Scorched
He tugs her hand, and she steps nervously off the train into the bright light of Central, shielding her eyes, wishing she had thought to bring a sunhat. It is both windier and more crowded than she remembers, and she is careful to hold her light summer dress down with her free hand as he leads her through the pressing masses of people. They all seem so busy, she says as she passes them, like they can't wait to be somewhere.
He smiles. It's always like this, he tells her. Central is a place that everyone either desperately wants to travel to or is restless to leave, but where nobody is happy to remain.
I've been here before, you know, she says impatiently.
But all the same, she didn't remember how seething the place is, and she winces as yet another blue uniform knocks blithely into her.
He sees how uncomfortable she is, and leads her hastily towards the exit, only pausing to make the transfer of the singular hat they have with them from his head to hers. Soon they stand blinking in the open air, scorched and buffeted, taking a moment to cool off and observe the capital before they continue.
He takes her hand again and they set off once more, keeping to the cool, dappled puddles of shade cast by the trees and the white square buildings.
She allows herself to be led, gazing all around. Even though she has visited Central before, it still manages to knock the breath out of her with all its unadulterated life and harsh vibrancy, especially now, after everything has been shaken up. Even the heat is somehow different here. Back in Risembool it is just as hot, but the heat is slow and lazy, and clouds creep lethargically across the sky in a half-hearted attempt to block it, and the sunlight is thick and dense and streams sluggishly through the branches of the trees to land heavily, almost apologetically, on one's skin, and drag out the sweat so that it drips doggedly from every pore, coating everything in a salty liquid sheen. Here, the heat slices like a razor down through the cloudless sky from the full blinding furnace of the sun, and blasts directly into one's face in a pure colourless frenzy, and the relentless wind whips the moisture away from one's throat and skin, and the air is frantic and stifling, and dry as a bone; and heat is visible, and it is white, and it glances off every surface, relentless and intense.
He stops suddenly, and she is startled, for there is nothing especially noticeable about this part of the city surrounding them. There, he says.
She looks, and doesn't know where he means.
Right there, he insists, and he points. That's where.
She doesn't understand, because the building is just the same as all of the others, nothing important, how could something incredible have happened here?
You shouldn't go inside, he tells her, but she continues as if she hasn't heard, ducking under the tape barrier and entering the building in one swift movement. After a moment he follows, and joins her inside, where the air is still and dark and breathless, and the sudden change in temperature raises chilled goose bumps on their skin.
She advances fearlessly, runs her fingers over the countless patterns on the walls and floor, and imagines the blue light bursting from them, the leap and spark of crackling energy alive in the air, the two of them bracing the centre of the storm of equivalence. He stands near the doorway and watches her in silence.
And then she walks back over to him and takes his hand again, the warmth of her palm shocking against the brutal atmosphere in this place. Thank you for showing me, she says.