The pouring rain continued. Roars of thunder and spears of lightning flashed for second's notices, drumming the sky into an eternal blaze of storm. Eric's silhouette lay imprisoned by the rain, the drops plummeting him wildly, crazily as if they had chosen him as a specific target, an enemy that had all ready been taken down. Engorgement of clouds were never ending, never solving as they shouted white and golden flashes of paradise, and cried infinite tears of lost love, angelic cinders. The trees swayed helplessly, heaping their burdens to the floor, for their charred, blistered hands could not carry anymore, could not support anymore.
"Eric!" Teresa shouted one last, drowned cry. The raindrops fell distortedly around her and Walter, sliding off the transparent surface of the dome, as if the two were repellant to the rain itself. The boy on the ground stirred just a bit; it was enough to light up Teresa's eyes once more. The darkened canvas of sky and lightless cloud continued vomit sickening splashes of water, filling the air with moist and fade, dyeing the scenery grim and weary. There were no pointless efforts to elude the rain, no foolish tries of escaping it. Everyone was trapped in it, as well as everything. Air was beginning to run short; it had been for a while. Teresa could feel the air seep away from her lungs, as if slowly being dragged out by invisible, miniature hands pulling her life out from a rope that lead inside her, into her world of troubles and aching that had slowly been healing, thankfully, past time.
"Don't waste time!" an obscure voice shouted from a certain distance away. Heads turned. A silhouette pushed his way through the trees and grass and rain, quickly with blurring speed, and bringing himself before the three teammates helpless in condition. It was Rick who, so unexpectedly, come from nowhere, for he had been watching from the trees waiting for the perfect time to make sure White Cloak was no longer around the area. He strung Eric's arm around his shoulders and brought the weakened body up. The grayed air darkened his once vermillion eyes and dark-gold hair.
Rick? Teresa thought to herself in shock, careful not to waste the small, few breaths she had left in her. "We have to get him out of here," Rick turned to the two Minors. They said nothing; they waited. Rick examined the area around them while clearing his throat. He knew of the danger they were in; he tried to figure a way to get them out. A time limit fell over him, adding a bit of stress, but he would learn to cope. He continued to think hard, face narrowed in a structure as if it would help the process.
From far away, Marissa watched, cautious. She wanted to help, she wanted to rush to Rick and help him find a way to get the two Minors out. But she couldn't. And she didn't know why. Her legs refused to move; something inside her told her that if she dared to move a finger, she'd get in the way. She was of no use. And she dared to live a finger anyway; she already felt the pain shuffle her of inside. She felt at unease. All she could do was remain safe and act as a burden under the green umbrella of trees, and touch the bark of one ever so delicately, so angelically. Her soft touch seemed so easy over the cragged wood. She was surrounded by the protection of plant, the unmoving, uncaring crowd of tall, stark and once lush trees. She always seemed to be. "Rick…" she softly whispered his name to herself, as if wanting to shout it, to call out to him with it. But she couldn't. It was like doing so would make her become a nuisance as well. However, wasn't the true nuisance the one that didn't try to do anything at all? She didn't know. She just remained still, unacknowledged.
Rick took a cold, frigid breath. The rain had gotten to the air now; it had dominated the land. He protruded a hand forward, felt for the walls of the dome; it seemed to be so surrealistic, fantasized, almost to feel something that wasn't there. He had to make sure of himself that he was indeed not hallucinating. His fingers seemed dangerous; they crackled at the touch of each rain drop, buzzing shortly, instantaneously so that it could not have been seen by the normal rate of eyesight. Then, brushing against the hemisphere ever so slightly, the whole thing crackled in blue-yellow streaks of lightning. It began to react; it began to fall apart. The rain's repel towards the two Minors encased in the dome was no longer effective; Teresa and Walter were now free to breathe. Walter, of course, was indifferent of the fact.
Teresa felt the cool air jump into her lungs as she took a deep, elongated breath. She closed her eyes from the joy, thinking, wondering somewhat of the relief she was receiving. She had wanted to live after all. The rain, the cool, icy rain… it made her feel together again, alive, like she had never left the world for just a moment's second. Her relaxed arms fell back to her side as she was permissive towards the intake of rain all over her; she liked to feel it, she wanted to feel it. She began to get it all on her; her arms felt it, her legs felt it, her whole, entire body felt it, and her hair felt it, too. Freedom at last; no one would be dying. "What're you doing here?" she asked Rick, not too shabbily.
