The Bellators

3:7:4

 From the clear view on the intricately spiked roof of one of the golden tree houses across the street, it can be seen that turning in on the next street from afar is the matte black pod, which drives down the lane of houses, its engine gentle after the intense chase prior.

By trailing the pod, it's watched that the pod slows down upon approaching the opposite tree house, and upon reaching it the pod takes a turn onto the short driveway, slowing down even more to a snail's pace.

Ahead of the pod is what is initially the darker closed garage door, although it then dematerializes upon the pod's nearing vicinity, providing an entry into the spacious and clean white garage inside.

The pod promptly drifts through the open doorway in deceleration, and right after its full body passes through into the garage it comes to a full halt, and the engine is put to silent sleep. The pod rests in place for a few seconds, stationary, finally being able to come to a stop after the exhilarating sprint through the city.

While only the back of the pod can be seen from the angle on the other roof, the distant vague whooshes of a door dematerialization can be picked up on, and moments later so can the quiet but familiar voices of the two men conversing back and forth, the most prominent voice being the raspy senile one who by the tone of his voice is excited, juxtaposed by his partner whom is much calmer albeit still engaged in the conversation.

None of the words can be made out however, nor can either of them be seen due to them being too far into the garage, and even the sounds of their voice become silenced from the materialization of the garage door, once again cutting off view from the home's interior.

After a few extended moments upon watching the door close, waiting for another potential event which never comes, the perspective is shifted away from the house and towards the other side to properly disembark; the abrupt movement causes large chains to clang against each other once.

At the dining table Dana remains seated, holding her head up with teary, reflective eyes, having concluded her reveal to the one who had admired her most. Below her is the small congregation of tears forming a puddle, and neighboring it is the empty mug.

On the other side of the dining table past the tray majorly full of uneaten cupcakes–with various colors of perfectly squeezed frosting pink, green, yellow, and blue– silently sits Kokei, who's head also hangs low with a frown, her hands by her side for she knew nothing of what to do with them after the heartbreaking revelation.

While it would've been liked if Kokei had the words to assure and comfort Dana, she couldn't find any worth expressing without potentially worsening her state, for in truth such an existential wound was not one she could easily find ointments for.

So instead, the two silently sat on opposite sides of the table with their heads down, just absorbing the solemn atmosphere of what was at first meant to be a lighthearted banter after work. Not one of them says a word, for not one of them knows a word to say, leaving them in an awkward stalemate locked amongst themselves. Instead all there is in the house is pure, unobstructed silence. Absence of life. Hollow of soul.

As Dana sulks to herself, the center of the story's floor dematerializes, creating an entryway for those below, for the soft sound of an elevator pad ascending is accompanied by a distinct raspy male voice which progressively rises the more they do.

Upon being pierced by the voice that penetrates the pensive atmosphere who alerts of the subject's arrival, Dana instinctively raises her head with wide eyes, and frantically begins scrubbing the table with the sleeve of her blazer, wiping the tears off in a desperate attempt to cover up what could become excruciatingly embarrassing.