Page 196 of Fallacies

Beside me, Pax shakes his head in disbelief. “Grey.”

Phoenix pulls away, moving silently towards the huddled group of Sol, and they watch him reverently as he stares back at them. Nix stares with the same heartbroken worry that I felt when I first saw them all. Thin and frail, but alive. Their bodies and minds were thoroughly ruined, but alive, nonetheless.

“I’m glad to see you,” I hear my father say to Pax.

“Oh, the feeling is mutual, Captain. Very mutual.” Pax glances at me, gauging how I’m handling all of it, and I manage a smile. That seems to be enough for him.

“Alright,” I exhale, “we’ve got to keep moving.”

Turning towards Devon, he seems to know what I’m going to say before I’ve even said it. “You and Nix take the back. Pax, you take the left, I’ll stay up front, and Dad—” The order dies on my tongue. It feels inherently wrong to give the former Captain orders.

My father smirks. “I’ll take right,” he says.

Devon and Phoenix move to the back, and Pax nudges my shoulder as he passes, keeping his voice low, “Cin?”

“She should be on her way now,” I tell him. “She’ll meet us at the bunker.” I can’t speak any other alternative into existence.

Pax nods in agreement, scanning the path we’d come from before turning on his heel and disappearing to the left side of the huddled group.

I take the front, centering myself with the group before I start walking, setting a decent pace through the city. Without the distraction of the explosions, I know we don’t have much time, but we have a better chance of protecting the Sol with Pax and Nix added to the mix.

Just as the border comes into view, dawn breaks. The cloud covering over Streatham ends just a few feet short of the boundary, and the first of the sunlight flickers through the ruined buildings ahead, catching the immediate attention of the Sol.

A few gasps break out behind me, followed by the hurried shuffle of feet and the loud clink of chains.

I don’t make any attempt to quiet them.

It’s the sun. After twenty years without it. Twenty years in the dark. If they could run to it, I have no doubt that they would.

The sun rises higher, and streaks of gold burst across the ruined cobblestone. The shuffle of feet behind me grows louder, the rattle of chains echoing through the quiet dawn.

I hear prayers. Soft crying. More gasps.

The front line pushes forward, desperate to reach the border, and I keep just ahead of them. We pass through the shadow of the last row of buildings, and when the first Sol steps into bright, unfiltered sun, I can feel the relief in the relieved breath she exhales.

The woman tips her head back, spreading her arms as wide as her chains will allow, scrunching her eyes as she struggles to acclimate to the sudden brightness. Her lips part, her chin trembles, and then a glorious smile wrinkles her hollowed cheeks.

More have moved to stand beside her, lifting their faces east. Chests rise and fall with full breaths.

It’s a glorious scene. A mass resurrection. Beings of light, nourishing themselves with the very thing they’ve been starved of. Pulling that warmth straight into their veins, and bringing themselves back to life with it. Reclaiming what belongs to them and taking the first step in what will be a long process of healing.

Nobody speaks. It doesn’t feel right to.

But I catch movement in my peripheral as Nix steps forward, weaving silently through the group. He reaches for the first chain he sees, wraps his fingers around it tightly, and pulls. Steam rises off the metal as he heats it, taking it to a temperature that allows him to bend the links.

After a few seconds, the chain falls to the ground, and a plume of dust rises around it.

The Sol he freed stretches his arms wider, and Nix moves on to the next.

More steam rises. Another chain hits the ground.

Devon and Pax join him, and I move to start on the front row, taking cold chains between my fingers and heating them until they’re malleable enough to break.

The marks left on their wrists don’t even seem to bother them all that much. Every Sol I come to is far too focused on the freedom it grants—spreading their arms as wide as they’re able.

For a while, the only sound is the periodic thud of metal hitting cobblestone. We move silently through the group, leaving warped chains in piles at their feet, and when I get to my father, I realize he’s removed his own.

Unlike the others, he isn’t basking in the heat. He’s frozen in place, spine rigid, facing the sun but not looking directly into it. He senses my approach, cracking open an eye and looking back at me for a moment.