Rick laughed, his hair beginning to soak in the rain and moist air. "We finished early," was all he said, smiling widely.
It was soon morning. Everyone knew so. However, that did not stop all the Minors from resting just the same as if it were one in the morning. Many had all ready gone to sleep; others were being treated for their wounds, slowly, one by one. So, that morning, Marissa lay in bed. She could still hear the pouring rain, the helpless rein of lost hopes falling over the land, drenching it in burden, in sadness, pouring sadly and sympathetically to the ground, for they had no place else to go. She could still hear it, in her mind, somewhat, as she lay in bed, thinking, staring at the ceiling.
The room was dark, inevitably. Corners had been washed away with the weathering of dark, the presence of misplacement of light. There seemed to be infinite space here, where Marissa saw or sensed no boundaries. So why, then, did she feel so encased, so unable to move, or do anything for that matter? Why did she feel so constricted, so restrained to her only option as to wait, and watch? It didn't make sense to her, and she sighed at the fact, wishing she did. Slowly, she took it piece by piece, knowing it was too dangerous to go about the problem all at once until you no longer understood the details of it, and you could no longer succeed in solving it. That's how it worked.
She had not cared to pull the covers over her; she laid on top of them, feeling their wrinkled coolness against her skin, their soft coverlet fabric warming her ever so slightly, so inefficiently. Her hair had been dried for the most part; her blue eyes were dull against the darkness. They could not pierce it. She lay unmoving, still of motionless energy, the only thing active inside her being thoughts, waves, currents of them rushing onto her shore so randomly, so indiscriminately with the game of chance from the far away shores past her horizon, where the thoughts generated from. They continued to spew at her sand shore, and drag more of her shoreline sand into the ocean of thoughts, bringing the gathered sediment back down, so that it could become something else, something more, more than she'll ever become, she knew. Not even a finger was lifted; not even a toe was moving. She made no effort to breathe; she barely even noticed it.
Today… she thought depressingly, sadly for herself. Nothing happened… she told herself. No, not nothing. Something did happen, she thought. Lots of things happened, actually, she corrected herself. It was me. It was I who didn't happen. I couldn't make a difference, she told herself scoldingly. She looked to the ceiling for answers; she swam in the darkness above for a long time. No answers, no concretion was found in the sea of unorganized murk, misplaced shadows. There was nothing solid, nothing real she could touch, feel, examine. There was nothing to make sure of her that something in her life wasn't the way she thought it was. Was it simply because she couldn't find them; she was just simply not trying hard enough? Or was it because there was nothing to find? There was no firm surface to stand on, no existing, physical object to feel for comfort. She continued to stare, hair strung into a mess, dominating the pillow and bed with its somewhat remaining moisture.
I couldn't make a difference, she told herself once more. Or… was it that I could have made a difference…? She questioned herself once more. Maybe I just felt as if I'd get in the way. Has my use… withered away? She asked the ceiling wall. Nothing; no answer at all, not even the slightest movement of humanity in there, lurking in the sky of emptiness before her eyes. The slightest hints of orange wall plaster showed their reality. She no longer wanted to accept reality for what it was. Am I really going to be… the first petal…? She asked herself. Slowly, she lifted a hand; delicately, she placed it on the nightstand beside her, feeling the cool, calm surface of the wood, the empty smoothness so refreshing to her, so vacant to her, unsaturated to the most negative point. Yeah…I am… she was able to answer her own question for once. Sorry, Eric… she thought sadly; she reeled in the tears back into the depths of her unknowing. I'm just a single petal of a flower… that doesn't attract sunlight. Sorry.
And Rick… she thought. When did you get so far past me…? She remembered him for a second; his now teenage shoulders that weren't too broad to be suspicious of, and not too thin and withdrawn to be appalling. She imagined him, his back turned to her, walking away, slowly, as she, too walked at the same pace; they never seemed to get closer. Not anymore. He just seemed to far away now, not the status she had considered him to be in the past. Now, she could not even catch a glimpse of his face; she could not see him. She could not come past him. He was ahead of her. That was fact.
She looked to the walls. They seemed distant as well; too far away from reach. Then, she imaged the small, tiny, fragile little boy she used to know him as, that tiny blonde child sitting in the patch of whispering, tickling grass, arms hugging each other in loneliness. Then, he picked up his head, and turned to look at her. That lonesome frown turned to a smile. Marissa returned to her reality norm. She did not want to accept it. She did not want to call this reality… reality. And so, she fell asleep; her eyes fluttered downward, darkness dominated her vision. Now, she became rested with slumber, silent with siesta, hoping that when she was to return, when those pure, sad and innocent azure eyes were to revisit, they would no longer meet the distant walls of the room, the thick reality of ceiling and dream.
