For their second day of searching, they left Ada with the teenagers. The pansage isn't in much condition to travel or search, but the other two are rather adept fighters and will be able to defend themselves and Ada if anything goes wrong. Even so, Mott and Lenny stick as close as they can while they search in case anything happens.
The motions of lifting rubble and peering under it have grown monotonous. All they ever find is dust and scraps. A few hours ago, they actually did find a body—it scared them so much they screamed and dropped the wooden plank on it. After apologizing profusely to any lingering spirits that might have just had a board dropped on their corpse, Mott hesitantly slid it away to check for any resemblance to Ada.
It was an elderly woman, so definitely not her young son. The gory image of the old archen with a missing leg still burns in the back of his mind. He desperately tries to forget the anguish etched into her expression.
Her death must've been painful. Terrifying. He imagines everyone's was. Which, unfortunately, loops him straight back to the question he's been putting off all day.
Why would anyone want this?
Sure, there were deranged individuals in the world who killed for the thrill or the sport. Mott isn't unaware of that. But this is different; this isn't a few lives here and there, this is countless lives and countless families and countless children. All of Sapphire City, gone. Thousands of hopes and lives and dreams, gone.
Why would anyone want this?
He lifts a rock, tossing it aside to grab at a slab of wood. If Lenny was right about Zekrom, and Zekrom is being motivated by something, just how terrible of a creature is it? He's always been under the assumption that Zekrom is simply a beast of bloodlust, driven by violent instinct and nothing more. But adding desire into the equation complicates things a bit. Desire implies consciousness. Consciousness implies an understanding of one's actions and their influences on the world. So if Zekrom has all that, and it's doing this anyways… does that mean Zekrom is the type of creature who gladly accepts that its actions are devastating thousands?
Any being who willfully and carelessly accepts that they are harming another transcends to a whole new level of evil. He's no longer dealing with a mindless beast that only knows the laws of nature. He's dealing with someone who knows the laws of civilization, understands the morality behind them, and simply doesn't care.
His thoughts run circles around themselves for a half an hour before Lenny pipes up. "Mott, are you okay? You're looking like a serious philosopher over there. A very angry one."
Mott blinks, looking up at him. Then, he looks back to the rubble he's burrowing through and tosses some of it aside. "Just thinking."
Lenny sits down to catch his breath. "About?"
Mott keeps digging. "Zekrom."
Lenny nods. "Oh."
A moment of silence settles between them. The only sound is the wind carrying dust and debris through the streets.
Another concern arises with the thought of Zekrom's motivations: if it truly does have desires, would discovering them help Mott to find or defeat it? If he can pinpoint its motives, maybe he can predict where it will attack next, or defend against it better, or something. Anything. Anything to stop this from happening again.
But who is he to figure out some immortal, legendary being's desires?
Before he can voice his concerns to Lenny, a sound echoes through the streets. They both tense, shooting wary glances at each other. The sound clatters again, like someone shuffling through rubble. Mott's ears twitch toward it. It's coming from a nearby underground tunnel.
Shivers race down his spine and his hackles rise. One time, when they got spooked by some noises at night, Lenny made fun of Mott for having his fur stand on end like a giant ball of fluff. But now, Lenny is riddled with far too much fear to bother. Tapping his hands together anxiously, his eyes dart from Mott to the open maw of the underground tunnel. Steeling himself, Mott steps in front of Lenny and approaches the tunnel.
Slowly, cautiously, they creep toward the sounds. Every nerve in Mott's body fires in protest, screaming at him to grab Lenny's hand and run away. But something quieter in him tells him he has to check it out. What if it's dangerous? What if it goes after Ada and the teens?
Clang!
The sound is followed by a string of sharp curses.
His heart races, then stops, then does somersaults. It's not just noises down there, it's a person. A living, breathing person. A squatter? A bandit? A survivor? Whoever they are, they're wading through the rubble and growing closer and closer to Mott and Lenny with every passing second.
He only gets a half of a second to wonder if they should turn and hide before a head pops out of the tunnel.
