imperfection [1/1]
she's one of them, whether she wants to be or not. [cynthia, cyrus]
pokemon; drama; pg13; 2700 words
She’s sixteen years old when her parents decide to “put the spark back in their relationship” by taking a month-long vacation to the Italian countryside. They offer to bring her along, of course, but at sixteen she has little desire to see her middle-aged parents giggling like schoolchildren as they stumble from wine tasting to wine tasting. And so they ship her off to Sunyshore to spend the month with her eccentric aunt Yvonne, a woman with a penchant for flea markets, cigarettes and wood carving.
“We’re gonna have so much fun,” Yvonne gushes as Cynthia drags her suitcase up the cluttered stairs. “I know this guy down at the docks with the most gorgeous little schooner. We could go out on the water this weekend and I could give you a tour of all the islands…”
Cynthia says nothing. She’s never liked the ocean much - in truth, even the smell of salt water is enough to make her feel slightly ill. There’s just something about that endless, roiling blue, sparkling so innocently under the sun, that strikes a chord of fear in her heart. She almost expects it to rise up at any moment and swallow her whole, dragging her down, down, down into the dark depths…
“Hey, hon?” She turns to see Yvonne leaning against the doorframe, cigarette hanging from her ruby red lips, a look of concern on her face. “You okay?”
Cynthia smiles weakly, trying to ignore the salty tang of ocean air drifting in through the window. “Yeah, Auntie. I’m fine. It was a long trip, that’s all.”
Yvonne nods sympathetically, pushing a ringlet of brilliant red hair out of her eyes. “That’s understandable,” she says. “You come down whenever you’re hungry, okay? I’ll put some stuff out for sandwiches.”
She leaves, and Cynthia hurries to slam the window shut.
--
It’s hot. That is the only coherent thought she can muster.
The sun is beating down mercilessly on the back of her neck, her t-shirt is clinging unpleasantly to her skin, and her soda is gradually becoming less and less refreshing with every moment she spends out in this ridiculous heat. The residents of Sunyshore, most of them sun-bronzed and smiling, don’t seem at all bothered by the weather, but Cynthia is practically suffocating. The humidity hangs on her skin like a thick blanket.
Yvonne had suggested that she head out and meet the locals, and Cynthia had hesitantly agreed (it was either that or jet ski lessons). So here she is, trying to find her way through the winding streets, wandering through the quaint rows of whitewashed houses and stalls selling colorful souvenirs. At one point she considers asking for directions, but quickly decides against it. She’s not some lost little girl, dammit, and she’s not about to make herself look like some kind of helpless tourist. She’s just bad with directions is all.
It’s nearly dusk when Cynthia emerges from the seemingly neverending maze of streets, only to find herself on the opposite end of town that she had intended. She groans and flops down on a nearby bench, taking off her flip-flops and allowing her aching feet a rest. In front of her, a path leads down to the bleached white beach, and waves lap hungrily against the sandy shore. Her stomach gives a nervous lurch, and she quickly averts her eyes.
At the far end of the beach, where the sand gives way to salt-slick black rock, a boy is standing precariously close to the edge. Cynthia squints into the fading sunlight, worried that he might get washed away by the next wave, but the boy’s stance is one of resolute determination. He’s just standing there, staring out at the ocean. Cynthia frowns. What an odd guy.
As the sun begins to slip below the horizon, igniting the ocean in shades of red and orange, the boy turns and looks directly at her. Even from such a distance, Cynthia can feel a strange, inexplicable intensity in the boy’s gaze. She raises a hand and hesitantly waves, but receives no sign of recognition.
“Cynthia? Weren’t you going to visit the museum?”
She turns, startled, to see her aunt standing there with one manicured hand on her hip. A bag of groceries rests casually in the crook of her arm.
“Ah, well, I…”
“You got lost, didn’t you?” Yvonne’s lips quirk into a crooked smile.
