It was the 3rd night Llert and TikTik had spent sleeping on an old mattress in the abandoned warehouse where he found TikTik years ago. The place smelled like old machine oil and rusted metal. The sink in the corner still dripped dark brown, foul smelling water. The dust covered floors were sprinkled with old busted machines and robots. Looking out across the floor, Llert - or Nov.47 as the people now called him - felt that feeling he didn’t like feeling. The feeling he spent most of his life trying to avoid but couldn’t. The more he tried, the more he found himself wrapped up in it like a baby swaddled in a thick wool blanket.

“I hate feeling responsible for others”, he said to TikTik, not looking for a reply. But it’s TikTik. There will be a reply. Nov.47 realized this and cut him off before he could begin. “No time to chat about it. We have work to do.” He pulled himself off the mattress and opened his plan pad. He thought about what he could do to keep the people of Dralla safe.  He hated being seen as a hero. All he wanted was to be left alone in his thoughts. He didn’t ask for the gift of sonic manipulation. He didn’t ask to be orphaned and wandering into the village with no memory of where he came from. He didn’t ask to be alive. 

Yet they stand in a place full of ghosts and a mechanical companion that was built to be a war weapon. How could they use sound waves and acoustics to save humanity? It seems ridiculous because, at some level, it is. Yet here they are…