Author Message: It's always fun to choose the avenues a kid show could never go down, even if the writers were to be subtle about it. If you like angst, you're about to have a heyday. Without further adieu, I present:
Home and the Wreckage
The celebration was deafening—laughter filled the air, and the scent of sweat and victory clung to the night. The battle had been brutal, but the ninja had won like always. Yet, amid the revelry, Cole felt distant from it all, going through the motions but not really connecting with the spirit of the occasion. He forced a smile, lifted a cup in hollow tribute, but it was like watching himself from afar, through a veil. The others were loud despite their exhaustion, their bodies battered but their spirits high. He couldn't adopt it. Not when his mind was still in the fight. As they finally deigned to rest, he slipped away.
Outside, the city lay in ruin. His boots struck against broken pavement, the sound stark in the silence left behind. Rubble swallowed sidewalks whole, twisted metal and shattered glass glinting under the crescent moon. He walked up the center of the warped road, feeling exposed beneath the empty sky where buildings once stood. Sweat dried cold against his skin, but the shiver that ran through him had little to do with the night's newly- unimpeded drafts.
Not so long ago, the city had been alive with constant movement, streetlamps casting their warm glow, neon lights blinking in the dark guiding people home. But now, everything lay abandoned. Cars were upturned, buses gutted, streets transformed into graves marked by uprooted concrete. Some vehicles were embedded in buildings where they had no right to be. Others had been crumpled or ripped open by the enemy. Wooden boards tapped haphazardly into store walls lay crooked against the ground along with the remains of the windows they had protected. The destruction stretched beyond sight, but worse than the wreckage was knowing what it meant.
He felt it. He always did, but now, more than ever.
He found himself among the relief crews, for the most part managing to keep a low profile—just a man sifting through wreckage, searching for the missing, the lost, and, more often than not, the dead. He rarely did this. Acknowledging the destruction in such a way meant inviting questions, attention he didn't want. But tonight, he couldn't turn away.
Reporters arrived, cameras flashing, finding him— to their surprise— when they believed he should have been celebrating. He avoided them. The volunteers, at least, understood. They saw the weight in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his eyes, and let him be. Many of them had been here before, at the breaking point where celebration felt like betrayal, where the reality of loss became impossible to put aside.
He worked in silence.
Later in the night, back at the monastery, Zane stirred, feeling that something was off. Where was Cole?
He turned on the news, suspecting the answer. Among the possible places to go, there were only two: home and the wreckage. There he was; amid shaky footage of relief efforts was Cole, face dirt-streaked, hands buried in debris, his face set in grim determination. Zane watched as a camera crew in the background attempted to approach him, only to be warded off by other volunteers who shook their heads disapprovingly, wagged fingers and stared them down in his defense. The cameraman sheepishly backed off before being inaudibly berated by his boss.
But Cole wasn't just helping out. Zane could tell he was pushing himself beyond reason, pulling his strength seemingly out of nowhere. This was the kind of exertion fueled by something deeper than obligation, something that consumed sleep and left nothing for the man.
Zane said nothing at first and only observed. Over the next few days, he watched Cole closely. Training resumed, but Cole's usual precision had dulled. It was subtle, easy to miss for most, but unmistakable to a nindroid. His strikes still carried force, but lacked something almost unquantifiable.
At first, Zane assumed it was physical exhaustion from the long nights spent at disaster sites. But even after the dead were accounted for and operations became less urgent, Cole's weariness remained— and the others came to discover it.
Cole had started rising early to join Lloyd and Wu for meditation— something unheard of. He had never been one for stillness, always favoring movement over quiet reflection. One morning, as they discussed the change, Lloyd admitted that while Cole had never been particularly skilled at meditation, this felt different. His lack of stillness wasn't just inexperience but something else. In fact, Lloyd had stopped meditating altogether because Cole's presence was too distracting, somewhat unsettling.
As they chatted over morning tea, they watched from afar as the Earth ninja sat in the quiet morning light, posture rigid, breath uneven, a bead of sweat clinging to his brow. When Zane asked about it, Lloyd hesitated.
"He told me he felt overwhelmed," he admitted, arms crossed as he leaned against the monastery railing. "Didn't say much else."