Lenny screams.
Mott screams.
Torquil screams.
With that, a rush of flames burst from his childhood friend's neck, exploding involuntarily. Mott scrambles back, snatching Lenny just as the flames lick ever closer. Hastily, Mott releases a torrent of water to put out the flames.
"Torquil! Torquil, cut it out, it's Mott—er, Montgomery!" He shouts, dousing the flames. A single spark catches onto Lenny, flickering into a small flame instantly. Mott's heart leaps into his throat. "Torquil!"
As quickly as they came, the flames die out. When they settle, they reveal a much larger version of Torquil than he's used to. An emboar, not a pignite, cringes sheepishly at the fire he caused.
"Yikes," he winces, trying to stomp it out. "Still don't—have a—good control of this thing. Sorry, sorry, are you guys okay?"
Hastily, Lenny shakes his hand free of the embers. Mott glances at Lenny's hand. Only a small spot is burned, leaving it slightly red. He inspects it to ensure it's fine before exhaling a sigh of relief.
An irritatingly familiar voice comes from behind Torquil. "What, you hang around commonfolk, now?"
Mott glares as Florian, newly evolved into a serperior himself, slithers out from the tunnel. Rubbing the pendant around his neck, Florian gives him a disdainful once over. "And you haven't even evolved. That's disappointing."
"Isn't he cute?" Lenny coos, patting his head.
Mott sputters. "I'm not cute! And I'm working on evolving, okay?!"
Florian makes a sound that suggests he knows better. Then, his eyes slide warily to Lenny. "And who might you be?"
Lenny perks up, as if he hadn't nearly caught on fire and then gotten insulted by a snake. "I'm Lenny, it's awfully nice to meet you! Do you know Mott?"
Florian and Torquil stare at Lenny, uncomprehending. Torquil repeats, "Mott?"
"We grew up together. It's not that special," Mott explains, crossing his arms over his chest. To the two nobles, he asks, "Why are you here?"
"Well, my dad wanted me to survey the land around here, since it's up for bids," Torquil answers nonchalantly. Mott feels his blood run cold. "And Florian here is checking it out, too, to see if he wants to bid on it."
"I probably won't," Florian mutters, barely gazing at the area before fanning himself with his leafy tail. "That disgusting Lord Aldrich probably made a seedy mess of this place while he owned it."
"You guys are bidding on this place?" Mott demands, something churning inside him. "Why?"
Torquil regards him quizzically. "Why not? It's up for grabs and it's in a pretty profitable area. It would do any family a lot of good to nab it while they can."
"The city was just destroyed a few days ago. You can't even allow a grace period?"
Florian scoffs. "The world doesn't stop for sentiment, Montgomery. Case in point, your father already placed a bid."
Mott pauses.
"My father?"
"Hmm," is all he gets from Florian, and Torquil nods.
Father placed a bid on a city that just suffered a tremendous tragedy. Why? Why would he do that?
Lenny must notice his somber mood, because he puts a hand on his shoulder and quickly steers the conversation away from any more bidding talk.
"It's so nice to meet some old friends of Mott's! You gotta tell me all his embarrassing baby stories."
Wait.
"What," Mott utters.
Torquil perks up. "Do you wanna hear about the time he fell asleep in the prince's lap?"
Lenny grins and bounces on his feet. "Do I!"
Torquil, the damn snitch, prattles on and on about the mortifying event that still keeps him up at night. In his defense, he was four! And he didn't know that guy was the prince! He was tired and it was past his bedtime and, well, the throne looked comfy! When Torquil finally gets to the end of the story after countless pauses for laughter and tears, Mott releases a relieved breath, knowing he's reached the end of this torment.
Florian, acting disinterested by flicking some ash off his body, adds, "Don't forget the time he offered some candy to my diabetic aunt."
Mott groans as Torquil's laughter starts anew and the stories begin to pile on top of each other. Lenny does nothing to discourage the steady stream of content, either. In hindsight, he probably should've guessed that Torquil and Lenny would be fast friends. They're both jolly, honest people with sweet temperaments. They're a natural fit.
