The Created

Chapter 22: And the Other Part

CAT

The rest of the day passes mostly without incident.

Paxton tends to be scarce now, especially when Kye is around. Everyone mostly stays in the cave, passing time by making small talk, eating, inventing games, or just sleeping.

Amber stands up, and brings a large, unfolded sheet of paper to me—the map she's been working on since we left New Town.

"Okay, so I added in all of the details based on the info you collected," she says, holding it up for me to see. "How's this?"

I study it, looking at the placement of the facility, the Provision Line, the PRT, and the town and the walls and the forests.

"Perfect."

Amber nods, satisfied, and rolls the map up tightly, slipping it into a sleeve on her bulky backpack.

"That'll definitely come in handy later."

But how much later, I wonder? We can't sit in a cave forever. Well...we could. But it isn't ideal. I'm sure I'd go insane. I can already feel the tension after one day.

Before rescuing Kye, I had the plans to keep me focused. I stayed up day and night and went without food and sleep some days because it was all I could think about. Now it's over; all that pressure is gone. Nothing to fill my time anymore. Just a dark, wet cave.

Perhaps going after the facility isn't such a bad idea.

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Later that night, while watching Andy and Amber argue over whose plain black rock is whose in the game they made up, I notice that Kye is missing. Connor seems too amused by the heated rock argument ("Mine was the one that went the farthest"; "No! Yours skittered down the stairs") to have noticed. Paxton is brooding over in the corner, smoking Callura and downing unhealthy amounts of Red while eyeing Andy and Amber, no doubt trying to find some new way to assert his masculinity.

I know I shouldn't worry so much about Kye or shouldn't let my life revolve around his whereabouts and happiness. I flick open my locket and stare into Rym's smiling eyes. Eyes I can never see again. Not in person.

I close the ornament decidedly, throw my cloak on, and walk down the stairs. No one seems to notice.

Halfway down the stairs, I notice the lightning and thunder from the storm overhead. There is, of course, the pitter-patter of rain, but I can't hear it over the ever-churning waterfall. The crisp, damp smell of the water reaches my nose as I emerge from the makeshift stairwell.

And there he is. I can see his cloaked outline just inside the mouth of the cave, backlit by the dim light from the moons and illuminated with every strike of lightning. He's facing away from me, just staring out at the waterfall and the open expanse of water, forest, and night sky that lies just beyond it.

He doesn't turn or speak when I walk up next to him, but I can feel that he knows I'm here.

He wipes his sleeve across his cheek and returns to his statue-like pose.

"I've always loved thunderstorms," he says at length. He's quiet, but not so quiet as to be lost in all the noise that surrounds us. "I don't know how I remember that. But I just feel it."

I remain silent.

"Some people, thunderstorms scare them. But I wish for them. Like. They bring me peace." He pauses. "I don't get that very often."

"Is that why you're standing out here?"

He nods. "Partly."

"And the other part?"