Chapter Text
The night after escaping from Imperium, Sora can hardly sleep.
Exhaustion eats away at her burning eyes as she reflects over the long day spent in her home land. Any sort of enthusiasm she may have harnessed for their success faded long before the sun set. She lays wearily on her side, her cheek resting against her balled fist as she stares up at the pitch black ceiling. Late nights are no stranger to her, though they are usually spent hunched over a spontaneous project at her workbench. Tonight, there is not an ounce of motivation in her—the thought of creating anything causes another churn in her already upset stomach.
They won the battle in the end. The Photacs were disabled, never to be tampered with again. The ninja successfully freed the captive dragons from Imperium’s shackles, putting the kingdom’s dragon-torturing days to an end. Things should seem better than they are, but her pessimistic mind will not allow any sort of peace to flutter through it. Why, when everything seems fine, does she always find a way to feel so hopeless?
Perhaps it is because the negatives of their mission are all that plague her memories. That cursed Photac device, her creation, was the reason they ended up in her wretched home land in the first place. For once, she could not blame an outside force for the ninja being put in danger. It was because of her an army of Photacs existed at all, putting so many dragons in danger as well. She never meant such an innocent project to go this far. All she wanted to do was create, not hurt or destroy. All she wanted was for someone in her youth to understand her, to ease her neverending Imperian loneliness. She wanted someone in her life she could finally please, show off to, conquer her messed up realm with and even run away with, leaving behind the bleak need for perfection bestowed upon her at every turn of her life.
All she longed for was someone to love her as she was. Someone who would not push her away because of her interests, someone who would be proud of her and make up for all the years her parents believed she and her hobbies would amount to nothing.
A particularly dramatic snore and a shift of fabric catches her attention. She glances at Arin, who unconsciously turns to her from his hammock in their shared room at the Monastery of Spinjitzu. It just so happens he is that very anchor who answered her childhood wishes, the one who stands by her through every trial and keeps her hoard of anxieties and insecurities grounded. It is both a blessing and a curse the way he understands her every expression, the meaning behind every glance and gesture and the slightest change in her eyes or posture. He had been the only one to notice her lack of appetite at dinner—or, at least the only one to mention it, having waited until the others were out of ear to ask if she was okay. Sora put on a smile then, assuring him he did not need to worry over her. She almost wishes she said otherwise, but nevermind her gratefulness for his compassion, he deserved a break from the cloud of negativity following her through all the weather’s phases.
Sora sighs, shifting onto her churning stomach. She hears the voice of Dr. Larow, once her greatest hero, who taunts her over the bedside. The mad doctor’s face relishes in the torturous sight of Sora’s beloved dragon companion. You came back to destroy the machine you created. Now, instead, you’re further empowering Imperium. The volts of energy as Sora the dragon is drained, then the ungodly growls of the hard-light mutts immediately after it ends. How utterly satisfying, Ana.
She groans, pulling her pillow over her head. She had hoped that name died in the deserts between Imperium and the Crossroads, yet it slips just as easily off the tongues of the Imperians as it did when she was a kid.
For a minute, she had escaped that sea of chaos. She and the dragon Sora escaped that dreaded lab, and despite the extended chaos happening outside the walls of the palace, relief consumed her tense body as soon as she caught Lloyd and Arin amidst the roars of freedom. “Arin!” Her best friend’s name rang like a soothing song in the midst of the ruckus. All that relief is sorely wiped away when she sees his glare, right next to the equally weary eyes of Lloyd as she finally skids to a stop before them.
“Why did you do this, Sora? You activated more Photacs? What were you thinking?!”
She can hardly look at either of them. The gravity of the situation hits her tenfold, crashing into her like the training course.
What was I thinking?
Every little moment of failure plays on loop. Ras’s sickening growls echo through the corridor as the newly weaponized Photac army barges out into the outside world. Suddenly it is Riyu instead who sits caged, moments away from having his entire lifeforce drained as Arin is knocked unconscious against the wall. In the end, none of the good things in the outcome were directly her doing. It was still Riyu who gave her the spark needed to defeat Ras and save the day, and a mere happy accident that Ras had thrown her like a ragdoll straight into the control panel to release him.
She wishes she could believe in miracles, but the best she can focus on is that no dire outcomes came from this. Sora was no hero; her actions were not even with zero consequences. Not when Lloyd lays comatose just a few rooms away, “peaceful” as claimed by the other ninja, but showing no clear signs of waking up even the next day.
It was necessary, the robo-ninja—Zane—tried to assure her. Even if the situation were less dire, he would have tried anything in his power to help.