On the other hand, Florian couldn't be further from the opposite of Lenny. He's snobby and arrogant and rude, not matching Lenny's affable personality at all. But Mott knows Florian pretty well, and he knows Florian's soft spot is Torquil. Seeing Torquil laugh himself to tears brings a fleeting smile to Florian's face now and then. Mott likes to think that maybe, just maybe, the fact that Lenny can make Torquil laugh like that gives him a pretty good score in Florian's book.
Eventually, Florian turns to him and says, "So. Mott, is it? When did you start going by that?"
Mott opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn't have an answer. When did he start answering to that?
"Recently," he replies with a shrug. "It's less of a mouthful."
Florian only quirks a brow at him. "...I see." Then, after a moment: "You know I'm never calling you that, right?"
Mott can't help the snort that escapes him. "Yeah, I figured you wouldn't."
A smirk tugs on Florian's face. "Glad to see we still know each other."
Mott grins.
"So," Torquil says, finally calming himself down from whatever laughing fit he worked himself into, "what are you two doing here?"
"We heard Zekrom was this way," Lenny answers. "So we came looking and found this. Then a mother asked us to find the body of her child, so, here we are."
Florian tenses at the explanation Lenny gives. Then, he glares straight at Mott.
Aaaaand there goes their moment of nostalgic affection for each other.
"You can't be serious," Florian snaps, his tail thrashing outward like he wants to hit him. "You're still hunting Zekrom? When are you going to give that up?"
"When I beat Zekrom," he states, staring him straight in the eye. Florian's gaze sharpens.
Neither of them back down.
"O-hoh-kay," Torquil laughs uncomfortably, stepping between them like always. "Isn't it awesome that we all ran into each other? Like, what are the odds? We should hang out, for old time's sake. Mott, we'll help you find the kid you're looking for."
Lenny brightens up. "Really?"
"Really! It's the least we could do for an old friend, right Flor?"
Florian shoots a glare at Torquil for the nickname, and Torquil stutters a correction. Only then does Florian sigh, as if he's been put upon by some great wrong. "Fine. I suppose I have some time to waste."
True to his word, Torquil gets down to business almost immediately. His strength has only increased with his evolution, allowing him to pick up even the heaviest of wreckage that Lenny and Mott were forced to pass over. Having him around gives Mott hope that even if the body is trapped under a big slab of debris, they'll still be able to find it. However, when Torquil tells Mott to hop on a boulder twice their size and then lifts it over his head, Florian shrieks for him to put it down and for Mott to get down. Then he yells at him for being idiots; so, they don't do that again.
The only foreseeable asset to having Florian around is his ability to fit into tight spaces. Although Lenny and Mott are pretty capable of that, Florian's serpentine body takes it to a whole new level. He's been slithering through cracks of immovable buildings, searching areas that would otherwise be impossible to reach.
Although the work is still particularly taxing on Lenny, having two new friends to blabber on and on to seems to lift his spirits. He moves with more energy and enthusiasm than he has had all day, digging through debris quicker.
The grueling work doesn't necessarily go faster with four people, nor is it easier. But it's nicer. As much as Mott hates to admit it, it's nice having Torquil and Florian around. Lately, the only times he's been around them were in stuffy, aristocratic meetings like Florian's ascension. Places like that are chess boards laid with poison tipped traps, where everyone is holding their breath and waiting to catch you in a venomous checkmate. When they were young, they could hang out without worrying about reputation and politics and the threat of power moves. This is a lot like that.
It's pretty sad that searching for a corpse is the best bonding moment he's had with them in years.
They've been taking turns telling stories about their lives all day, and Mott was just about to turn to Lenny to tell him the time he and Torquil played some hilarious prank on Florian when a raging bellow disrupts the quiet.
