Chapter Text
The room was dark and silent except for the choked sounds of barely restrained sobs and the faint glow that came off the person who made them.
Dakota Stone was usually exactly as their surname suggested, stone-like. They were indifferent to everything that took place around them and were unconcerned with the suffering or joy of others. Usually…
This was how Dakota acted up until the news of their father’s death hit them. And even then, it wasn't until they were alone that they did anything with it.
Shadow-like hands gripped at their hair, pulling almost painfully. Killed by an Origin of all things. Their father, a powerful government official. A Vulture… How could he have died by the gun of an Origin? They curled up tighter on the bed.
The room felt too big, and the door felt like it was watching them, like at any moment their mother could walk in and slap some sense into them for acting this way. Maybe Max would walk in instead… Maybe he would help…
Why would Max help? He probably hated them for not letting him die in peace without becoming an Indentured. What if Max killed them like how the Origin killed their father? Their death would be more disgraceful than their father’s was made out to be.
An alarm rang loudly a couple of feet away from them and Dakota sat up. There was no way that it was already morning. They just got into bed an hour or two ago. Dakota sat there for a bit, letting the alarm drown out his thoughts - could that be classified as a panic attack of some sort? No. People like Dakota didn’t get panic attacks or struggle mentally in any way. That would mean they felt something, and Vultures felt nothing. At least, they were supposed to.
They sighed as they dragged themselves out of bed, rubbing at their now aching scalp. At least they didn’t pull any hair out. When they walked into the bathroom that was attached to their room, their reflection stared at them accusingly.
“What are you looking at?” they muttered as they braced their hands on the sink counter.
The shadow just looked at them. It was kind of hard to discern what they really were - what everyone was - but “shadow” seemed to fit. Pure white eyes looked Dakota over as the mouth that gave their telling as a Vulture pulled into a frown. They looked as bad as they felt. Great.
“Fuck you too, I guess.” They pushed off the sink and turned to the shower, cranking the dial as hot as it’d go.
Dakota undressed and stepped into the shower. Feeling the hot water against their skin made them feel slightly better. They sat there until the water was cold and they remembered how to pull themself back together again.
------------------------------------------------
The funeral seemed too extravagant. Everything was cranked up to ten; the flowers, the decorations, even the number of people seemed too much for something that was - put simply - just an inconvenience to their everyday lives.
The only thing that was lacking was emotion. There was no crying, no remorse, no feeling whatsoever. It made Dakota feel like they were suffocating on everyone’s pretentiousness.
Dakota couldn't help but think that if Vultures like them and their father weren't so competitive by nature, that they could still be solving random puzzles with their father.
Instead they had to sit through this insufferable funeral, listening to their mother and their father’s superior droning on about accomplishments and when the auction for all of Richard Stone’s Indentureds will be. All because government officials couldn't be revived for the sake of keeping fucking competition.
It's not like he could be revived anyhow. The Origin that killed him burned the body after shooting him. As hard as any Vulture can try, ashes cannot be given life.
Dakota couldn't decide if they wanted to go to the house and cry in their room again or complain to Max. Either way, they didn't want to be here any longer. Usually they could suffer through events like these, but their throat felt oddly tight and their eyes burned. Maybe crying was what would happen once they got to their room. Fuck, Dakota really needed to pull it together. Especially with their mother, who had just sat down next to them.
Something must have shown, because the next moment Delilah Stone was gripping Dakota’s arm hard enough to make their hand seize up and look claw-like.
“We have appearances to keep up, Dakota. Fix your face. Now,” her voice was venomous, even with how quiet it was.
Dakota looked at their mother's hand clamped around their wrist. The faint pink glow that came off of Delilah was mixed with Dakota’s own white light, making it lighter. Her own solid pink eyes that were usually angry or cold were starting to gain lines. Delilah Stone was every part an official’s wife except for her ruthlessness that rivaled Richard’s.
Dakota looked forward again and nodded once. They knew better than to cause a scene with their mother in front of so many people.
There wasn't a casket for Dakota to look at their father one more time before they left. No ashes either, god forbid someone actually tries and succeeds in reviving Richard. So Dakota blankly took one last look at the serious picture on top of a table, made a silent promise, and never looked back.