Work Text:
The small monitor sits on the edge of Tom's workbench, the red tracker light on the screen blinking steadily as he works.
The tracked location has been stationary for years now, but he can't bring himself to turn the screen off. Some days he wants to throw the monitor against the wall, watching as the electronics inside shatter to pieces, breaking apart under the force. Other days he wants to grab it and hold it so very tight against his chest, so that it, unlike the others, would be unable to slip from his grasp. The tracker's battery will run out eventually, but until then, it remains.
When it moves one day, Tom notices immediately. It's like when the constant background grinding of machinery suddenly stops; the silence is more alarming than any noise could be. He watches intently as it slowly moves through the City; if he looks away he could lose it forever.
Once it comes to a stop, Tom knows exactly where the tracker is. He knows damn well where his work, his hope, his son has ended up. He tries to swallow his emotions down, before the grief and the dread and the fury drown him.
With one hand, he turns back to the design schematics on the workbench: an outlet for his rage, his despair, his love. With the other, trembling hand, Tom turns the monitor off, its humming turning to a whistle as the sound fades out.