Cynthia simply nods and laughs sheepishly. Yvonne shakes her head, bemused, and motions for the girl to follow her.
“C’mon, hon, let’s head home. You’re probably starving by now. How does unagi and sōmen sound for dinner…?”
Cynthia mumbles something noncommittal and glances back at the rocks, hoping to catch one last glance of the mysterious boy. But he’s already gone, vanished without a trace, as if he had never been there at all.
--
It seems strange, she thinks, going to the library while she’s supposed to be on vacation. But then again, this vacation was hardly a matter of personal choice, and libraries were just one of those places where she felt comfortable no matter what. The library back home in Eterna had always been her sanctuary - somewhere she could go whenever life got to be a little too hectic.
The Sunyshore library is much smaller than what she’s used to. A small wooden structure perched high up on a cliff at the edge of town, it had been first a church and then a schoolhouse. The interior is slightly musty and more than a little haphazard, with shelves that tower precariously above her head and piles of books strewn across the floor. In the “Recent Additions” sections is a novel published in 1997.
“Hello, my dear,” a kindly voice says from behind a stack of encyclopedias. “How are you today?”
“Err… Fine, thanks.”
“Looking for something in particular?”
“No, no… Just browsing.” She edges away cautiously and nearly trips over an almanac.
While the library itself is tiny, there seems to be an infinite number of nooks and crannies to explore. Inside a desk drawer in the far corner she finds the old diary of a girl named Lorelei, complete with amusing illustrations and sarcastic poetry. Underneath one of the shelves she discovers a book about the practical uses of moon magic. She even finds a scandalous bodice ripper taped to the underside of a table. The entire library is a treasure trove waiting to be unearthed.
Cynthia goes about her hunt for literary amusement, oblivious to the world around her, until she turns a corner and almost steps on someone.
“Watch where you’re going, please,” a monotone voice says. Cynthia lets out a yelp of alarm and jumps back. Her heart is jackhammering away in her chest - she hadn’t expected to encounter anyone else amongst the shelves.
The boy stares up at her, disinterested, and she recognizes him immediately. It’s the boy from the beach. He is strangely pale for a resident of Sunyshore, as if he doesn’t get out much, and his gaunt features make him look a little like a skeleton. He is obviously not much older than Cynthia herself, and yet his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes give the impression of a tired old man. His thin lips are set in a half-frown.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Cynthia murmurs. “I thought I was alone in here.” She laughs, nervous, and it ends up as a high-pitched giggle.
“Hn.” He turns back to his book, eyes skimming the page at a ridiculous pace.
But Cynthia won’t be discouraged so easily. “What’s your name?” she asks, sinking down beside him. She picks up one of the books he’s reading, a thick tome entitled The Metaphysics of Being, and stares, uncomprehending, at the back cover.
“It’s Cyrus,” he mutters, and snatches the book away from her.
“Cyrus, huh? I’m Cynthia.” She grins and extends a hand.
She can’t tell if he’s annoyed at being interrupted or not - his face is a blank, unreadable mask - but as he shakes her hand hesitantly she thinks that first steps are often the hardest.
--
“Hey Auntie, you know that family that lives in the big brick house by the docks?”
Yvonne glances up from her carving of a Taillow, knife poised to whittle away and green eyes flashing suspiciously. She takes a quick drag of her cigarette and raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know them. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering what you could tell me about them. They seem… interesting.”
Yvonne’s eyes narrow, and she sighs heavily. “You met that kid, didn’t you? Cyrus?”
“Well… yes. But he’s not as strange as he seems! He’s very smart, and I think he’s just a little lonely, you know? People are put off by him, and - ”
“Cynthia. Stay away from that boy.” Yvonne’s voice is flinty. “He’s bad news.”
“… What do you mean?”
“There’s something off about him, hon. That boy isn’t quite right in the head.”
Cynthia glowers at her aunt, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s unfair, Auntie. Have you ever talked to him?”
