(This extra takes place when Tarriq is 15, about 3 months after the death of his father.)

“I need to build. To create.”

My voice crackles with disuse within that place of absolute black. These are the first coherent words I have spoken in quite some time. The mad ramblings of the past unknown time interval fell aside perhaps two weeks ago. Or has it been three? There is no passage of time here in the depths. But now I crack the silence I had drawn about me like a shroud to give voice to some semblance of coherency.

Before me stand my grandsire and grandmatron. The only family I have that remains. Though there is no light here, I can see them. Or rather, I can see the surprise and startlement that comprise them at this moment. It sways strongly in my grandsire, thick bands of yellow and orange that weave through his form like a net. On my grandmatron, they are not so prominent, and they are intermeshed with the pale greens of concern. 

Grandy finds his voice first. “Tarriq, you are still unwell. Perhaps you should continue to rest.” His voice is a gravel rockslide, the pebbles bouncing and caroming off the walls of his trachea. I hear him suppress a cough as the wind of his words abrades the scars now lining his respiratory tract. Concern sprouts, and I can see he says these things from a place of caring. But I do not want to hear this.

“No! I cannot…” My voice breaks. The madness tries to surge. I shove it down with an iron fist and try again. “I know the systems must be struggling. Let me build. Let me reforge that which was shattered.”

They look to each other, an unspoken conversation flowing through them across their linked hands and in the pale purple cloud they share. I see Grandy’s reticence and Gram’s compassion. She speaks first. “Tolen, he is determined. The madness is there still, and it may never recede fully. But he also speaks true: he needs this. Can you arrange for it?”

Grandy floods with hesitation, caution lapping in pastel pink waves. “I’ll...make some inquiries. But it’s going to take me some time; perhaps a couple of days. And Merrick may not allow it. I don’t have the influence I once did.”

“I know you will try your best.” Gram blooms with confidence in a riot of pale shades. “Come. I will lead you back to the sub-city, so you may begin at once. Tarriq, do you require anything more before we take our leave?”

I fidget as I consider, my fingers twitching as they seek purchase on nothing. The desire to grasp something...anything...is strong. “I need...no. Nothing. Perhaps materials. But not yet. Soon.” I feel the edges of my thoughts begin to fray, trying to slide back into the safety of the Dark. The song tugs. I can hear it, at the edge of consciousness, a siren call. “You should leave.” I know my deranged ramblings make my grandmatron deeply uncomfortable, and I have taken to trying to warn her should I feel them approaching.

She seems to understand. I see the collection of her emotions nod even as apprehension begins to tint the edges of her. “We shall return later,” she decides, tugging gently upon Grandy’s hand. “I will have a meal brought to you soon.”

I thank her for her kind consideration in Denzani, the liquid syllables muddied by the madness now impinging on my coherency. Her consciousness shivers at the touch of my voice. But I do not blame her. Hearing such volatility is frightening to any true Denzai. That I not only accept it, but embrace it, is the height of perversion. But I no longer care. That comforting madness is what has shielded me from a death borne of despair. 

One last coherent thought dances across my cognition before I surrender to the Dark this time. “Four teams, Grandy.” I see their silhouettes pause. “I will need personnel to rebuild. I know not how long it will take. But I will need four teams to draw from, so that none are husked.”

He wavers, uncertain, before coming to his decision. “I’ll make it happen, Tarriq.”

Then he and Gram depart, leaving me to myself. I surrender my grip on sanity for now, allowing the Dark to wrap me securely. Its song begins to flow forth, unheard by any ears but my own, and I open my mouth to give it voice yet again. 

*****

As near as I can determine, it takes about three days for Grandy to secure my position and fulfill my request. I spend an increasing portion of the time in sanity, attempting to hold it and remember what it is to function. I do not necessarily want it, as the lure of the Dark is like sweets to a child. It fills the void, appeasing the hole where...someone...no, it hurts to think about. Time and again, my mind turns away from the memory. The Dark rushes in to offer comfort, singing that soft lullaby of madness. But there must be a balance. I cannot hide away forever. And so I reluctantly push it away, as much as I wish to revel in that comfort. It gives life, but it does not live. It smothers and suffocates with its comfort. Light is extinguished.

