Rain patters on the tin roof, loud enough he considers that it might dent. Hours upon hours of Snow's work, undone faster than Sazh might escape the imminent wreck. The worst thing about Pulse, in this moment, is no control of the weather. In gray sheets, the rain comes down from grayer clouds, and Sazh watches through the murky window glass.
Over the beat on the roof, Sazh can barely think—the screwdriver in his hand stills mid-turn. Rather than continue, he lays the tool aside. The radio stays gutted on his table, the table lopsided still despite all attempts at stabilization, and he blows his breath out long and slow. Maqui will have to wait for him to finish the radio, later. No one's going out in the rain anyway.
Might be there's some story Sazh's never heard about Cocoonians melting like sugar, sweet without substance.
The metal bed frame creaks as he settles on the lumpy mattress. He can barely hear over the cacophony on his shack. But the fire keeps dancing, warm, and he casts a glare at the flint and tinder. Whoever thought he'd miss the ability to snap flame to life. Is it the power or the convenience that's the loss?
Sazh pulls his guns from their holsters, traces his dry fingertips over the oiled metal. On Cocoon, these had been mostly for show. On Cocoon, there'd been weather control and heat and tin that wouldn't bend beneath the onslaught of rain. There'd been a son not comprised of crystal shards and dust he keeps in an urn on the table he builds, repairs, and cooks at. Dajh'd been a boy, then, not a sacrifice of Barthadelus's.
The wind picks up, the rain splattering against his window and the fire twisting in his hearth.