Omens :: Nyte {Blitz}

At ten years old he'd wrapped his fingers around a book of ancient times, describing the Moon and the tides it pulled, describing the oceans and how they swallowed the earth. 

He'd once dreamed of seeing the waves against the shore, gears in his mind rotating against the moonlight, imagining the salt of the air in his nostrils, of removing his shoes and feeling the water rise up to his ankles, grasping at his legs. 

Childish wants and realistic needs, that dream had lasted until six chapters in.

Chapter Six: Oceanic Disasters

It spoke of death and destruction, of colossal waves, walls slammed into the beaches he dreamed of. It spoke of an abhorrent abyss, of whirlpools swallowing people whole, monsters of the deep rising up to the surface, drawn by the legs of innocent swimmers. He'd imagined the water to be like silk, draped delicately across one's skin, pulling you into it's comforts with the rays of a setting sun. 

With the slam of a book the ocean had become like glass, monsters of the shadows living in the darkness beneath the surface. Childish wants and suddenly reality had scarred him.

He'd dreamed of drowning that night. 

He'd come to Four not for the chance to bathe in the waters that oppose it, but to strike possible business deals for weapons trade between districts. 

Still, that did not stop him from breathing in the scent of destruction. It smells of salt and copper, frayed wires and exposed foundation, of soaked through clothing and drowning lungs. War, at least to him, had always been composed of two sides. Both malevolent, both misguided, both fighting for something, both human. 

But this, this was a war between man and nature.

The winner was clear. 

Sundown marked the beginning of the black market trade that had taken over the subpar relief center, shadows dancing across streetlights, bodies avoiding the wary eyes of night duty Peacekeepers. He had a meeting with a teenager just like himself, both of them ahead of themselves in weapons trade, in money making, in war. 

His arm whirs and screams at him in the moonlight, twitching slightly as he adjusts the dial beneath his shoulder. The dampness of the ocean air had managed to penetrate the waterproof sleeve over his arm and was messing with the exposed metal, corroding the metal skin that had replaced his crushed arm. With a single swipe he tears the sleeve off of it, tossing it into the alleyway as he walked by it. 

Broken moonlight and the soft glow of a streetlamp. He drapes himself in the shadows before stopping, waiting, drowning in the sound of the whirs of his arm and the waves crashing against rock.