Startled by the sudden sound, they spin around to face a darmanitan standing on a mountain of wreckage. The darmanitan clenches his massive hands and unclenches them, like his fingers are burning to strangle someone. His teeth gnash; his eyebrows furrow and rise erratically. Bloodshot, small-pupiled eyes glower at them from the darmanitan's sooted face. His fur is caked in grime and ash, his knuckles are spattered in dried blood. With such a frighteningly disheveled appearance, Mott isn't surprised that it takes him a moment to recognize the man.
"Ingram Aldrich?" He blurts, almost on reflex.
The city founder doesn't respond to his own name; there's barely a flicker of recognition in his rabid eyes. In all the meetings Mott ever had with the guy, he's never seen him like this. The man usually sported some sort of ruggedly handsome aesthetic, but right now, he looks downright deranged.
Florian arches a brown, unimpressed. "This is the guy you almost married?" Lenny sputters at the word 'married.'
Defensively, Mott retorts, "Look, he wasn't my favorite suitor!"
Mott expected his words to get a rise out of Aldrich, even in some small way. Maybe even hoped. But nothing flashes across his face. No newfound anger or offense at being insulted. It's as if he didn't even hear him. Does he even recognize Mott?
Before he can reintroduce himself and suggest Aldrich maybe take a seat, the man bellows, "You noble bastards, get off my land!"
"It's not your land, anymore," Florian asserts, eyes narrowing. Aldrich snarls; Florian's tail flicks with anticipation. "All your assets burned up when Zekrom attacked. This land is free real estate, now."
"It's my land!" Aldrich roars, his voice cracking likely from dehydration and desperation. "It's mine, I built it from the ground up with my own two hands, it's mine! You think you can just buy that? You think I'd let you?!"
The tension in the air has taken on a charge of its own, electric and stifling. There is something incredibly and irrevocably wrong with Alrdich—so wrong that even Mott, who barely knows the guy, can tell that whoever he used to be is long gone. The things this man has seen in the past few days can't be explained. Probably shouldn't be. His eyes still glint with the ravenous light of a city engulfed in flames.
Torquil, ever the mediator, steps forward. His arms are outstretched, pleasant and non-threatening. Still, the movement sets Aldrich on alert, like a taut and wary feral creature.
"Ingram," Torquil begins, "we don't want your—"
"Don't lie!" Aldrich shouts, striking out with a haphazard punch. Torquil quickly yet easily evades it, and the rash blow does nothing but shatter concrete. Aldrich doesn't seem put out by this; in fact, his eyes only smolder more strongly. "What else would three of the most prominent noble families be doing here?!"
Torquil swallows, because he got him on that one. With nothing to say, he allows Lenny to pipe up.
"Sir, I ain't no noble. I'm just a humble peasant from Wheatfield Village," Lenny assures, soft and slow. "I don't got no interest in buying your land, I only want to find a little boy—"
With reckless abandon, Aldrich swings a flaming fist at Lenny. Before the shout of surprise and warning even escapes Mott, Lenny lunges to the side and avoids the strike. Torquil blinks like he's still trying to figure out where Lenny went, and Florian looks grudgingly impressed by his speed. Unfortunately, Aldrich is not impressed; he only looks angrier. The fire around his fists spikes, encasing his hands in an uncontrolled blaze.
"You bastards," he seethes, the inferno building, "are all gonna die here!"
Mott is the first to clash with Aldrich, hoping to quell the rising flames before they become a major threat to Lenny. But he underestimated the power of his opponent and is sent flying into a nearby pile of rubble. Torquil charges him head-on, grappling with his strength and matching the flames with his own. Which might work if he wasn't literally trying to fight fire with fire. The extra heat only makes him sweat more for Lenny's sake, so he leaps to his feet and rejoins the fray.
With Torquil locked in combat with their foe, Mott can't use long-range water attacks without risking significant injury to Torquil. His only choice, then, is to close in and engage from a short distance. Brandishing his shells, he slashes at the back of Aldrich's legs and forces him to kneel. One leg goes down easy, but once Aldrich gets the idea, he stubbornly plants his remaining foot on the ground. Still, it gives Torquil enough of an advantage to loom over their opponent and gradually force him down.
