Thunderlight

(Cont.) Sapphire City, Part II

Ada takes it surprisingly well. She cradles the bundle close, like the boy is still her newborn babe, and weeps. Her tears are bitter, pained, and plenty—but she cries like a woman who had already accepted reality and was just waiting for the death certificate.

The teenage delinquents cry, too. Even though they'd never met the boy. They cry and hold Ada's hand and ask her questions about her baby. She answers them all with a fond smile for the memories and a teary gaze for the future she'll never get to have.

Torquil bawls. He was always the most sensitive of the three childhood friends, always so attuned to others pain. He bawls and clutches his heart like the boy was his own son, his own flesh and blood. Florian rests his tail on Torquil's shoulder, his face still pale, and murmurs condolences over and over, like a broken record.

Lenny has already cried himself dry. He's probably dehydrated, working in the sweltering heat all day and then sobbing so inconsolably. Instead, he hugs himself and stares down the street at nothing, like he's waiting to wake up.

And Mott... Mott feels. He can't describe it. He won't. But he feels, and he feels it so passionately, so bitterly, so angrily, so horribly—and he bottles it away. He closes it off, hides it, and puts on the neutral mask his father ingrained into him.

It's Lenny who eventually speaks up. Suggests that they leave the city. Camp at the outskirts, find another town to stay in for a while. The agreement is unanimous. But it isn't whole-hearted.

Mott wonders if that's because a part of their hearts are lost forever, now.

They've been trekking out of the city for the past hour. Mere minutes ago, they breached the outskirts. Another thirty minutes or so, and they should be far enough away from that place to feel like it isn't choking them anymore.

It's the biggest group he's ever travelled with, all eight of them, yet it's never been more quiet. Even as the moon rises, the sounds of nightlife seem hesitant to emerge. Maybe it wasn't just the city that died. Maybe everything is dead around it, too.

Maybe, right now, they're all dead, too.

Florian stops, eventually. Regarding them all with a carefully stoic expression, so careful it's almost brittle, he states, "We should camp here. This is far enough. There's no need to over-extend ourselves."

Ada nods in agreement. Her posse of teenagers shuffle over to her, and the pansear offers to start a fire. With Torquil, they get a small but warm fire going, safely contained. Still, Mott watches it warily to make sure it doesn't jump to Lenny.

Everyone settles around the fire, silent. Ada sits, and her teens squat beside her. Mott and Lenny sit side by side, leaning on each other like they don't have the strength to carry themselves anymore. Torquil sits beside them, his head in his hands. Florian coils himself at the opposite end of the fire, away from everyone else.

The only sound is the crackling of wood and the snap of the flames.

"You all can talk, you know."

Mott looks up and meets Ada's eyes through the fire. She forces a wry smile and says, "I'm not fragile. A few soundwaves aren't going to break me. You can talk—please. Please talk."

Her voice cracks at the end of her plea. Mott finds that he is suddenly desperate to fill the noise, to do anything to chase the silence away, but he can't find the words. Each second of silence feels like a needle under his skin. He opens and closes his mouth, floundering like a fish out of water.

"What do you think Zekrom's motive is?" He blurts.

Everyone looks at him, quiet and stunned. Each pair of eyes stares at him with the flickering fire reflecting in their gazes. The only sound is the crackling fire.

"What on earth are you going on about," Florian mutters, staring into the flames.

"Everyone is motivated by something," he continues, watching the embers of the campfire rise up and vanish. "So why do you think someone would do something like this?"

Silence settles around the fire.

"I don't know," Ada whispers, holding the lifeless bundle in her arms. "Thinking about that is almost scarier than dealing with all this death, isn't it? That means someone wanted this to happen."

Senseless violence is easier to cope with than desired violence.

"And if someone wanted something so horrible to happen," Ada says, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, "then what stops them from wanting worse?"