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"Wait, wait, wait- Where ya' goin', Ray?" A nasally voice calls behind him, and Ray turns around to face the crocodile. The faded sound of music reminds Ray of his almost successful escape, and he kicks himself for not being sneakier. Ah, well, they can't all be Espio.
"N-No where, re..really. Ju-Ju..st want-ted to take a w-w-walk to escape th-the crowd." Vector squints at Ray like he's trying to see right through him. Finally, he shrugs.
"Well, alright. You're fourteen and uninterested in partying, which is pretty weird, but I'm not complaining. Have fun!" Vector turns around and begins jogging back to the party.
Ray doesn't think it's weird at all. Well, maybe it is to them because they don't live inside his head, but it's not a foreign concept to him. Maybe because he's not a big fan of parties.
Oh, and also because he's never coming back. Did he forget to mention that?
The sound of his boots rhythmically hitting the concrete sidewalk below is a soothing one. The temperature is cold enough to make him cringe and shove both hands into his jacket pockets. The jacket Mighty got him for his 10th birthday. Ouch.
But even as the thought crosses his mind, his stride doesn't break or hesitate. He loves Mighty, he does— just not enough to stay. Which isn't any fault that can be tied back to Mighty, it's something Ray feels about everyone he has abandoned and everyone he will abandon. It's almost like a curse, or at least, that's how he'd imagine a better person would describe it— like Tails, or something. Ray would more so describe it as when you get real sick, and your throat hurts, and you know you should be drinking more liquids, but it hurts so bad that you just give up. And you don't really feel bad for giving up, you just feel dry.
Ray turns around, taking one last glance at the Chaotix Headquarters. The place he had laughed, cried, danced, partied, meditated, and bonded— he would never see it again. It's a bittersweet pill, wrapped with a sugary coating of relief.
He continues walking.
This hadn't been an overnight decision by any means. Hell, a few years back, Ray threw himself at Mighty's feet, begging, pleading for him not to leave. He had watched his every move carefully, memorizing phone numbers like prayers. He spent countless nights waiting by the door, waiting by the phone, waiting, waiting, waiting.
Of course, Mighty was not the only victim of his overwhelming need to latch onto everybody ever. He spent hours upon hours bugging Vector about things he was and wasn't truly interested in. When's Mighty coming home? How is money made? How many pizza bites can you eat? Do crocodiles eat squirrels in the wild?
A smile spreads across his face as memories of days of guarding the emerald flood his mind. Yeah, Vector is pretty cool.
And so is Charmy, and Espio, and all the friends, and all the game nights, and everything else. Why would he ever want to leave?
Honestly? Ray's leading hypothesis is that he was made weak. Just completely cannonballed the weak-minded gene pool.
When Eggman destroyed his home and broke up his family, he felt scared. He felt hopeless. He felt that weird pain-panic feeling in the bottom of your stomach— dread.
Then he met Mighty on that one fateful day on that one fateful boat, and things were right again. Until Mighty came home injured, and the feeling came back again. Then they met the Chaotix and got a better support team, and things were gonna be okay, and then Espio revealed Matilda's whereabouts. Then Mighty nearly left him to fend for himself the morning after. Then Mighty and he went through a series of trials and tribulations to figure out where Matilda was. Then, Ray and Mighty had to take on aliases to avoid getting killed by a dark egg legion. Then Mighty's true identity was revealed, and he got tied up and almost shot. Then Matilda took the blow for him, and now she’s one arm down, but at least that's over, and his stomach is considering flipping back around.
Then he befriended Kit. Then, then, then, then you get the point.
Whether it's Eggman genocide, undercover close-calls, Mighty being shot at, Kit trying to kill himself, or something else life wants to throw at him, there's one thing for certain: Ray's not had a good sleep since ever.
Truthfully? Ray doesn't know what the correct answer is. It's probably not running, but that's not what Ray's doing. Well, maybe a little bit from Kit, but he's been doing a surprisingly decent job at confronting his feelings at the door. The problem is that the feelings are always trying to pull him out.
Ray understands that there is no love without grief. There is no love without the overwhelming amount of pain and strength it takes to hold the broken hand that feeds you. There is no love without withstanding, and Ray is a-okay with that. Ouch.
It's like the world is constantly beating him on the back, reminding "It'll get better. It'll get better, but you have to get through this first. Are you okay with that?" And Ray is constantly screeching back, "NO! NO! STOP! IT'S NOT WORTH IT! IT NEVER IS!" And it doesn't matter because he goes on anyway, and they are both always telling the truth.
He's not sure why the love stopped being enough, or when it stopped being enough. It certainly was for lack of authenticity or trying; the love was good. Mighty had made mistakes, but he had nursed all the wounds back to health tenfold. For every tear shed, there were three laughs. And Kit? Despite all the late-night ceiling stares or the flinches at locked doors, it was undeniable that Kit had loved him, and he had loved Kit. Ray could live a thousand years and never come across a friendship as well-meaning as that.
He thanks the universe for that.
He's run his mind through many possible causes and cures for this... adversity, and came up empty-hearted every time. Maybe he is just a bad friend, a bad brother. It makes sense; he is no longer the caring Ray he once was. Many years ago, he would've done anything he could to help someone he loved. Now he finds it hard to feel anything but anger-provoking panic at someone looking to him for guidance. He suspected he was going downhill when conversations with Mighty became one-sided and forced. He knew he was beyond the point of no return when Kit called him crying, saying the thoughts were getting too loud, and Ray could only impatiently wait to get back to watching TV.
Maybe it's his past? It doesn't seem far-fetched that going through a bunch of traumatic situations would desensitize him more than the average Mobian. It's nice to have an explanation, but Ray isn't really looking for answers anymore. He lost the ability to care for the people he loves most, and he has zero wishes to reverse it. Ray is leaving, and he isn't interested in looking back again.
Ray's feet finally come to a rest at a small bridge overlooking a bustling river. He places his feet between the spaces of the railing and looks over at the water below. It is peaceful and cold, and the crisp air burning his nose reflects it. He knows that up ahead is the main road, and he knows there is a bus stop located not far off. He has enough money to get himself down the way a little bit, but where would he go? He supposes it doesn't matter very much.
He pushes up on the handrail, raising his body ever so slightly.
He'd call Mighty. Yeah, that's what he'd do. He'd call Mighty and tell him that he'd received an offer for an interview at this promising company, and Mighty would be so excited that he'd forget he'd left. Then, after a few days of running the roads, he'd call Mighty again. He'd tell him that he loved his job and that things were getting serious, and he was running out of free time, so please excuse the lack of calls. That's how he'd slip out of Mighty's life, just like he wanted. Free bird. Free squirrel.
He'd never call Kit again.
Ray sighs, feeling the cold steel touch the underside of his thighs. Maybe— Maybe he did love one thing. Handed to him neatly folded, blue and denim. The sleeves came down halfway down his forearm, but he figured cuffing them twice looked much better. Decently warm on a night like this. They'd know it was him. He wore it practically everywhere he went.
They'd know it was him.