads the notes scribbled there, humming to himself a little. He likes this song, he decides, likes the simplicity of the melody. He wonders how the words would sound like in Koichi's voice.
STOP
The world is literally crashing down around his ears. It's a bit confusing, to say the least, since everything had been fine in the morning, and Koichi feels a bit indignant at the fact that there's no scientific research at all to support today being armageddon.
Still, Koichi thinks wryly, it's fitting that his world would should screech to a halt in the middle of a concert. He's always said he wanted to keep working until the very end, so what more appropriate way to go than with Kyocera Dome falling down around his ears? Everything is a cacophony of sounds because the sky is falling, and jagged pieces keep crashing into the drum set or the amplifiers; his guitar strings keep snapping in his hands too, which makes both his ears and his fingers bleed; the entire arena is filled with fans, screaming and screaming.
Next to him, Tsuyoshi is continuing on calmly as well. There's a look of peaceful acceptance in Tsuyoshi's eyes, as well as a hint of amusement, so Koichi knows that he's also thinking of Johnny-san's threat to have a fit the next time Koichi forgets his lyrics, and they both know Johnny-san doesn't renege on his promises, Armageddon notwithstanding. Koichi stretches out a hand and Tsuyoshi takes it, and they can't tell if the fans are still watching or not, or even if anyone is still alive but themselves, but it doesn't matter.
"Is this the end of the world?" Koichi wonders. "What are you going to do in the next life?" He's shouting across the mere handful of inches between them now, and it's surreal to speak as though they're still under the scrutiny of cameras in what might well be their last moments, but there's no other way to handle it, and anyway, the show must go on.
"Should I be your manager?" Tsuyoshi wonders, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips at the old joke. "Whatever it is, I'll definitely still be working with you."
"Okay," Koichi says, before something really big and really heavy falls on him and wipes out his consciousness. "Okay, it's a promise!"
Note(s):
1. Vocaloids.
2. Lyrics are from KinKi's "futari".
3. Oto Revolution - oto (音) means "sound" in Japanese
4. the superhighway = information superhighway; basically a fancy term for the Internet. Used to indicate a more advanced state of wireless data than we have today though.
5. Partially inspired by Koichi's Danger Zone PV, partially because crazy_otaku911 prompted me to write about Koichi as a vocaloid!
KinKi Kids, 4U, Machida, They
PG-13, 2582 words, vocaloid!AU, [Warning]Character death (...sort of?)
There's a reason mysterious songwriter SHAMANIPPON only writes for Koichi.
PAUSE
With precise, split-second timing, Koichi pauses in the middle of a dance step. One leg is raised slightly off the ground and both arms are flung out, yet he retains this position for the duration of the 15 minute break without visible sign of strain. Even his hair is obedient to the command, not a single well-crafted strand moving out of place though his head is tilted sharply to the side and back.
Below the stage, Matsuzaki reaches out a hand to hit Tatsumi over the head, though he's laughing and doesn't actually follow through when Tatsumi ducks out of the way. "Poor Kou-chan," he says, "You couldn't have paused when he had both feet on the ground at least?"
"Kou-chan prefers the challenge," Tatsumi says, gesturing with a tilt of his chin to the figure frozen in motion on the stage, "Remember all that talk about winning against himself and stuff?"
"Ah, you're right," Matsuzaki concedes. "He was that kind of person, after all."
PLAY
When the music starts again, Koichi picks up the song right where he left off, as though the 15 minutes' break hadn't happened at all. He has perfect rhythm, perfect pitch, perfect poise.
REWIND
"Good morning," Fukuda greets the intern who offers him a cup of coffee. He glances through the glass panel that separates the live room from the control room, surprised to see Koichi standing at the ready behind the microphone already. "Oh, I see Kosshi's already been by?"
The intern, a kid with a round face and quick grin, nods eagerly. "Yep, Koshioka-kun said to start without him, Koichi's ready to go."
Ruffling the kid's hair affectionately, Fukuda nods. "Roger that!"
He takes his time settling into work first, however, scrolling through the list of things he has to get done on his PDA and shuffling through the papers that have gathered on his desk overnight. He notes, with sudden interest, that a new song has been wired in, from the songwriter named SHAMANIPPON.
It's been maybe half a year since the last song had come in, which is too long by Fukuda's reckoning, especially as SHAMANIPPON is their best writer by far. Whoever is behind the pseudonym, the person is an absolute creative genius. Fukuda only wishes he-or she-weren't so damned elusive. The songs are always wired to their office from anonymous connections, completely untraceable. Fukuda toys briefly with the idea of setting Eda, their smartest junior tech, on the trace again, but gives up on the thought with a quick shake of his head. It's been done in the past, and proved fruitless.
At any rate, Fukuda's glad to see the handwritten score. He pores over it for a full minute, drinking in each of the little black dots with stems and curlicues with his eyes, though he doesn't understand a word of it. The only way to decode musical notation these days is with the supercomputer up in Tsukuba (Fukuda makes a note on his PDA to send Tatsumi over with the task tomorrow), which just makes this SHAMANIPPON even more of an enigma for being able to write musical notation.