“I did speak with him once, about two years ago,” Yvonne says. “That was enough for me. I’m a fairly odd person myself, and you know I’m not one to judge, but that kid is something else. Something inhuman, I’d say. He has no emotions, Cynthia - none at all.”
No emotions? she thinks. That can’t be true.
But then she remembers his face, blank and devoid of all feeling, and she isn’t so sure.
“You’re not to see that boy again,” Yvonne says, with a harshness to her voice that Cynthia has never heard before, and she nods obediently.
But as anyone knows, that which is forbidden is often the most difficult to resist.
--
She sees him again along the shoreline and hurries to catch up, all wariness about the ocean forgotten. He’s meandering slowly through the shallows with his head bowed, deep in thought, when she calls out to him.
“Cyrus,” she exclaims, and jogs to his side. “How are you?”
His dead eyes turn to her, appraising.
“I am… pensive,” he says, as if no one’s ever made such idle chitchat with him before (and perhaps they haven’t).
“Oh really? What are you thinking about?” Cynthia grins and tries not to shudder as cool salt water washes over her bare feet.
“I fail to see how that is any of your concern.”
She purses her lips. “I’m just curious, geez.”
Cyrus stares at her for a few moments, and then bends down and picks up something small and white - a seashell, polished by the sand and waves, arrayed in a delicate, fan-like shape. He holds it up to the steadily dimming light.
“This shell seems harmless enough, don’t you think?” He turns to her and raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps even beautiful, if one looks at it from the right perspective. However…” He drags the shell across his outstretched palm, leaving a jagged cut behind, and he does not so much as wince as crimson blood begins to well from the wound, dripping into the water at his feet.
“Upon closer inspection,” Cyrus says, examining his blood-slick fingers, “it is revealed to be a vicious thing, jagged and sharp, capable of leaving terrible wounds. It is imperfect, and imperfection in turn leads only to pain and sorrow. That which is imperfect should be eliminated. Don’t you agree?”
And Cynthia can do nothing but gape in mesmerized horror as the ocean turns red around him.
--
Every evening from that point on, just before the clock strikes seven, Cynthia sneaks out of her aunt’s house and meets Cyrus on the beach.
Thought she may not look it, she’s always been a smart girl. She tends to observe from the sidelines, watching the menial goings-on of the world as if the people around her were mere actors on a stage. She’s always been able to read people - to glance at them and see their thoughts and motives like a book waiting to be read. But Cyrus is different. He stands separate from the dull masses, shrouded by an impenetrable veil. Cynthia looks at him and has no idea who he really is, and this both frightens and intrigues her.
Sometimes they sit in silence, and she curls her toes in the sand and wonders what led her here to this beach with the oldest boy in existence. And sometimes she asks him questions and he’ll talk, reluctantly at first, about the heavy thoughts that plague him.
“What did you mean that day?” she asks. “About imperfection?”
Cyrus picks up a handful of sand and lets it trickle slowly through his fingers. “This world is any ugly place,” he murmurs. “Most are unable to see its ugliness, blinded by irrational, sentimental feelings, but oh, it is. You see, human beings are flawed creatures, marred by their own emotions. Because of desire, desire for money and power and pleasure, humans commit atrocious acts every day. And in turn, the world suffers for it, becoming more imperfect with every passing moment. It is… sickening.”
“But without desire, there would be no happiness in the world either,” Cynthia says, tilting her head to the side.
His pale eyes stare into hers, strangely hypnotic. “Happiness is but another unnecessary emotion, clouding the judgment of already faulty beings. In a world without emotion, there would be little to no crime. There would be no war. There would be - ”
“There wouldn’t be any love, either,” Cynthia argues, almost pleading with him. She’s never cared too much about humanity, but all of a sudden she’s faced with this loathsome indifference and it hurts. His disdain cuts her deep because she’s one of them, whether she wants to be or not.
