Impatience and tension stretches over the whole house and its bunker like a spider’s web, taut. One movement from anyone and the others are aware — there’s no privacy, really. So when it comes time to “train” ( or so Laika puts in, grinning wide and wry ) there’s a bit of an audience.

In the backyard, with the moon shining like a threat overhead, Camille feels both stupid and lost all at once. Confused. Yet more impatience.

“So …” Mikael goes to break the silence, “My thinking is, like, maybe fighting and bad situations would bring out that kinda power in us?”

“What, like we gotta spar in order to learn how to throw fireballs?” Namir sighs. “Awesome.”

“It’s more likely than anything else.” Hyacinth says. “We’re not going to learn how to throw fireballs just by sitting around and wishing for it.”

“All right. Fine.” Namir trudges over to Laika, and then moves quickly — taking their bowie knife out of its holster and gripping it hard, “If I kill one of you, you’ll just come back. Right?”

“I don’t think so.” Camille says nervously, not sure how she feels with a volatile man holding a knife. That’s just a surface feeling, however; the rest of her is at war with that top-feeling, like she knows in the pit of her he would never hurt a comrade.

Yet still, he moves at the nearest — Zephyr. Zephyr is quick and apparently experienced; when Namir makes to stab at him with the knife, he deflects the blow and twists Namir’s arm behind his back.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, “Let up, let up. I wasn’t serious.”

“Then get serious. You’re not gonna land a hit if you’re all telegraphed like that, not on me.” Zephyr says lowly, and Camille wonders just what this guy’s story is. She says nothing. The crowd, however, whistles and even applauds a bit.

“Whew. Maybe Zeph can lead for now.” Laika says, “Break into pairs and see how you do. I’d like my knife back, though.”

Zephyr lets Namir’s arm go; he moves away enough to rub at his shoulder, then hands the weapon back to Laika.

“And — hey, Rage and Diligence. Split up for once.” Laika says, before they turn and go to sit on the ground a couple yards away. Gideon looks annoyed, but then turns to face Namir.

“C’mon, skinny boy. Get me mad.”

Camille pays no more attention to them when Zephyr approaches her. His smile is small, but warm, as though that display of skill and daring didn’t just happen. She looks up at him, offering another smile in return.

“You mind pairing up? At the very least I can teach you some self-defense.” his tone turns a bit sheepish, “Even if I can’t teach you how to throw fireballs.”

She giggles a little despite herself, “Sure. Let’s see what we can do.”

-

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

So they go about it for what feels like hours; but time is strange here. So who knows how long it’s really been? Who knows if the watches are reliable? Camille quite simply drops down onto the soft grass out of exhaustion, though Zephyr still seems ready to go, covered in sweat or not.

He reaches a hand down, and when she takes it to stand to full mast, the others seem just as tired and worn. Namir and Gideon support each other, arms around waists and shoulders, but they don’t seem particularly happy about it.

Hyacinth and Mikael have huge grins on their faces, clearly laughing at something private.

Hardly productive.

Camille had asked Zephyr what exactly his background was, to teach him to fight like that. His laughter was rich at the question.

“Paranoia leads you to weird shit.” he said, as though the sentiment isn’t worrying at best, “Y’know, when you’re holed up in your apartment and unable to leave. Learning self defense does wonders for feeling like people are going to take you … Take you away.”

His voice turned down in volume considerably at the last bit of his statement, and she wanted to ask, but it also seemed like a dangerous question. She swallowed it down like bile, where it sat uncomfortably in her gut …

They’re scattered about the house and bunker, then, taking some time to reflect or smoke or avoid the prospect of having to learn this on their own entirely. Camille, however, thinks about her family. She can’t quite recall the faces of her parents, but she does see clearly the smiles of her siblings, bright like beacons.

She imagines them there, sleeping-but-not, consumed by Ink. Their futures tenuous, when they should be so filled with promise. Will they be melted away, or eaten, or —

Feeling like she’s about to throw up, she rushes towards the nearest trashcan and gags. Zephyr, having just parted the curtain, looks her over and frowns.

“Need some water?” he asks.

“Yeah,”

“Hold on.”

He leaves to go grab some, and in his absence she finds that her gagging is unproductive, just a strong need that will never be slaked.

Not until she finds them all.

Zephyr comes back with a bottle, and she takes it with thanks. Half the bottle is drunk up in one go, and she caps the thing with a heavy breath. An understanding look — crossed with concern — is written all across Zephyr’s face, his countenance.

He doesn’t ask.

“Why don’t you sit with me.” he suggests, pointing to the chairs behind them, “You can tell me about ‘em or we can talk about something else.”

She blinks at him, frozen.

“How’d you know what I was thinking about?”

He shifts his weight over one hip, looking up at the ceiling, “I have a little sister, too. Littler than Gideon. She’s my life as much as Gids is.

“Her name is Nina.” he says.

That’s curious, too. Camille isn’t sure what she wants to do, but she takes the seat anyway; does she avoid the thought of them? Does she indulge, at the risk of hurting herself even more?

After some silence, seated there next to Zephyr, she speaks up.

“They’re good kids.” she says, “Artina called me Milly, but Oph and James called me Mimi. They were … Are,”

She says the last word with finality, eyes screwing shut, “They’re my life too. Even if I can’t remember everything about ‘em.”

“What do you remember?” he asks, “It was painful remembering Neens too. I …” there’s something there in the back of his throat he won’t speak, so he shakes his head, “Yeah. It’s a lot.”

“I remember James was into art. I took him to a museum once and he was hooked, said he wanted to paint too.

“So … He … He went through sketchbooks like it was nothing. Watercolors and pastels and chalk. I think he wanted to try spraypaint but, y’know, he’s young.” she laughs lightly, “Ophelia was just really clingy. Cuddly. She always wanted my attention. Really smart, too. One time she used the word ‘distraught’ and I had to laugh — she was five at the time, you know?”

Zephyr laughs too, “They sound like good kids. What about Artina?”

“She’s the smallest. She’s the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet.” Camille takes a sip of the water, swallows down the tears for at least a moment, “She’d take out things I cooked or baked for the neighborhood kids. She just …”

Here she breaks down into tears, holding one hand over her eyes, “She just wanted to be nice to everyone.”

“We’ll find ‘em.” Zephyr says quietly, and maybe it’s platitudinous, but it’s welcome all the same. From him, it feels genuine. Strong and steeled. “We’ll figure it out.”

Her sobs wrack her for moments that feel much longer than they are.

She takes a drink of water again, polishing off the bottle. Feeling foggy and tired, Camille sits back in her chair. Breathes in, then out. Her eyes slip shut.

“Maybe you should sleep.” he says, sitting back to stretch. “You seem exhausted.”

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to get back to it.” she sniffs, smiles a little. “Sun won’t rise on its own again.”

She wants to say, we won’t find our families just sitting here, either. But the statement hangs between them unspoken. He grins, nods.

“Heh. Yeah. Let’s go.”