PoVS
The room seemed formal; stiff with intention. The air was scolding, mean, strict, sharp. The entire space was lit up brightly with the rectangular ceiling lights that seemed to cling on to the wall, and pour out their threats of luminous sight, only to provide with benefits in the unpredictable end. There was barely any noise; just work. No fun, nor was there fun wanted, or intended. This was serious, and while the room was so small and so miniscule compared to a proper size, the four would just have to deal with it. They would have to cope; it was the simplest thing to do out of all the things they had to do.
Kahibi Eric watched as a pair of dark eyes wandered about his body, sleuthing him, searching him eerily. He waited, not so tensely, but indifferently. He was not self-conscious, nor did he seem he was. The eyes scanned him vigilantly, secretly as if just by doing so, the person would gather all the information of the world, including the truth of life. However, the eyes remained uninterested. A shifting of glasses brought reflective light. Eric waited for a word; just a single word would be fine. Then, he became intolerant, for he had been waiting there, shirtless and ready for observation. Though such a thing was of no significance to him. "How bad is it?" he asked, taking matters into his own hands.
Shintenmaru sighed, and got up. He stared over the Minor before him, sitting at the edge of the bed, staring back at him from below and into his eyes, trying to search and gouge out the answer himself, without the necessity of speech, of hearing and listening. Shintenmaru cleared his throat, squinting his eyes for a moment's notice. What was with him? He seemed tired. Strange. "Well," he began painstakingly. "You really shouldn't have been up in the first place, but…" he let his voice trail off. Eric waited for the bat; he narrowed his eyes a bit, bending his mouth a bit as well to bore his expression, to show the intolerance for pauses. "You'll be fine," Shintenmaru answered finally. "Your links are still a little damaged, but they should heal over time; you should be fully recovered once you get a good day's rest." Eric nodded thankfully. "Don't get up until I visit you later in the day, supposedly around late afternoon, okay?"
Eric nodded once more. "Thanks," he showed his gratitude, smiling with comforted eyes. The boy picked himself up and brought himself to bed, bringing the covers over him and sighing with exasperation. The coverlet was cool and comforting over his unclothed waist-up. Only one thing remained clothed up there. His bandanna. He never seemed to take it off; it was like a treasure to him of some sort.
"Daniel," Shintenmaru called to the fellow redhead as Eric put himself to bed. "How's he doing?" he asked, listening to the steady hum of recovery nearby. His eyes jotted to the right side of the room, where Zack sat on a stool and shirt disconnected with Daniel crouching before him and running his fingers over the wound right below his neck. The soft, white glow of curing seemed dull even in this silence of room. The blood had stopped leaking.
"Great," Daniel told both Shintenmaru and Zack. The Minor seemed completely comfortable right now; the stressful night had worn out all his hyperactive being. Daniel turned his focus on Zack. "You were hurt pretty directly, though," he told Zack.
"How'd you get it?" Shintenmaru asked swiftly, as if the way he had gotten hurt was of guilt, illegalness and against accepted standards.
Zack seemed to hold back the answer a bit in his mouth; he wondered why he wanted to know. The boy stared into Shintenmaru's eyes and prepared to answer, that dark stare practically drawing it out of him. "Well, um…" he tried to make up an answer. Nothing came to mind. He was just too sleepy for it, and the warm feeling of his wound healing brought him even more drowse than he had already held as a burden to thoughts.
"Protecting someone else, huh?" Daniel guessed, smiling. Zack turned to the Minor quickly, blinking. He was right! How did he know? He couldn't be that smart, Zack figured. Daniel brought a noticeable smirk to his face. "That's understandable. Eric gets those wounds all the time," he told Zack. The boy smiled back.
"Well, then, if that's that," Shintenmaru sighed from tiredness. "I guess I'll be going," he exhaled from exhaust and turned towards the door.
Daniel seemed surprise at the sudden leave. "Yeah; okay," he agreed with him. Shintenmaru nodded his respects for them, something he wouldn't have done before the whole thing with White Cloak just recently, and started towards the door.
"Wait," Zack called to Shintenmaru. The Council obeyed.