That was concerning enough.
So they watched.
Cole had begun spending more time alone, hunched over an old, leather-bound book; he held the thing gingerly as if he were afraid it would disintegrate in his palms. He had never been one for deep reading. But now, he sat in quiet corners, brow furrowed, eyes scanning the faded text as if searching for something vital. Something only he could find.
In training, his movements were off. His strikes landed harder than necessary, sharp with an edge that hadn't been there before. A miscalculated blow sent Jay sprawling across the courtyard with enough force to knock the wind out of him and knock concern into him.
"Dude, what was that?!" Jay snapped, clutching his side as he sat up.
Cole barely looked at him. "Sorry," he muttered, turning away before Jay could see the tension in his face, the way his jaw tightened.
Then there were his disappearances. He claimed he was going for a run, tugging a cap low over his face before dashing off as if that could make him unrecognizable. But Zane had tracked his path once—Cole wasn't running. He was returning to the ruins, walking to places where destruction lingered, where the air was still thick with loss. He stood among broken walls and scorched earth, staring at the wreckage as if he were waiting for it to speak to him.
Then there were the hushed conversations with Wu. Quiet, serious tones. The way their voices dropped whenever someone walked past or stopped altogether.
So that evening, as lanterns flickered in the courtyard, reflecting off of scuffed stone, Zane and Lloyd– and Jay who demanded to tag along— asked their master. The air smelled faintly of jasmine tea as the old man sipped from his cup, his expression forcibly neutral but his demeanor expectant and reserved.
Lloyd crossed his arms firmly, determined. "What's going on with Cole?"
Wu exhaled slowly, setting his cup aside. "It is not my place to answer."
"Come on, Master Wu," Jay pressed, his usual humor absent. "If he's in trouble, if there's something wr—"
"If you are concerned," Wu interrupted strictly, "tell him so. Regardless, a good team will adapt, even without complete understanding. Do not push him. But do not let him pull away either."
The words settled over them. Wu, as usual, answered indirectly, not with what was expected but with advice. It was often difficult to decode the cryptic meaning of Wu's words, but knowing him, the ninja at least recognized the implication. Something was very wrong, something sensitive and serious enough to warrant a lesson.
Zane and Lloyd knew Cole wouldn't be back for at least an hour. He had left again, in the middle of training, saying that he needed air—though they knew where he had gone; that he meant the opposite.
Lloyd glanced around the common area. "I still don't like this," he muttered. "Maybe we should follow Master Wu's advice and just ask him."
Zane, already scanning the room, answered without looking at him. "It is not ideal. But if this book is connected to his distress, understanding it may be necessary."
Lloyd sighed. "Yeah, yeah. I know. The last thing we want is to upset him, and knowing what's up could help us make the right decision on what to do… But still, it's wrong."
Cole's belongings were typically somewhat scattered, but the book was different. Since it had appeared, it was never left somewhere carelessly, never set down unless it was back in its designated spot. Zane reached it first, fingers brushing over the worn cover. The spine was cracked from years of use and as he flipped the covers open, the leather folded over neatly instead of noisily twisting against itself. Despite being such a simple item, it seemed to demand a sort of reverence.
Lloyd shifted uneasily. "Okay, quick look. Then we put it back exactly how we found it."
Zane turned the page. They were yellowed, smudged with grey dust. The handwriting was deliberate, the pencil lead carved so deeply into the paper that at first the ninja thought it must have been from a pen. Upon realizing that the writing glinted in the light, Zane noted that the pencil strokes were powerful, yes, but not angry. A product of style rather than emotion— at first, at least.
"This isn't Cole's handwriting," Lloyd murmured.
"It seems the journal belongs to someone else."
They turned to the end, then paused.
In the middle, a passage stood out, written lighter and quicker like an important afterthought. This page was undated, and the pages beyond it were blank with the exception of the page adjacent, one that seemed to have had droplets of something spilled and since dried. It read:
"The power of the Earth is not merely strength, my son. It is a connection— The most terrifying and important connection that exists. To wield it is to bear the weight of all. You do not simply control stone and soil—you feel the Earth move, you work with the Earth, and one day you become it. The past lingers beneath you, whispering. The future changes with your every move. This power does not belong to you—it belongs to the world."