“Love?” Cyrus shakes his head. “Don’t be a fool, Cynthia. You’re thinking with your heart instead of your head, one of humankind’s many fatal defects. Try looking at the matter from an abject perspective. Am I wrong, to wish for a world where no one suffers?”
And though her heart bleeds for the boy before her, whom life has betrayed so terribly, she quietly whispers, “No.”
--
It’s the last day of her stay in Sunyshore. The sky is a dull, flat grey, streaked with darkness along the horizon, and the waves are choppy, carrying the promise of a vicious storm. The wind is warm in a threatening way, and she shivers as it whips her blonde hair back.
A wave crashes violently against the shore, and she flinches unwittingly.
“Afraid, Cynthia?” he asks. He’s not looking at her - he’s staring out at the grey water, eyes focused on something that’s not there.
“… Yes,” she admits. “I’ve been afraid of the ocean for as long as I can remember.”
The first droplets of rain begin to fall, splashing darkly against the whitewashed buildings of Sunyshore.
“You should try to overcome that, if you can,” Cyrus says. “Fear doesn’t become you.”
He turns and heads off down the beach without a backwards glance. She watches him go and a sudden surge of anger courses through her, teeth-clenching and pulse-quickening.
“Then what does become me, Cyrus?” she shouts, fists clenched at her sides, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.
He’s already so far away.
--
--
“We have reports that the terrorist group involved in the theft of the Adamant Orb are calling themselves ‘Team Galactic’. As of yet, their motives are unclear, but they are assumed to be highly dangerous. A few civilians have already been injured in run-ins with Team Galactic, so please be on the lookout. If you happen to see any suspicious individuals, it is recommended that you contact INTERPOL immediately - ”
Cynthia turns the television off with a click of finality.
She puts her head in her hands and takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm herself. She’s done some investigating of her own - abused her powers as a Champion to get to the scene of the crime before INTERPOL. She’s read the letters, seen the tapes, examined the evidence. She knows exactly who is behind Team Galactic.
Am I wrong, to wish for a world where no one suffers?
“Yes,” Cynthia whispers, but she’s ten years too late.
pokemon; drama; pg13; 2700 words
She’s sixteen years old when her parents decide to “put the spark back in their relationship” by taking a month-long vacation to the Italian countryside. They offer to bring her along, of course, but at sixteen she has little desire to see her middle-aged parents giggling like schoolchildren as they stumble from wine tasting to wine tasting. And so they ship her off to Sunyshore to spend the month with her eccentric aunt Yvonne, a woman with a penchant for flea markets, cigarettes and wood carving.
“We’re gonna have so much fun,” Yvonne gushes as Cynthia drags her suitcase up the cluttered stairs. “I know this guy down at the docks with the most gorgeous little schooner. We could go out on the water this weekend and I could give you a tour of all the islands…”
Cynthia says nothing. She’s never liked the ocean much - in truth, even the smell of salt water is enough to make her feel slightly ill. There’s just something about that endless, roiling blue, sparkling so innocently under the sun, that strikes a chord of fear in her heart. She almost expects it to rise up at any moment and swallow her whole, dragging her down, down, down into the dark depths…
“Hey, hon?” She turns to see Yvonne leaning against the doorframe, cigarette hanging from her ruby red lips, a look of concern on her face. “You okay?”
Cynthia smiles weakly, trying to ignore the salty tang of ocean air drifting in through the window. “Yeah, Auntie. I’m fine. It was a long trip, that’s all.”
Yvonne nods sympathetically, pushing a ringlet of brilliant red hair out of her eyes. “That’s understandable,” she says. “You come down whenever you’re hungry, okay? I’ll put some stuff out for sandwiches.”
She leaves, and Cynthia hurries to slam the window shut.
--
It’s hot. That is the only coherent thought she can muster.
The sun is beating down mercilessly on the back of her neck, her t-shirt is clinging unpleasantly to her skin, and her soda is gradually becoming less and less refreshing with every moment she spends out in this ridiculous heat. The residents of Sunyshore, most of them sun-bronzed and smiling, don’t seem at all bothered by the weather, but Cynthia is practically suffocating. The humidity hangs on her skin like a thick blanket.
