Raven's Will

1. life goes on

He buried the baby.

He wrapped its stiff form snugly into its blanket, then laid it to rest amidst the rubble. Five broken chunks of concrete were all he needed to cover the tiny bundle.

When it was done, he stepped back to look upon his work. The baby's grave was nearly invisible – just another heap of rubble amongst piles of fallen debris. It was unlikely that anyone would find it, or even knew it existed.

Nor would they care to:

The city had fallen. All around him, for fifteen miles in every direction, smoke rose from blazing destruction, masking the city's remains with a gray haze. Fallen buildings littered the ground with broken glass, shattered concrete, twisted steel support beams. The dead were little more than ugly carnage that painted the landscape with red, broken limbs.

He remembered when, only minutes ago, he'd held the baby in his arms. It had been alive then, staring up at him with huge, trusting brown eyes. Too weak to cry, too weak to move, the babe hadn't protested when he lifted it from the grasp of its dead mother.

How stupid of him.

He thought he'd be able to save it, to find a survivor who'd be willing to take the child in.

He should have just left it in its mother's arms.

No one had come forward to help, even though he knew they were there, hiding in the ruins, watching him warily. They had seen that he was carrying a dying babe, they had heard him calling out for help. Yet no one answered.

The only response he had gotten was an enraged scream ordering him to get out of the city. Get out of here! the voice had shrieked. You and your kind are not wanted here! Get out, get out!

Jett stared at the small grave. And swallowed hard, suddenly realizing that he had gotten himself into something way over his head. He was alone, for he had no allies, no friends that he could turn to. . .

He was only seventeen. A slim, five foot three teenager, and small for his age. Yet, he managed to look formidable, as he wore the white armored suit of a flyer.

His hands clenched. This is your doing, he hissed inside his mind, lashing out the man responsible for this mess. You killed this child. You killed this city!

Turning away from the grave, he lifted his gaze, and caught sight of two, pale faces watching him from the open windows of a crumbling building. As soon as they saw him looking, they ducked out of view. Jett sucked in a sharp breath.

"Hey!" he called out, tying to sound as friendly as possible. "Do you need any help?"

A face reappeared in the window. Worn and creased with sorrow, a middle-aged man stared back at him. For a moment, the features were arranged in a sorrowful frown.

"Please leave," the man returned, barely raising his voice enough to be heard. There was no trace of malice or anger in his voice, but the heavy sadness and despair were enough to make Jett flinch.

Yet, Jett didn't back down. "I want to help you."

"No. You've done enough." The man's haunted gaze turned away from the young flyer. "Just leave us alone. Please."

Growing frustrated, Jett took a step closer. "I'm not one of the Kairg," he exclaimed. "And I'm not part of Troit. I'm on my own, and I want to help!"

The man shook his head, and stepped back from the window, fading into the darkness. "It doesn't matter," His voice carried over the distance clearly, even after he was no longer in sight.