Lloyd swallowed and met Zane's gaze. "This was written by his mother."
Zane closed the book gently, a look of puzzlement spread across his face.
"He misses her," Lloyd said softly. And reading Zane, he voiced their mutual confusion: "...I understand that. But why is it so bad right now?"
"I do not know. Perhaps receiving this journal was the incentive."
There was a moment of silence. Zane glanced at the door, calculating the probability of Cole returning soon, and Lloyd spoke up: "Well, we snooped like you suggested. What do we do now?"
Zane sighed, resigned. "We follow Master Wu's advice. We wait. We watch. He will either tell us when the time is right or heal on his own, and if neither of those things happen— then we step in. For the time being, we give him leeway."
Lloyd nodded, but the unease in his chest didn't fade. Cole had been carrying this weight— the weight of the world— alone.
Cole knew they had been watching. He always knew. Their stolen glances, their own hushed conversations to mirror his own with Wu—none of it escaped him anymore than he escaped them. So when he reached the doors of the monastery to see Zane sitting on the steps, waiting for him to return from his morning "run," unmoving in the pale light of dawn, he wasn't surprised. He was just exhausted, and to some miniscule degree, relieved that the game that had been made of this situation was finally coming to a close.
Zane didn't speak or inquire. He watched and waited, his expression idle. But that was the thing about Zane—he never needed to pry. His presence alone was enough to suggest meaningful conversation, to pull the truth from someone.
Cole sat beside him, staring out at the mist-covered mountains beyond the monastery. "You want answers." The jolt of realization as he had noticed Zane's still figure had left his heart beating fast, his voice hoarse. "Fine. You'll get them."
He told Zane everything. How the earth whispered to him—not in comfort, but in warning. How it had felt before, back when he was a ghost, when he had hovered between life and death. Back then, he had thought it was a part of being dead to sense other ghosts and to know when someone 'became the Earth.'
"But this time, there's no reason for it," he murmured. "I'm alive. I shouldn't be able to sense death— not this strongly."
Zane's gaze was unflinching. He waited.
Cole swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I asked Wu about it but he didn't know a thing, so I went to my dad and asked for the journal. She left it to me but told my dad to keep it until I was 'able to understand.' I didn't know what to expect from it, but it wasn't…" Cole trailed off, gripping the edge hard enough to warp the wooden step, his knuckles white and face pale.
Zane continued to listen. He waited. Lloyd glanced out the window, froze, and then walked away before he was seen. "My mom felt the same thing. Over time, it became stronger. She felt herself slipping into the darkness, felt herself becoming something else, the very thing she had learned to control." He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "When she got sick, she finally understood. And when she couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stand feeling her decline so vividly, she gave up her powers, deciding to go peacefully."
He released his grasp, instead endeavoring to stare at the ground as the sun bounced off the distant snowy peaks.
"Her powers aren't connected to what killed her. If it was, then she wouldn't have given the Earth to me, but I think I also inherited whatever she had." The admission came out hollow, like the words had been scraped from the pit of his stomach. "She died young, and I'm not far from that age." His voice dropped lower. "Everything she wrote in that journal— I mean everything— it's happening to me right now. And I've been rereading it hoping that I'm wrong, because… if I'm right… is it inevitable? Am I…?"
Silence hung between them, thick and suffocating.
Zane remained still, processing, his face impassive. Cole didn't need empty reassurances. He didn't need meaningless words about how it would be okay. He just needed someone to hear him.
He let out a bitter chuckle. "I thought that if I figured it out myself, I wouldn't have to tell anyone. Wouldn't have to accept reality. But…" His voice wavered, and he stared down at his hands. They looked steady, but they seemed fragile, a castle wall on the verge of crumbling. "I'm supposed to be the strong one. But foundations crack too. I don't really know how to deal with that."
For a long moment, Zane still said nothing. Then, with quiet certainty, he reached out, placing a firm hand on Cole's shoulder.
"Then let us be your support," he said, his voice unwavering. "As you have always been ours."
Cole exhaled sharply, something in his chest unclenching. It wasn't an answer. It wasn't a cure. But it was something. And now, he wasn't alone.