He shouldn’t have had to do anything in the first place. This was supposed to be my mission. But she bit her tongue, because surely being argumentative would solidify the fact she did not belong here at all.
This is all you’re good for. It is a conglomeration of voices which hiss this at her, yet one voice rings louder than the rest: her beloved mentor, ripping the pillow from her face to glare at her with piercing green eyes. Making mistakes.
It’s irrational to think like this, part of her knows; Lloyd would never say such a thing, much less think it. An overwhelming, overbearing part of her conscience shuts down any and all positive reasonings, however, and the sick feeling in her stomach grows seven sizes. She never should have created those Photacs. Bile rises up her throat. Her presence only brings eternal danger to anyone she attempts to get close to. She snaps up and lurches out of bed. If she were gone, if she could just run somewhere far away from the reaches of civilization, no one would ever get hurt at her expense again.
Sora finds herself on her knees on the bathroom floor, the meager crumbs of dinner she had eaten emptied into the toilet. The room is spinning, rotating, her head is light and she can barely breathe, arms wrapped around her stomach and squeezing tighter as another heave rips through her unsettled body. Through the tears streaking her face, whether from the strain of throwing up or the constant chatter of her hostile thoughts, the only thing she is sure of is the way the stagnant pain which held her stomach hostage all evening has diminished into some sort of dull ache by the time she is finished expelling its contents.
A soft knock on the door. She nearly misses it. “Sora?”
Arin. His voice is distant, muffled, but it is undeniably him and no matter how much she yearns for his comfort she can’t say with full certainty she’s relieved. She falls back into a sitting position. I must’ve woken him up, she sighs to herself. Just my luck. “It’s open.” Or, her hoarse voice assumes so, barely picking up volume in the large bathroom. She’s surprised she had half a mind to close the door at all.
Arin slides the door open, groggily rubbing his eyes. “R’you okay?” His words slur together, still in sleep mode. “You ran out really fast.”
In her attempt to reply, her pounding head sends another spike of nausea coursing through her veins. Her already rampant breaths speed into overdrive, heavy and panting, as she springs back to her knees and clutches the sides of the bowl with an iron grip. Nothing comes up, not even a fruitless gag or dry heave, and she wishes she would just throw up again instead of this agonizing, pathetic display. With unsteady hands, she flushes, and the nausea dissipates with the water and waste.
Arin had shuffled to her side long ago, his hand on her back and sound vibrating from his body but no words making any sense to her. Suddenly she is sitting again, facing a completely different direction as his blurry face kneels in front of her, full of worry. Still muffled, he speaks again, and she can finally make the words out. “Are you getting sick?” His voice is soft. Concerned. A stark contrast to the cold accusations which previously ran through her head. “Should I get…”
He falters, his gaze drooping. Lloyd, she concludes, biting back a sob. Arin blinks, twice, five, six times, then gets right back to detective mode. “Maybe you ate something weird. I mean, everyone knows Zane is the best cook, but it is his first day back, so…”
Sora shakes her head. When words only continue to betray her, Arin moves to sit beside her. He squeezes her shoulder. “Do you need a minute?”
She contemplates shaking her head again. He should be asleep, not sitting on the cold tile in the middle of the night, watching as she struggles to get a grip on herself. Yet she misses the touch as soon as the warmth of his hand leaves her shoulder, enough so that her lip quivers and she blinks back a wave of tears. He notices practically immediately and grabs her hand, entwining her fingers with his own in a gentle hold. It is only then she realizes how badly she’s shaking, and only then she musters the courage to nod and embrace the idea he is here to take care of her.
They sit there for a while, her borderline hyperventilating breaths calming into something steadier, albeit plagued with sniffles. Arin’s thumb rubs circles against hers. His vacant hand sways mindlessly at her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to release from its usual ponytail. Once she is sure her body is free from its quakes, she squeezes his hand back and draws away. “I’m okay,” she mumbles, voice still hoarse.
She can tell Arin is not entirely convinced, but he does not press. He helps her stand and move to the sink, where she splashes her face and rinses the gross, bitter taste from her mouth. The water starts to run hot; the steam is soothing on her throat and the steady stream of the faucet is calming in a way she cannot describe. “A lot happened today… we should get some sleep.” Arin snaps her from her trance, turning the water off for her. “I know you said you wanted to try training more, but maybe you should sit out for a few days. You know, just in case.”
Sora huffs. Just the thought of training brings the exhaustion right back to the front of her mind. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She does not have the heart, or quite frankly the energy, to tell him the true reason she ended up in this position. One that has absolutely nothing to do with poor food, especially considering she ate practically nothing since the morning.
Arin lets her lean tiredly against him as they walk back to their room, and he stays by her side until she falls into an uneasy slumber.