And so, I request light be brought. A small amount, at first. My eyes must reacquaint themselves with it. A single globe of red that I spend hours cringing from even as I force myself to endure it. More hours are spent watching the shadows thrown upon the walls. Then a second globe, to push myself further. I dine with it, singing my illogic to it, railing against the unfairness of what I must endure. Alone, I allow it to manifest as it wills. When others are present, I try to remain silent so that their discomfort is lessened. My people fear me. I can see it upon them. And so I try to not remind them of it every waking moment. 

Sometimes, I sleep. But it is fitful, disturbed by dreams which torment me with a replay of death. I can still feel his corpse atop me at times. My bones ache with the remembrance of injury, especially where my clavicle is held together with rare metals. The pin driven down its length is the template around which the slurry of bone and glue reformed into a solid structure. I can feel the uneven calcification beneath my skin at times, especially when my scaling is out. These things all serve to distract me, to rattle my thoughts out of order and wake me repeatedly even as my body cries out for respite. 

It is at this edge of sleep deprivation that Gram escorts Grandy to visit me once more.

“Tarriq.” His voice is stronger today. It will never be as it once was, but today seems to be a good day. “I’ve secured what you requested. The People will be providing materials for a rebuild of the generator and Merrick was convinced to allow you to resume your place.”

“You mean his place.” The correction from my lips is spoken in a dull monotone. “I will not be returning to subordinance. He is no longer able to fill that place. So I will take it.” 

Sadness wells in my grandparents, deep floes of blue stricken with black like cracks. They mourn as deeply as I. They feel his loss keenly. Perhaps it cuts them as it does me.

“If you can prove yourself with this rebuild, then yes. But there is doubt.” Grandy does not hide his misgivings; he has learned it is useless. “Merrick especially is reticent to allow you back while you are still mourning your father’s loss.”

“Then I will prove Merrick wrong!” I snarl, suddenly awash in anger. “I will prove them all wrong! I have trained by his knee since I was three! They cannot take his legacy from me. No one can. I will never allow it!”

I see my grandmatron quail before my lashing rage. The Dark tries to stir, to latch onto that anger and ride it to unfathomable heights. But I do not want to harm her. I turn away to rein in my temper, as it is the sight of her fear that is driving my spiral. 

“Forgive me,” I mumble. “That should not have been directed at you.”

“You are forgiven, my grandspawn.” I feel as though she answers for both of them. “Should you require it, the People can give you aid…”

“No.” I cut her off almost savagely, the word biting and sharp. “This is my task. I need to prove myself to Merrick, apparently. And the People would not fare well under my direction. They barely recognize me as one of them as it is. I cannot ask them to abide my volatility.” That last word drips with derision. It is the word they have all used. A polite address of the madness flowing through me. And then I sigh, the anger draining so abruptly that I almost wonder if it was ever there. “I should like to bathe, if there is time. And change my clothing.”

“We can stop by the house,” Grandy allows. “The repair is slated to begin with third shift tonight, so there’s time yet. Second shift just started perhaps an hour ago.”

I nod. “That will suffice.”

*****

I shower and shave myself with the lights off. The heat of the water feels good upon my filthy skin, as though sluicing the dirt away takes some of the instability with it. Combing the matts out of my hair takes more time than washing it. But I have not had a proper wash since everything happened. Which I discover amounts to about three months. 