The man turned to face Zack with a curious stare. The boy stared deep into him. "Is White Cloak still…here?" he asked tensely. Shintenmaru gulped at the question.
He began to answer when just then – "Yeah, is he? We still don't know…" Eric's voice suddenly appeared from his place on the bed. It was muffled, choked a bit by the covers. "We fought him; at some point or another he just disappeared on his own. What if he's still -?"
This time, he was cut off. "No," Shintenmaru bluntly interrupted. Eric's eyes widened in shock secretly. "Impossible. He left," he assured without turning back. "He has no reason to stay in our dimension anymore. After what Eric said had happened, I'm sure of it." Zack, Eric, and even Daniel seemed stumped. "You may not understand, but don't worry about it. I know. He's definitely no longer here. Especially when his goal is Utopia, and not us. He doesn't have the right power at the moment to come after us. It'd be foolish of him to make a decision that unsorted after five hundred years of abscond."
The three still seemed confused. Shintenmaru waited for their answer; they could tell from the tension being released from his muscles. "Okay," Zack murmured. Shintenmaru said nothing more, and began clicking towards the door once again. Daniel sighed; Eric remained quiet. Things seemed mixed, tense, and unsure. Shintenmaru stepped out and into the dark hallway seconds later. He took a deep, thick breath of air and exhaled it out rather quickly, trying to calm himself as he stood against the now closed door that had ended with a click. He now kept his hands tightly gripped on the golden doorknob that was murky with shadow, rusty with darkness. He didn't want to let go of it. He didn't want to release himself from the cold, cool gold that made him relax ever so slightly, even if only a little. He sighed once more, and brought a hand to his eyes to fix his glasses. They glimmered in the absent light. Then, he took his leave, and gulped as he started towards the end of the hallway, his hands finally leaving the doorknob and its warm print of evidence to cool back to a relaxation station waiting to be used once again.
PoVS
Walter waited in bed, sore. He sat up, fair temperature air all around him, barely comforting. He disregarded things that came his way. He turned his head to that solitary desk at the end of the room; it held nothing but a notebook full of thoughts, of memories. He sighed, wanting to write more, but restrained himself from doing so. He didn't want to write… but he wanted to write. It didn't make sense to him. And this kind of feeling, this kind of state of mind was unnatural for his personality, and so, as a result, he became even more insane over it. His arm was sore; he seeped a sharp, sudden air because of it.
He rolled up his short sleeves and looked at it, all bandaged up by Daniel, when he had not even asked or requested it to be fixed. He had even healed the wound; all Daniel said was to just leave it alone; it was a minor cut. So why didn't it feel like a minor cut? Walter remembered how he got it; White Cloak had sliced him once with it while they had been fighting. Then, the memory of the experience brought back memories of White Cloak, and memories of White Cloak brought back images. Dying images. Hellish images. He strained on the bed, seeping in cool air and bringing his hands to his head, an enormous pain of mentality coming his way as the noir images flashed about in his mind like a slideshow that showed each picture intensely. It was like just seeing that picture was poisonous.
"Go… drench yourself… wash away… pain…"
Walter remembered faded words of White Cloak.
"Join… me… power… no gain from here…"
And Walter had rejected him. And he was a thousand times positive that he had made the right decision. "No!" Walter remembered crying out in bravery. There was no chance in heaven or hell, life or death that Walter would ever, ever go to that bastard for help.
"Utopia… goals… revenge… you!"
Walter cried out once again. That was it. He couldn't take it anymore. He got up from the bed with a jump and took the notebook from the desk with a swipe of his hand. Shuddering, he looked at it, watching it, watching the pages quiver at his trembling hands, his unstable hold. His teeth tightly ground each other, and his eyes seemed unsteady in their sockets. He hesitated. It was a first. He gulped from fear, from nervousness. It was a first as well. Now, having done three new things to his life, he became fed up. He had no choice. He loosened his grip, and threw the notebook into the trash can. The ruffle of plastic against the heavy, thick weight of the book landed with a horrid thud.
And Walter was left, unable to move, unable to breathe steadily, to catch his own breath. His mouth remained open, for he could not gain enough to breathe; his legs refused to move. His mind… it pulsed throughout him. He thought he would gain a sense of completion by throwing that book away. He thought he would feel good. He didn't. And he cursed at life for that. He spat at that. Throwing out that piece of crap only brought me a tiny bit satisfaction, Walter thought to himself. Why!? Why?
Why?