Yvonne had suggested that she head out and meet the locals, and Cynthia had hesitantly agreed (it was either that or jet ski lessons). So here she is, trying to find her way through the winding streets, wandering through the quaint rows of whitewashed houses and stalls selling colorful souvenirs. At one point she considers asking for directions, but quickly decides against it. She’s not some lost little girl, dammit, and she’s not about to make herself look like some kind of helpless tourist. She’s just bad with directions is all.
It’s nearly dusk when Cynthia emerges from the seemingly neverending maze of streets, only to find herself on the opposite end of town that she had intended. She groans and flops down on a nearby bench, taking off her flip-flops and allowing her aching feet a rest. In front of her, a path leads down to the bleached white beach, and waves lap hungrily against the sandy shore. Her stomach gives a nervous lurch, and she quickly averts her eyes.
At the far end of the beach, where the sand gives way to salt-slick black rock, a boy is standing precariously close to the edge. Cynthia squints into the fading sunlight, worried that he might get washed away by the next wave, but the boy’s stance is one of resolute determination. He’s just standing there, staring out at the ocean. Cynthia frowns. What an odd guy.
As the sun begins to slip below the horizon, igniting the ocean in shades of red and orange, the boy turns and looks directly at her. Even from such a distance, Cynthia can feel a strange, inexplicable intensity in the boy’s gaze. She raises a hand and hesitantly waves, but receives no sign of recognition.
“Cynthia? Weren’t you going to visit the museum?”
She turns, startled, to see her aunt standing there with one manicured hand on her hip. A bag of groceries rests casually in the crook of her arm.
“Ah, well, I…”
“You got lost, didn’t you?” Yvonne’s lips quirk into a crooked smile.
Cynthia simply nods and laughs sheepishly. Yvonne shakes her head, bemused, and motions for the girl to follow her.
“C’mon, hon, let’s head home. You’re probably starving by now. How does unagi and sōmen sound for dinner…?”
Cynthia mumbles something noncommittal and glances back at the rocks, hoping to catch one last glance of the mysterious boy. But he’s already gone, vanished without a trace, as if he had never been there at all.
--
It seems strange, she thinks, going to the library while she’s supposed to be on vacation. But then again, this vacation was hardly a matter of personal choice, and libraries were just one of those places where she felt comfortable no matter what. The library back home in Eterna had always been her sanctuary - somewhere she could go whenever life got to be a little too hectic.
The Sunyshore library is much smaller than what she’s used to. A small wooden structure perched high up on a cliff at the edge of town, it had been first a church and then a schoolhouse. The interior is slightly musty and more than a little haphazard, with shelves that tower precariously above her head and piles of books strewn across the floor. In the “Recent Additions” sections is a novel published in 1997.
“Hello, my dear,” a kindly voice says from behind a stack of encyclopedias. “How are you today?”
“Err… Fine, thanks.”
“Looking for something in particular?”
“No, no… Just browsing.” She edges away cautiously and nearly trips over an almanac.
While the library itself is tiny, there seems to be an infinite number of nooks and crannies to explore. Inside a desk drawer in the far corner she finds the old diary of a girl named Lorelei, complete with amusing illustrations and sarcastic poetry. Underneath one of the shelves she discovers a book about the practical uses of moon magic. She even finds a scandalous bodice ripper taped to the underside of a table. The entire library is a treasure trove waiting to be unearthed.
Cynthia goes about her hunt for literary amusement, oblivious to the world around her, until she turns a corner and almost steps on someone.
“Watch where you’re going, please,” a monotone voice says. Cynthia lets out a yelp of alarm and jumps back. Her heart is jackhammering away in her chest - she hadn’t expected to encounter anyone else amongst the shelves.