Aldrich won't go down easy. He grits his teeth and spits and curses, but he refuses to buckle. No matter how many unrelenting slices and strikes Mott delivers, Aldrich remains unfazed. How is that possible? Mott knows he's not as strong as he could be, considering he hasn't evolved yet, but his type advantage over Aldrich plus his combination with Torquil should have proven itself victorious by now. Is he really that weak?
No. It takes him a moment to notice, but through Aldrich's thick, gritty fur, there's fresh blood seeping out. His attacks are doing damage, maybe too much damage, but Aldrich is too stubborn to admit defeat. What's motivating him to keep going?
Could it be… could it be that he's lashing out over the loss of his people? All the thousands of people that perished in his city—is it really so hard to believe that he might have felt some sort of parental fondness toward them?
Distracted, Mott isn't able to properly defend himself when Aldrich suddenly throws Torquil off himself and swings a fist his way. He's struck in the chest, the air ripped from his lungs, and he collides with the ground and skids to a painful, bloody halt. The world spins when he tries to get up, and his hand slips through the loose material on the street. Torquil is by his side, equally disoriented. Through hazy vision, he looks up to see Florian and Lenny entrenched in battle with Aldrich.
Florian, always underhanded and clever, slinks in the shadows behind Aldrich and strikes when the moment suits him. Whenever Aldrich whirls around and tries to grasp him, Florian darts away too quickly to lay a hand on. He's slippery and smart, slithering low to the ground and staying out of the fray. That means Lenny is taking him head-on.
Mott's heart races at the sight of Lenny and Aldrich interlocked in a furious brawl, each brutal movement punctuated by the sharp sounds of combat. Lenny evades every slam of his fist, every swing of his arm, and every sway of his body; and he returns each missed attack with a direct hit of his own. But his grass and bug moves don't do much good against a fiery behemoth like Aldrich, who smashes craters in the ground with every punch. All it does is serve to infuriate Aldrich, whose eyes burn targets into Lenny with every passing second.
Mott wants to yell at Florian to do something, to quit playing games and help Lenny, but it's too late. Aldrich inhales, deep and full, his stomach glowing like he's eaten a pound of hot coals. The murderous flicker in his eyes is the only warning given before he opens his mouth and unleashes a spewing discharge of flames.
The temperature of their surroundings spikes, the air becomes too hot to breathe. It's as if the sun pours from Aldrich's maw, merciless and scorching. Like a giant hand, the fire curves toward Lenny as if to grab him, licking flames like fingers inching ever closer. Lenny is fast. Very fast. But even as he steps back to try and avoid what's sure to be a fatal blow, Mott knows there's nowhere he can escape.
He shouts something. He's certain of that; he's not certain what he says. But before he knows it, he's off the ground, propelling himself toward the fight, no moves prepared, no plan in action, just him and the fire and smoke in his eyes and Lenny—
The blaze swirls around him like a firestorm. A raging tornado of flames rushes past him, roaring in his ears and roasting him alive. Every nerve in his body is raw, like it's been grated on by sandpaper; he smells the pungent scent of his own burning fur. Involuntarily, his arms curl in towards his chest, blocking the fire from his bandana.
Shocked exclamations barely make their way through to him, muffled. But one shout in particular reaches him.
"Mott!" Lenny cries.
Everything around him is bright, blinding. The light grows, too bright to be fire, too heavenly and white—is he dead? Is this what death looks like?
He doesn't feel pain, anymore. Maybe he really is dying.
But by the time the flames clear and reality returns to him, he's still on that ruined street in Sapphire City. The last of the fire disappears in small wisps, sparking away from his body. His bandana falls from his neck and flutters to the ground. All around him, he's met with the shocked expressions of people who are not much bigger than him, anymore.
"Stand down," Mott orders, looming over Aldrich in his new samurott form. The shadows he casts over the fire-type's stricken face are prominent and dark. "I won't ask twice."
