Keeper of the Lost Cities: Rebuild [COMPLETED]

Chapter Eighteen - DEX

Behind.

That was how Dex felt.

Or maybe "left."

Left behind?

Perhaps "shadow."

Invisible?

Useless?

No. He wasn't useless. Tam and Marella were better for the job—and adding Dex into the group would only create more stress.

Logically, it was the smartest move.

Logically, Dex was better suited working on gadgets or whatnot.

Logically, Dex shouldn't have felt so... overlooked. Unappreciated? Ignored.

But logic had nothing to do with what was raging inside his head, so he focused on the words.

The words helped him focus—focus on anything but his illogical feelings.

Right now he was... lonely.

Eh. That didn't quite do him justice.

"Warm"?

Technically he was warm—light leaps always were that way—but that was a physical description, rather than emotional. Well, it could be emotional, but in this case it wasn't, since the heat spread no farther than his skin.

So he wasn't warm.

But he was sad.

Too basic.

Remorseful?

Over what?

Indignant?

Yeah, maybe.

"Indignant" because none of this is my fault. "Indignant" because the only reason I feel this way is because of Sophie.

Except I'm responsible too.

I should've shown that I was worth it.

That I can be helpful.

Part of him wanted to blame Sophie and the Black Swan for every one of his problems, but only he was in control of his emotions. Logically, blaming Sophie would get him nowhere.

Yet lately, logic was doing nothing for him.

All these thoughts compiled in a split second, in which he was at Rimeshire and then he wasn't. Instead he glittered into a familiar clearing, cool air—though not as cold as his home—reddening his cheeks and ears. Dex pulled his cape tighter around him and walked the rocky path to Widgetmoor, letting the mist wash away his words and replace them with numbers.

Everywhere he looked, there were groups of five:

Five clock hands.

Five metals.

Five cogs on the steel door.

Dex rapped on it five times, counting each knock with careful attentiveness. One-two-three-four-five.

A steel pipe hung from the chrome ceiling; it came to life as soon as Dex's hand left the door, scanning his face before retracting. The tech emitted five buzzes before the door slid up, revealing the silver-arched path that led into the atrium.

"Tinker?" Dex called, finger absently brushing against a fern. One, two, three leaves.

The heady scent of nature invaded his nostrils, and he tried not to cough. No matter how many times he came here, he would never get used to the smell. It wasn't clean—not in a hygienic way; more like "crowded." Dex was used to being able to see the floor and walls, so he could fling things everywhere without worrying about them getting too lost, but Widgetmoor was a maze Tinker's mechanical animals could disappear in. It was the perfect setting for one of those human horror movies his mom made him watch.