The boy stares up at her, disinterested, and she recognizes him immediately. It’s the boy from the beach. He is strangely pale for a resident of Sunyshore, as if he doesn’t get out much, and his gaunt features make him look a little like a skeleton. He is obviously not much older than Cynthia herself, and yet his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes give the impression of a tired old man. His thin lips are set in a half-frown.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Cynthia murmurs. “I thought I was alone in here.” She laughs, nervous, and it ends up as a high-pitched giggle.
“Hn.” He turns back to his book, eyes skimming the page at a ridiculous pace.
But Cynthia won’t be discouraged so easily. “What’s your name?” she asks, sinking down beside him. She picks up one of the books he’s reading, a thick tome entitled The Metaphysics of Being, and stares, uncomprehending, at the back cover.
“It’s Cyrus,” he mutters, and snatches the book away from her.
“Cyrus, huh? I’m Cynthia.” She grins and extends a hand.
She can’t tell if he’s annoyed at being interrupted or not - his face is a blank, unreadable mask - but as he shakes her hand hesitantly she thinks that first steps are often the hardest.
--
“Hey Auntie, you know that family that lives in the big brick house by the docks?”
Yvonne glances up from her carving of a Taillow, knife poised to whittle away and green eyes flashing suspiciously. She takes a quick drag of her cigarette and raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know them. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering what you could tell me about them. They seem… interesting.”
Yvonne’s eyes narrow, and she sighs heavily. “You met that kid, didn’t you? Cyrus?”
“Well… yes. But he’s not as strange as he seems! He’s very smart, and I think he’s just a little lonely, you know? People are put off by him, and - ”
“Cynthia. Stay away from that boy.” Yvonne’s voice is flinty. “He’s bad news.”
“… What do you mean?”
“There’s something off about him, hon. That boy isn’t quite right in the head.”
Cynthia glowers at her aunt, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s unfair, Auntie. Have you ever talked to him?”
“I did speak with him once, about two years ago,” Yvonne says. “That was enough for me. I’m a fairly odd person myself, and you know I’m not one to judge, but that kid is something else. Something inhuman, I’d say. He has no emotions, Cynthia - none at all.”
No emotions? she thinks. That can’t be true.
But then she remembers his face, blank and devoid of all feeling, and she isn’t so sure.
“You’re not to see that boy again,” Yvonne says, with a harshness to her voice that Cynthia has never heard before, and she nods obediently.
But as anyone knows, that which is forbidden is often the most difficult to resist.
--
She sees him again along the shoreline and hurries to catch up, all wariness about the ocean forgotten. He’s meandering slowly through the shallows with his head bowed, deep in thought, when she calls out to him.
“Cyrus,” she exclaims, and jogs to his side. “How are you?”
His dead eyes turn to her, appraising.
“I am… pensive,” he says, as if no one’s ever made such idle chitchat with him before (and perhaps they haven’t).
“Oh really? What are you thinking about?” Cynthia grins and tries not to shudder as cool salt water washes over her bare feet.
“I fail to see how that is any of your concern.”
She purses her lips. “I’m just curious, geez.”
Cyrus stares at her for a few moments, and then bends down and picks up something small and white - a seashell, polished by the sand and waves, arrayed in a delicate, fan-like shape. He holds it up to the steadily dimming light.
“This shell seems harmless enough, don’t you think?” He turns to her and raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps even beautiful, if one looks at it from the right perspective. However…” He drags the shell across his outstretched palm, leaving a jagged cut behind, and he does not so much as wince as crimson blood begins to well from the wound, dripping into the water at his feet.
“Upon closer inspection,” Cyrus says, examining his blood-slick fingers, “it is revealed to be a vicious thing, jagged and sharp, capable of leaving terrible wounds. It is imperfect, and imperfection in turn leads only to pain and sorrow. That which is imperfect should be eliminated. Don’t you agree?”
And Cynthia can do nothing but gape in mesmerized horror as the ocean turns red around him.