Without a word or even a little dignity, Aldrich falls to the ground, his face slack and pale. Once Mott is convinced Aldrich isn't a threat anymore, he glances back to Lenny.
Lenny is also on the ground, staring up at Mott with a different type of shock. His eyes rush through a series of complicated, drastic emotions before settling on relief. "Mott," he utters, before jumping up and crashing into him.
Mott winces when Lenny hugs him, only to realize that his wounds are relatively minor. The burns hurt like hell in the moment, but it seems that they didn't end up doing much damage, after all. Peering down shows that he even managed to keep his bandana from getting burnt to a crisp. Even if he did lose it, for Lenny, he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
When Lenny releases him, he's beaming up at him. Scooping up Mott's bandana, he takes it around Mott's upper arm, which is nearly at Lenny's head level. Somewhat teasing and somewhat wistful, Lenny sighs, "It was nice being taller while it lasted."
Grinning, Mott lightly shoves him with his snout. Lenny giggles.
"Mott, that was badass!" Torquil laughs, clapping his back. Hard. Mott actually winces for real, this time. "You just got him to back off with a scary look and a few words!"
Florian fans some of the heat away from himself with his tail. "I've seen better," he sniffs, but looks sourly envious nonetheless. Before Mott can call him out on it, Florian faces Aldrich. "As for this one…"
Aldrich is still staring at Mott like he's waiting for him to lance him through the heart. Thinking back to all the death and devastation the guy has seen these past few days, Mott finds himself feeling a little guilty for letting the fight go on this far.
"Why did you attack us?" Mott asks, positioning himself in front of Lenny. "What was your motive?"
Aldrich still looks like he's about to pass out, and Florian scoffs, "Motive? What motive? He's a deranged lunatic who found a few people in his way. He attacked us simply because he could."
With that, a semblance of fight sparks back to life inside of Aldrich. "I attacked you because I want you off my land!"
"Because you thought we were disrespecting the people who passed here?" Mott wonders.
Aldrich makes a face like he's being absurd. "Who cares about that? This is my land, dammit, get off my land!"
Riled up, he makes another aborted motion to attack, ending prematurely by tripping over his own feet. Panting with his face in the asphalt and debris, Aldrich struggles to push himself back up. The heel of his hand slips in his own drool, and he gives up on standing, resigning himself to laying in the filth of the street.
It's a pitiful sight. Mott should be filled with pity. He should feel sympathy, but… he just feels angry.
"Your land? Your goddamn money?" Mott snarls, taking a step forward. Torquil holds a hand out to stop him, but he can't bottle up the words that are spilling out. "That's your motive? What about your people?"
He thinks of Bela back in Moressley Town, and how she gave up every scrap of wealth to protect her people. The welfare of her people motivated her to stand up to the mercenaries, it empowered her so greatly that she evolved. But this man, this monster…
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Mott demands, unable to contain the animosity in his voice. Torquil urges him back.
"A lot of things, why do you think I discouraged you from marrying him?" Florian quips like it's no big deal. Slithering in front of Aldrich, he looks down on the man and states, "Aldrich, the bidding for your land has already begun. There is nothing you can do to stop it."
With a piteous, pathetic wail, Aldrich covers his head with his hands.
"But there is something you can do to regain a smidgen of control. Accept my bid," Florian demands, his voice uncompromising and cold. "I will allow you to sign on to the lease as a lesser co-owner. You will never own this land again, but you don't have to see it go."
"It's my land!" Aldrich protests, his voice weak and snivelling. "I built it, it's mine!"
"The world doesn't have a place for your sentiments," Florian sharply snaps, icy as the tundra. "Accept my bid, or say goodbye to your precious land forever."
Aldrich curls in on himself, gripping his fur in his hands and weeping. "I… I accept…"
Florian doesn't even allow a moment to look pleased with himself, instead turning aside and rubbing his family pendant thoughtfully. Torquil watches him and frowns.
