history | a boboiboy fanfiction

6 | Failure

I'm tired, Cyclone thought, the mere thought of his friend's condition held weight beyond his comprehension, forcing his shoulders to sag and his knees to tremble. The thought alone suffocated him—the fact that he was helpless to give, powerless to lighten his burden.

He wished that everything would return to the way they had been. Just the three of us, he thought, a smile tugging at his lips. No fights. No villains. No space. No—

His growing smile vanished, instead it was replaced by a cold, dead sensation in his stomach.

No friends.

The wars were what united them as one. If there weren't any chaos, they wouldn't have met at all. He himself would live under the fear of Quake's bullying, and he would never find his confidence nor his voice. Without any ripples in their peace, they would never realize that they were in peace at all.

He didn't want Thunderstorm to continue his streak. He didn't care if he had no powers. He didn't mind if Thunderstorm's mission failed.

All he wanted was to stop.

You can never turn back, Thunderstorm had said to them, holding out two hovering orbs for them, his gaze solemn and reluctant as if sending them a message to turn back. Instead, they smiled and took the power, sealing the contract with no due date.

We'll live through it together.

What was the cost? What were the consequences? Three hundred years later, that promise seemed so childish and bleak. They were drifting apart, each of them immortal and slowly carving their own paths away from one another.

Do I want to stop? Do I want to die? Cyclone pondered. Thoughts that once terrified him became his daily routine. Maybe I do. I'm so, so tired.

But one look at his team; the growing smiles of the ignorant, slowly recovering from their trauma as they picked up their wills to move on. Blaze, Ice, Thorn and Solar didn't know, and they were fortunate.

Do I want to give this up?

Outside the garden, Thorn shrieked as he dug through one of the fern's pots, his gloved fingers coated in damp soil. As Cyclone turned towards the plant elemental, Blaze spat fire over his phone, melting the device. ("Who threw coke in the garden?" Thorn cried, already plotting his next murder. "Are you sure it's not cocaine?" Solar called, which caused Quake to drop his plates.)

Cyclone sighed, blinking the tears from his eyes.

As long as they still had their smiles, still had warm breath in his lungs, he had a reason to breathe, to walk beside them.

But the red spear in his room reminded him of what must be done.

* * *

Thunderstorm collapsed to his knees, vigorously coughing blood that trickled down his chin, and to the grassy grounds. Drip, drip, tap; the sound of blood resembled a gentle rain, but reality was anything but.

He raised his hand to his mouth, but it was a moment too late. He pulled his hand away, his palm stained with black blood.

I'm almost out of time, he thought, rising to his knees. He felt faint, though there was no pain. Dazed, his eyes squinted as he looked up towards the land of hurricanes, beginning its restoration to its full glory. Even now, winds picked up on the ground, brushing his hair and cooling the black blood on his chin and neck.

Just one more. He turned towards the direction of his ship, though his knees began to buckle, his vision darkening.

Each step became more unbalanced with each one, his back slouching in unfelt exhaustion.

Almost there, he thought. He should be panicked, he should be trying to save himself; but he felt only void, as if he'd accepted his untimely fate.

"You're a failure," he felt himself mutter, then he collapsed to the ground.