--
Every evening from that point on, just before the clock strikes seven, Cynthia sneaks out of her aunt’s house and meets Cyrus on the beach.
Thought she may not look it, she’s always been a smart girl. She tends to observe from the sidelines, watching the menial goings-on of the world as if the people around her were mere actors on a stage. She’s always been able to read people - to glance at them and see their thoughts and motives like a book waiting to be read. But Cyrus is different. He stands separate from the dull masses, shrouded by an impenetrable veil. Cynthia looks at him and has no idea who he really is, and this both frightens and intrigues her.
Sometimes they sit in silence, and she curls her toes in the sand and wonders what led her here to this beach with the oldest boy in existence. And sometimes she asks him questions and he’ll talk, reluctantly at first, about the heavy thoughts that plague him.
“What did you mean that day?” she asks. “About imperfection?”
Cyrus picks up a handful of sand and lets it trickle slowly through his fingers. “This world is any ugly place,” he murmurs. “Most are unable to see its ugliness, blinded by irrational, sentimental feelings, but oh, it is. You see, human beings are flawed creatures, marred by their own emotions. Because of desire, desire for money and power and pleasure, humans commit atrocious acts every day. And in turn, the world suffers for it, becoming more imperfect with every passing moment. It is… sickening.”
“But without desire, there would be no happiness in the world either,” Cynthia says, tilting her head to the side.
His pale eyes stare into hers, strangely hypnotic. “Happiness is but another unnecessary emotion, clouding the judgment of already faulty beings. In a world without emotion, there would be little to no crime. There would be no war. There would be - ”
“There wouldn’t be any love, either,” Cynthia argues, almost pleading with him. She’s never cared too much about humanity, but all of a sudden she’s faced with this loathsome indifference and it hurts. His disdain cuts her deep because she’s one of them, whether she wants to be or not.
“Love?” Cyrus shakes his head. “Don’t be a fool, Cynthia. You’re thinking with your heart instead of your head, one of humankind’s many fatal defects. Try looking at the matter from an abject perspective. Am I wrong, to wish for a world where no one suffers?”
And though her heart bleeds for the boy before her, whom life has betrayed so terribly, she quietly whispers, “No.”
--
It’s the last day of her stay in Sunyshore. The sky is a dull, flat grey, streaked with darkness along the horizon, and the waves are choppy, carrying the promise of a vicious storm. The wind is warm in a threatening way, and she shivers as it whips her blonde hair back.
A wave crashes violently against the shore, and she flinches unwittingly.
“Afraid, Cynthia?” he asks. He’s not looking at her - he’s staring out at the grey water, eyes focused on something that’s not there.
“… Yes,” she admits. “I’ve been afraid of the ocean for as long as I can remember.”
The first droplets of rain begin to fall, splashing darkly against the whitewashed buildings of Sunyshore.
“You should try to overcome that, if you can,” Cyrus says. “Fear doesn’t become you.”
He turns and heads off down the beach without a backwards glance. She watches him go and a sudden surge of anger courses through her, teeth-clenching and pulse-quickening.
“Then what does become me, Cyrus?” she shouts, fists clenched at her sides, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.
He’s already so far away.
--
--
“We have reports that the terrorist group involved in the theft of the Adamant Orb are calling themselves ‘Team Galactic’. As of yet, their motives are unclear, but they are assumed to be highly dangerous. A few civilians have already been injured in run-ins with Team Galactic, so please be on the lookout. If you happen to see any suspicious individuals, it is recommended that you contact INTERPOL immediately - ”
Cynthia turns the television off with a click of finality.
She puts her head in her hands and takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm herself. She’s done some investigating of her own - abused her powers as a Champion to get to the scene of the crime before INTERPOL. She’s read the letters, seen the tapes, examined the evidence. She knows exactly who is behind Team Galactic.
Am I wrong, to wish for a world where no one suffers?
“Yes,” Cynthia whispers, but she’s ten years too late.