𝐎𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞 [𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭]

12 | And a Change

Unnecessary spice... but isn't it always kinda necessary? Also you have to get through the big sad first. Also this made me want to cry.

        — A FEW DOZEN VOICES CHEERED AS A TALL YOUNG BOY CLEARED THE FINAL BALES OF HAY, A PIGLET CLUTCHED UNDER EACH ARM. The sun beat down on his neck, making bleached ash hair stick to his temples and his caramel skin deepen by the hour. The perspective was placed amongst the crowds, small tanned hands just visible at the hazy edge of a chunky computer monitor, clutching a long orange sundress. Various limbs of other Amity folk poked out from the edges, but the viewer's focus stayed locked on the boy — only seven but rather strong for his age — as he made a mad dash for the roped-off finish line, piglets squealing, face alight with a triumphant grin as the other contestants started filtering onto the grass track behind him. He passed the line and people roared and sung, applauding just for the fun of a game well played, and the viewer ran for the finish line where the happy little boy laughed breathlessly; one hand now threaded with a dark-skinned man's as he jogged slightly ahead of her through tall, flowered grass, bugs flickering in the air. The man turned, smiling at them as they watched through a woman's eyes — his skin glowing in health, black hair buzzed short, chin shadowed in stubble, eyes a dried green that rivalled the hair-like grass of the setting.

        Vega staggered a little and slumped down just to get the contact of Four's shoulder against his. He could feel the blood draining from his face, skin bleached into something oddly close to a frothy cappuccino.

        "Cyrus?" The elderly black man that had introduced himself as Bodhi whispered, inching closer to the screen, his wife underarm. They'd gathered in Intelligence with Four to examine just what Harley had passed on to Vega, and this was it.

        Why was his childhood on an ancient microchip, baked into flapjacks?

        The viewer's face was now buried in wavy blond hair and laughter was loud, chiming and bell-like, and Cyrus' face was pressed close alongside hers, the pair engulfing the boy in their arms.

        "Your first Harvest Hurdles and you won, champ! Atta boy~" The man praised, voice rolling and deep like thunder, packed with affection and pride.

        His voice felt hoarse, stuck as his mind spun until he managed to finally murmur, "I remember this."

        Four looked up at him, the backs of their hands brushing soothingly. Vega swallowed thickly as the screen whited out and flickered into a new image; one of Vega, very young, clutching the neighbours dog around the neck and crying, whispering comforts to the non-plussed hound.

        "It's okay, doggy, I know you're sorry." He babbled. There were feathers and dried blood stuck to its muzzle. Dirt and tears smeared the little boy's pinked cheeks.

        "That dog killed my chicken." Vega laughed, voice feeling thick and raspy. Four murmured something about knowing the story, looking on with thinly-veiled eagerness to learn more. The image changed in the same manner as it had before, again and again, pieces of first steps and words, of a newborn being clutched tightly to breast, of a towering man laughing with his son on his shoulder, of baking hot fields and balmy nights and the coo of songs on the wind.