Femme Polygonal - ENA x Male Reader

Prologue - Downside

Repeated noises were like a switch. Y/N heard them, and he lost control. Y/N heard them, and he lost influence. Y/N heard them, and he lost himself. You see, Y/N is quite the marvel.

Physically, not so much. He has a segmented body, where the hips downwards, torso, arms and head are all slightly disjointed and merely float with little care for physics. His skin, if you could call it that, was cracked into two split halves; a blocky vermilion and a soft lavender. The split was directly even down both sides. His outfit was admittedly a strange one that he had come to love; a lengthy brown coat and matching brown boots, made of a material that looked almost like leather but wasn't, beige corduroy trousers that hung loosely around his ankles, and a textured shirt. This was the same outfit he had worn for several years.

Outside of his physicality, Y/N's life was one of insanity. The world he lived in made little to no sense, and he was well aware of this. He wasn't aware of any name, settlements, societies or governing force in this place. It simply was and was not. Abstract, is the word. A perfectly imperfect abstract world. The people here were unreadable, strange, unmistakably unique and usually standoffish. You may encounter the odd friendly face here or there, but it was indeed a rarity. Y/N had no family nor friends to call his own, and he was one of many who could say so. Again, unless you were different, you didn't really speak to anyone, know anyone, or expect anything. You only lived here and pretended to understand what was going on.

Y/N's personal life, however, could be accurately described as slavery. He worked for an organisation, and he was a frontman, if you will. An advertisement. After years of having routines drilled into his psyche, Y/N would follow orders issued to him, which were usually to create something. Sometimes it was a painting, or a dance routine, or a song, or a poetry collection. Anything to put on shelves, which this place apparently had, which therefore implies an economy. Y/N didn't ponder too much on it or else he'd go insane. When this organisation and its many people played a repetitive noise, Y/N would activate. He didn't really enjoy the process, and had in fact longed for freedom for several years, but saw no way out. He lived in a complex of screens of static that made up the walls, floors, and ceilings. This was the standard for every room. It must be a building, surely, as there were multiple floors, extensive corridors and large rooms. Y/N assumed it was the workplace of this organisation, and all they had to do was make profit. To them, Y/N was an instrument.

Today, this day, marked a very special occasion. Y/N woke up in his room, of course being the same as every other room; a screen of eye-shredding static for the walls, and another screen of eye-shredding static for the floor, oh, and who could forget the screen of eye-shredding static for the ceiling? The one Y/N woke up to every day, of course. A frantic disorderly knock at the door summoned him out of unconsciousness. Y/N needn't dress or get ready for the day as he was already dressed and had no way of 'getting ready'. Truth be told, he wondered if he could put a brush through his hair or if the brush would just snap like a twig. Y/N slinked over to the door and opened it. There stood one of many blank grey mannequins, who waved politely and held its hands outwards, gesturing down the corridor. They had brought a small army to help Y/N get to where he needed to be on time, or else he may attempt another escape. 

Stepping out into the corridor, similarly lined with static, Y/N attempted, as he always did, small talk.

Y/N - "What will it be today? A song? A dance? Or am I continuing that novel?"

No response, as expected, until a loud voice boomed down the corridor from seemingly nowhere.

"Danse, joli garçon."

The voice spoke in a language Y/N did not understand, but he picked up one or two phrases, his favourite of the two being "Ce n'est rien", spoken when he was injured. He liked how it rolled off the tongue. After the voice stopping booming, Y/N nodded and pretended he understood.