Symphony
Grave
(Slowly, sadly)
Marco wandered the blackened ruins of his home. The fire had long since been put out by the rain, and now there were only occasional wisps of smoke or steam rising from what was left of the walls. They cut a sad and pathetic silhouette.
Marco felt it appropriate.
When he took everything into consideration.
He wandered around, idly picking up a few pieces of wreckage; a pot, singed and black, a piece of the dining room coffee table. Funny how much a smallish piece of wood called up so many memories. . . .
Throwing the fragment to the side, he sat. Or rather, collapsed onto a small pile of debris. His legs wouldn't hold him anymore. Drenched from the rainfall, chilled and alone, he sat in the ruins of his house and felt despair creep over him.
His eyes strayed upwards to the sky. The clouds obscured the stars, but he knew they were there. The stars and the ships.
Somewhere up there the Andalites' somewhat-depleted fleet was orbiting the Earth. Four, maybe five ships, all damaged. The Yeerk attack had been swift, and brutal.
And, finally, useless. The Andalite Fleet was on the repair list, yes. But only one Yeerk ship, out of a full fleet, had left Earth's orbit. It had to have been the stupidest tactical move in the history of warfare. It had gained them nothing and lost them most of a fleet. It had forced the Andalites to admit they needed an alliance with Humanity instead of simply being their rescuers, because they needed Earth's resources to get home. Any kind of logical thought would tell of the stupidity of such an act.
So why had the Yeerks attacked?
Marco sighed. He knew. He knew damn well. The Yeerks had attacked because their leader, one Visser Three, had a grudge against five human youth and one Andalite aristh.
Pardon. Andalite Warrior.
The Andalites had taken their own sweet time in coming; from the first estimate of a year, nearly six years had passed. But when they had come, they'd come with a vengeance. Over half the total Fleet, twelve Domeships, had made up their Earth task force. Their first attack had been quick, and savage. The Yeerks had withdrawn.
For all of five days. Then they had attacked.
The death toll on Earth was astronomical. Overpopulation. . . a problem of the past. But that could only be what Visser Three wanted, because otherwise the attack had no purpose. It gained nothing tactically. . .
But in terms of morale . . . and in terms of the Visser's personal revenge on those five people who'd so destroyed his plans; in those terms, he won. And he'd known exactly where to strike.
Their families. Marco's, Jake's, Cassie's, Rachel's. He knew where they lived. He knew what to hit.
I bet he paused when he hit Tobias' name, Marco thought, imagining Visser Three with a list on a clipboard, his cynicism surfacing. What do you do to someone when you've already killed his father, trapped him in the body of a bird, and tortured him? What do you do?
Marco and the others had been ground force, attacking the last outposts of Yeerks onplanet. They hadn't known what had happened until the fighting was over.
Then Marco's world had crumbled.
The doctor who'd broken the news to him hadn't been overly sympathetic, but he didn't blame her. The hospital she worked in was overflowing with battle-wounded and civilian casualties, and he doubted that she'd had a moment of sleep in the past 48 hours.
"I'm sorry, young man. Your parents were among those we lost." That was all she had said, her eyes strained and distant.
So Marco had come here. To the blackened ruins of home. He'd ignored the pitying, compassionate looks from his friends, had brushed off the 'I'm so sorrys', and had come to the last place that he could remember feeling safe, wanted.
They'd been so proud of him, his dad and step-mom, when the news about the Yeerks had come out. So proud to know that their son/step-son had been one of the six who'd kept Earth in one piece so long. Their pride had embarrassed him a little, but mostly he just felt relieved that there were no more secrets, no more lies. . . .
Funny. We all knew how much the lies bothered Cassie, but I never realized that I hated them, too.
They'd been worried about him, when he'd said he had to go fight, but they hadn't tried to convince him to stay. His dad had just made him promise to come back.
I came back, Dad, but you weren't here. . . .
The sounds of someone's footsteps broke him out of his reverie. He looked behind him.
Cassie picked her way across the wreck of the living room toward him. "Marco?" she called.
He didn't answer. She came forwards, and stood beside him. Her clothes were a patchwork combination of a shirt obviously borrowed from someone a good deal bigger than she, a dirt-and-ash smudged jean jacket and her own torn pants. She bit her lower lip, her eyes roving everywhere except him. The uneasy silence between them continued for a few seconds, then Cassie spoke.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice so quiet he could barely hear her.
He laughed, a painful barking sound devoid of any joy or humour. "Yeah, I'm fine, just peachy keen," he said, his sarcasm harsh even to his own ears. "Hell no, I'm not okay, Cassie. I'm about as far from okay as I can possibly get."
Cassie winced and sat down beside him. "You want to talk about it?" she asked.
"Playing counselor again, Cassie?" he asked. She flinched slightly, almost too faintly to see and he wanted to take it back. She didn't deserve that.
She regarded him for a moment. "We haven't heard any news about Jake's family yet," she said, her voice still quiet. Marco looked up. He hadn't thought about that.
"What about yours, and Rachel's?" he asked, for a moment suspending his own grief enough to hope that his friends wouldn't have to share it.
"Both fine," Cassie said, letting out all her breath. "We searched the shelters for two hours, and found them uptown."
"You guys are lucky," was all Marco could say.
"We know."
They lapsed into silence for a few moments. Marco knew he should try to fill it with a smart-aleck comment or a joke, or something. But the words didn't come. Finally, he shivered. Cassie looked at him, concerned.
"You're going to catch something," she said, her voice worried. "You need to get dry."
Marco was reluctant to leave, but he knew that Cassie was right. Staying out here and getting sick wasn't going to help his family's ghosts.
He stood, brushing off his jeans. Cassie stood as well.
"Where are you going to stay?" she asked. He shrugged.
"Dunno. I didn't really stop to think about it," he replied. Cassie shook her head.
"We're staying at the old Holiday Inn," she said. "They've converted it into a shelter."
"Okay, I'll be along in a couple minutes," Marco said. Cassie regarded him for a moment, then nodded and left.
For several minutes after she left, Marco stood. The memories that had come so easily before were gone now, hidden behind a wall of numbness he couldn't claw through, though he tried. Then he sighed, and turned. He walked out of what had been his living room, and out the front door.
He closed the door behind him. There was no real reason for it. It wasn't like it made any difference. If anyone wanted to get in, they just had to walk through the gaping hole in the east-facing wall.
But he still closed the door. It felt like he was closing something else, something much more important than a door.
Marco turned and looked back at the sad, destroyed building for one long second. Then he resolutely turned his back, and walked away.
Leaving a lot behind.