Reaching for the Stars

Chapter 43: On the Question of Standing Still

It's here. You got your popcorns ready yet?

Warning: the usual but intensified five times.

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Tom gripped the cup tight. The nightmares were worsening again. Last night he couldn't sleep, the nightmare too vivid to ignore. He had been sitting on the balcony since, watching the sky and the city to help his mind calm down.

"Can you feel it? It's our inner desire talking. Don't fight it."

He sighed a little. "I know."

"What are you waiting for then? Can I take over?"

With trembling hands, he sipped from the cup. "No. We're done with it."

"Aw, come on! It's not like we're gonna kill someone!"

"I shan't do it."

People were walking on the streets below. He wondered, could he just take one or two and stretch his claws for a bit. There was no basement here, but the living room would be enough.

But no... he was done with that.

He knew he couldn't fight the feeling, so he just let it flow. No use in stopping what he could not stop. What he could do was only not do it.

It was one thing he had to live with: PTSD. What started as one event, seeing his first stepparents get shot right before his eyes, became a chain of events that he was powerless to stop. At first, his mind used to scream at him to flee, to run to safety, to look for shelter, but after years of gunshot, of mental torture, of looking for safety that was never there, it turned to fight. It did not stop there, even. In the process of trying to relieve himself and denying it, it became the thing that birthed Lain, the personification of his anger and hatred.

Now, after it calmed down, he was forever scarred with two, even three personalities in one body and the increasing hunger for violence when he heard guns.

The wolf let out a sad sigh, his hands holding the cup tightly. He had no justification for it. Fate dictated this. Who was he to question fate? A fighter's highest honour was to die on the battlefield, in the same way they killed their victims. Left alone. Rotten. Forgotten.

Fate taught him that in this cruel world, either kill or be killed. Either adapt or die. Incompetence was not an option. Hate the world lest it hate you back.

Such profound statements indeed.

"You're no fun."

He just sighed. "Yes, Lain. I'm no fun."

"If something happens, can I do it?"

The way he asked it was cute, like a kid over their first candy. Tom chuckled hollowly and regretted what he was about to say. "Yes, we can."

He did not know whether it was him, Lain, or the third voice talking.

-

Ever since he paid more attention to Tom, Max had been finding more and more small details about the wolf. Like the way his ears kept turning around when he heard something, or the way he could easily do something while keeping up a conversation, or the way he picked up something with his paws, they're all... different.

Even Octo seemed normal compared to him. As intimidating as the panther was, he still did things in the same way as them. Tom? There was something else. Was this how smart people behave? Or was this just the way he was wired? Was this because of his past?