It feels like it happened only yesterday, but also years ago. Time has not been my ally. It continues to flow past me, unforgiving, sweeping me forward against my will. And yet, it also seemed to freeze on that day. I have not adequately processed my loss. Facing it brings only an empty ache, a hole in my chest that feels as though it will never fill again. Standing there in the shower, seeing the residue of his emotional imprints surrounding me, I break down into great heaving sobs. Sorrow flows from my mouth in Denzani, as I verbalize at last the anguish of my loss. Sadness, in turn, gives way to anger. Why did he have to be taken from me? What did I do to deserve this? It is not fair. I am alone now, when I never was before. 

Eventually, that too passes. Though not before the water starts to chill as the hot runs out. I am shivering as I dry myself, and it is not merely from the cold. As I dress, I armor myself against the excess of emotion still rampaging through my veins. I know that in order to build, I cannot have stray emotional detritus plaguing me. To allow errant emotion is tantamount to failure before the work even begins. And so I order my thoughts. With the release of earlier, that is a bit easier. Allowing the excess to run down the drain with the water was cathartic in more ways than one. I further order myself as I comb my hair and tame it into a single tail. By the time I exit the bathroom, I am at least outwardly in control of myself. 

Grandy and I partake of a meal together. He is a gifted cook, especially when it comes to breads. Never have we lacked for biscuits or rolls to sop up a savory stew, or pastries to round out a meal. And today is no exception. It has been more difficult of late for him to cook, as he gets winded quite easily since his accident. But he still manages to serve us each a sandwich of shaved poultry on thick slices of homemade bread, toasted in a pan and covered in the drippings thickened to roux. I do not have the heart to tell him it tastes like ashes in my mouth; it is not his fault that I have had no appetite. But I do finish it all, as my body craves the nutrients and will not let me leave a single crumb.

I also manage to sleep briefly. It is fitful, as is my current normal, but at least my eyes feel slightly less gritty. The dreams remain absent, which I take as a small blessing. I will have precious little sleep whilst rebuilding the shattered generator. It will be my first time crafting such an immense project without aid. But I am currently not sane enough to feel concern over that fact. I only want to feel something besides madness and grief.

I set out for Station Four when it is time. Our family home is very nearby to Station One, and each other station is approximately 20 minutes or so away at a quick walk. They ring this initial facility, a tidy layout that operates like a wheel when all stations are awake and functioning. But Station Four, where the accident occurred, has been essentially offline for the past three months. The entire rest of the grid has been straining to accommodate the loss. I have heard Grandy speak often to me of the energy saving measures that have been implemented in the wake of the loss. Whether he thought I was listening or not, it does not matter. It was something he knew I would wish to hear of, a thing that I could relate to as I was familiar with the circumstances. He spoke of it to make me feel comforted.

The walk to Station Four becomes more difficult with each step I take. It is something I failed to account for: that the grief of having to return to the place where he died would affect me so strongly. I feel both excitement at returning to my task and dread at having to see that room again. What memories will it hold? What emotion has been embedded into the generator room? Will the stains of our blood still be on the floor? For he was not the only one to leave his life dripping out onto the ground. I was very nearly killed as well. My right arm and shoulder ache to consider it. And though the shattered off ends of my scales have long since sealed over, they remain chipped and blunted as yet. Marred. And I do not know if they will ever shed and be replaced as they would be with a true Denzai.

And how will the teams react to me? Will I be able to step into his place and find enough acceptance to succeed? I am only 15. Will the humans obey me as they did him? 

Doubt begins to weigh upon me. It brings anger with it, and I begin to pull in upon myself. My shoes begin to slap with increasing aggression upon the walkway. They had best obey, I decide. This is my place. My birthright. I have trained for this since I could carry song. I simply was not anticipating having to step into his place this soon. Dark willing, I should have had another four or five decades with him. He was taken entirely too soon. 

Anger is what I carry with me as I stride into the foyer of Station Four. I know it shows upon my face. My goggles keep others from seeing it burn in the depths of my eyes. Technicians step aside quickly as I sweep through the corridors toward equipping. As they should. Even as small as I am, I could easily maim them should they impede my passage. My unique physiology ensures that.