A flash of red out of the corner of Fukuda's eye catches his attention, and brings him back to the reality of work. It's Koichi, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck idly. Koichi has been waiting this whole time, shifting his weight from time to time and fiddling at the hems of his clothes with crisply de-interlaced fingertips. Koichi is always patient, never complains, and Fukuda feels a little bad for making him wait so long.
"Sorry, Kou-chan," he apologizes (rather pointlessly) through the intercom. "Let's get started, shall we?"
As expected, there's no response from Koichi until Fukuda turns the music on and the powerful beat of the dance track they're working on sends Koichi into motion.
FAST FORWARD
"I'd like to speak for our entire production team and say that it's so wonderful to finally meet the mastermind behind SHAMANIPPON," Machida says, bowing a precise 90 degrees. He knows he's at 90 exactly because he can see Koichi out of the corner of his eye and he matches his own body to Koichi's programmed algorithm.
"Please, call me Tsuyoshi," the man in front of them replies. His voice is soft and rather musical, and Machida's businesslike mind is already racing to figure out how it would be to have Tsuyoshi record a duet with Koichi. The man's been elusive for so long, evading identification, they certainly don't want to scare him away. Yet it would be so perfect, so fitting, to have these two work as a duo.
Machida is shocked, however, when he straightens up, to find Koichi staring at the man with an intensity of feeling that he hadn't thought possible. He glances at Tsuyoshi, ready to apologize if the man looks uncomfortable with Koichi's scrutiny, and finds that Tsuyoshi is looking right back at Koichi with equal intensity and his hand half-raised, like he'd started to reach towards Koichi unconsciously.
Glancing back and forth and back again between the two, Machida, not for the first time, wonders just why this Tsuyoshi chooses to write for Koichi and no other vocaloid in the industry.
B-SIDE
Tsuyoshi sits inside a Starbucks in big, busy New York City, the ultimate anonymity. He has a big fluffy scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face which he pulls down from time to time to take a sip of his caffe latte; he wears a black wool coat from Barneys and carries around a tablet notebook and a copy of the latest New Yorker. He looks, in short, like the quintessential New Yorker.
He feels like one too, somber and uncomfortable and stressed out, whereas what he really wants to do is lounge around in big, colorful knits that go down to his knees, patterned leg-warmers, and maybe a big fluffy hat. But that sort of deviation from the norm has generally been looked at with deep suspicion and he certainly can't risk an Inspection. Except it's not illegal anymore, he has to remind himself, to be a bit bohemian. A bona fide musician. Tsuyoshi doesn't need to hide his gift anymore.
The Oto Revolution several years back had legalized music again, ending a nearly century-long global regime of silence, and people with musical talent like Tsuyoshi are encouraged to step up these days. People like him have suddenly become valued and revered in the past few years, since there are so few people alive who have retained any gene for musical talent anymore. Nearly a century ago, all the recording studios and concert halls of the world had been wiped out in one fell swoop; music had been outlawed and all those who loved and made music had been persecuted relentlessly. The population of the world had been cut nearly in half in a genocide of the most epic proportions, and music had been almost entirely wiped out.
It was a travesty, Tsuyoshi thinks, a travesty that had left the world stunned silent. And now, a century later, unmuzzled and freed from auditory oppression, there's barely anyone left in the world to make real, true music. Japan, the country of Tsuyoshi's ancestry, has been making efforts to build up a new music industry, experimenting with vocaloids in the place of real people. They're robots and holograms, inferior though not cheap imitations of popular idol singers of the past, and the music is founded upon mathematical algorithms rather than heart and soul.
Tsuyoshi could go there, if he wanted. He could go public with his notebook full of songs that he'd written, the tunes that spring unbidden into his head. He'd grown up thinking it was normal to always have a song in his head, but it isn't - it's a gift of genius, passed down to him through his DNA like a family heirloom.
His ancestor had been a musician, one half of a record-breaking duet. Tsuyoshi had known about it all his life, in the vague way that children know their fathers work in big offices with other men who wear ties and carry briefcases, but he'd really found it out when he'd come to the big city for college and had discovered the tiny, dusty, hidden-away antiques store just around the block from Bryant Park. It had been startling, even frightening, to discover record albums in such a locale-at the time, only New Harlem had dared even whisper the word "music"-and Tsuyoshi had suffered a double shock because he'd found the splitting image of himself on one of the albums.
He hadn't dared to buy the disc but he'd come back again and again, to read the liner notes and feel the thin edges of the optical disc, still smooth though no longer playable because the technology is so archaic. KinKi Kids, the duo had been called. He'd wondered what the songs had sounded like, what sort of tune went with lyrics like
The vividly colorful thoughts that flutter and dance
I can't go back, can't return to those days
A new season passes me by...
That was when he'd secretly begun writing down the melodies he heard in his head.
Now, post Oto Revolution, there's really no reason for him to be so secretive about his song writing anymore. He has songs hidden away in his room like a junkie, creative hiding places from hollowed out books to crumpled pieces of paper that look like trash in his dust bin that he hasn't emptied out in years. (It had been too risky to digitize them, with the superhighway as all-encompassing and invasive as it is.) He chuckles to himself as he thinks about just how apt the metaphor is - he could make quite a tidy sum with all his songs if he sold them.