"Darn," he remarks, casually like someone might when they realize a shop is closed for the night. "My old man was really hoping to get this land. He's not gonna be too happy about this."
Mott's throat is dry.
The money.
The money? That's really what this whole thing was about? The money?
Not just for Aldrich, either. Florian and Torquil didn't come here to help anyone. They came here for the land. His head has been full these past few days, thinking about what motivates a person to do what they do—such as the case with the teenage delinquents bothering Ada. And Bela, being motivated to protect her people. And Agnes, being motivated to get medicine for her sick child. And Ada, being motivated to find her child.
All these people, whether their methods were right or not, had genuinely good motives. Even if the delinquents were wrong in their actions and Bela's methods of protection were a little misguided to begin, they were motivated by honest goals.
But when it comes to the rich people—the powerful people—how come they're motivations are so… wrong?
Mott puzzles over this in silence, glaring at the ground so hard that Torquil asks him if he's feeling well. He shakes his head but doesn't respond. He doesn't want to talk to him right now, not while he's confused over all of this.
He turns to Lenny to say something he'll never know, because right in that moment, he discovers—Lenny isn't there.
He turns to the left. To the right. To the left again, then he spins in a circle and ends up right back where he started.
Where's Lenny?
"Lenny?" He calls, anxious and worried.
No response.
"Lenny? Lenny!" He races forward to jump to the top of a pile of rubble. "Lenny! Guys, where's Lenny?!"
Florian releases his pendant and Torquil blinks at him. Aldrich is still in a heap on the ground. There's no Lenny with them.
Mott jumps off the pile, hurrying… somewhere. Supposedly. His mind is racing a mile a minute; his body acts without his permission. Lenny, Lenny—where's Lenny?!
"Find him!" He shouts, about ready to rip out his own fur. "Find him, find him now!"
Florian darts down a narrow pass and Torquil cups his hands around his mouth, bellowing, "Lenny!"
How did this happen? How did Mott lose him? How long has he been missing; does Mott even know when he vanished? Did something take him? Is he hurt? Worse?
"Lenny!" He yells, his voice cracking.
His call ricochets down the street, sounding hollow as it travels throughout the city. Keeping himself perfectly still, not even daring to breathe, he strains his hearing for a response. He's met with nothing but the despairing sound of his own echo.
But then, there's a noise.
It starts soft, at first. Then it grows. It's not much louder than the howling wind or the blowing dust; in fact, it's nearly drowned out by these small sounds. But Mott is searching for one thing and one thing only right now, and his ears have picked up on the sound of…
...Crying?
Mott leaps into action without a word, leaving Florian and Torquil to shout after him. He doesn't wait for them. He races through the street, heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, breath short. He slips once, his new legs uncoordinated and unfamiliar, but presses on.
Crying. That's Lenny, and he's crying.
He runs about a block before he arrives upon an open street on his right. The road is littered with the usual wreckage and destruction, along with a few smoldering fires here and there. But none of that matters to him, not when his eyes hone in on a lone leavanny kneeling in the middle of the street.
"Lenny," Mott exhales, relieved and worried in a new way. He hurries to him, leaning his head down beside his sobbing friend. "What's wrong? I was worried sick about…"
His eyes trail to Lenny's arms. More specifically, what's held in those arms.
A little audino boy, no more than ten, pale and dead.
"I really thought," Lenny begins, his voice a hoarse whisper, "I really thought he might still be alive."
Mott presses his snout against the side of Lenny's face and closes his eyes, unsure of what to do. There's nothing he can say that will fix this, so he doesn't say anything at all. He just rests against Lenny and hopes that helps him in some small way.
Florian and Torquil arrive soon after. He feels the horror in their gazes, and when he turns to look at them, Torquil is already bent over and retching on the ground. Florian doesn't take his eyes away from the boy, even though his face is ashen and sickly pale. It's as if he can't look away.
Lenny cries for a little longer. Then, Florian produces a sheet from his satchel and covers the boy with it.
"Come on," Mott says, soft and somber. "Let's get him back to Ada."
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?"