But Tsuyoshi doesn't want to be in the public eye. He likes fitting into the crowd and doing the things that everyone else does just fine. He has a 9-to-5, and a dog, and a flatmate with whom he goes out to the bar around the corner every Friday night, and on Monday mornings before work, he gets a latte and spends thirty minutes reading the news on his tablet in his favorite corner of his favorite Starbucks.
Today there's not much of interest in the news. He's about to get up and leave when he scrolls just a little more, just in case, and he sees an article-a photo-that makes him actually leap out of his chair in shock. His tablet clatters to the table and it's a mercy he's almost done with his coffee because he knocks the cup over and it rolls, dribbling a trail of brown droplets across the table. The other customers around him look at him with concern, and Tsuyoshi quickly rights his cup and murmurs something incomprehensible that's half apology and half reassurance.
When he looks down at the photo on his tablet again, he's half expecting it to have disappeared, perhaps a figment of his imagination since he'd been thinking about music and his ancestor so much this morning. But no, the photo is still there, of a man with straight brown hair and delicate features. A face that looks masculine despite having feminine features. A face that's been burned into Tsuyoshi's mind because it's the same face he's seen so many times next to his own on those old KinKi Kids albums in the antique shop.
"Japan's Latest Vocaloid Technology Unveiled," the article is titled. The vocaloid's name is Koichi and he isn't a hologram or a well-constructed robot like the vocaloids before him have been. He's a new kind of cyborg, a hybrid build using the latest in stem cell technology and mechanical robotics. Someone had found recognizable the remains of one Domoto Koichi, well known for having been a popular singer-songwriter during the turn of the Millennium, in one of Neo Osaka's concrete junkyards, and specialists had extracted the necessary biology to build this "new and improved" vocaloid. Koichi the vocaloid, specialists maintain, retains the same look and sound that had made Domoto Koichi such a popular figure in pre-regime Japan. Old records-CDs, media appearances, image scans-had been dug up. There is hope that Koichi can help to rebuild the music industry that is so lacking in today's world.
Tsuyoshi doesn't manage to get any work done all day.
At night, shut up alone in his room with all his musical secrets around him, he tries to tell himself that it shouldn't mean anything to him. He's not the same Domoto Tsuyoshi as his great grandfather, and this Koichi is definitely not the same Domoto Koichi as one who had lived a century ago. Still Tsuyoshi feels compelled towards Koichi somehow, the same way he feels compelled towards the crazy turbans and colorful afghans that he never quite has the courage to buy at street fairs.
Slowly, he reaches into his dust bin and pulls out one of the crumpled balls of paper at random. Slowly, he unfurls it and reads the notes scribbled there, humming to himself a little. He likes this song, he decides, likes the simplicity of the melody. He wonders how the words would sound like in Koichi's voice.
STOP
The world is literally crashing down around his ears. It's a bit confusing, to say the least, since everything had been fine in the morning, and Koichi feels a bit indignant at the fact that there's no scientific research at all to support today being armageddon.
Still, Koichi thinks wryly, it's fitting that his world would should screech to a halt in the middle of a concert. He's always said he wanted to keep working until the very end, so what more appropriate way to go than with Kyocera Dome falling down around his ears? Everything is a cacophony of sounds because the sky is falling, and jagged pieces keep crashing into the drum set or the amplifiers; his guitar strings keep snapping in his hands too, which makes both his ears and his fingers bleed; the entire arena is filled with fans, screaming and screaming.
Next to him, Tsuyoshi is continuing on calmly as well. There's a look of peaceful acceptance in Tsuyoshi's eyes, as well as a hint of amusement, so Koichi knows that he's also thinking of Johnny-san's threat to have a fit the next time Koichi forgets his lyrics, and they both know Johnny-san doesn't renege on his promises, Armageddon notwithstanding. Koichi stretches out a hand and Tsuyoshi takes it, and they can't tell if the fans are still watching or not, or even if anyone is still alive but themselves, but it doesn't matter.
"Is this the end of the world?" Koichi wonders. "What are you going to do in the next life?" He's shouting across the mere handful of inches between them now, and it's surreal to speak as though they're still under the scrutiny of cameras in what might well be their last moments, but there's no other way to handle it, and anyway, the show must go on.
"Should I be your manager?" Tsuyoshi wonders, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips at the old joke. "Whatever it is, I'll definitely still be working with you."
"Okay," Koichi says, before something really big and really heavy falls on him and wipes out his consciousness. "Okay, it's a promise!"
Note(s):
1. Vocaloids.
2. Lyrics are from KinKi's "futari".
3. Oto Revolution - oto (音) means "sound" in Japanese
4. the superhighway = information superhighway; basically a fancy term for the Internet. Used to indicate a more advanced state of wireless data than we have today though.
5. Partially inspired by Koichi's Danger Zone PV, partially because crazy_otaku911 prompted me to write about Koichi as a vocaloid!