Rhapsody

Chapter XVI | Aftermath.

'Can't you tell? He's in shock- of all things, shock!'

'I guess it's only valid; he's just an 18-year-old after all.'

'He's not just an 18-year-old, Headmaster! He's the son of the Rear Admiral Denzle!'

'Who happened to have succumbed to battle, last I heard. That makes him an ordinary boy.'

'With stronger survival instincts than a Navy SEAL! How can you just put off his unusual behaviour like that?'

'Because he's eccentric, arrogant, condescending, and yes- he's not a nice person- but he's smart. He's got the intelligence to keep up with everything. Observant, too- his memory is crystal clear. He knows what needs to be done, and the lengths he'd go to achieve his goals are immeasurable. Therefore I don't worry about him the same way I'd worry about Xavier. So I say- sit back and watch Markel Peter Denzle at work. He'll surprise us, even with mild onsets of PTSD.'

The conversation replayed itself around his thoughts, as though on loop. The subject of the Headmaster's conversation with a mysterious someone had had the misfortune of chancing upon the opportunity to eavesdrop, and he decided to take it. Now, he was more preoccupied than ever.

But then again, that was a part of the reason why he wasn't currently attending his maths class, instead sitting the day out locked within the dark confines of a spacious marble mausoleum, pondering his own thoughts. Not like he actually needed to be with the dead after what had happened in Crisis Island- falling on a rotting corpse was more than enough to convince him that he'd never want to become a forensic anything. He just needed the silence that only a once-empty mausoleum could provide.

The thick journal belonging to Johnathan Baroque- again, that Baroque man, who was closer to the Rhapsodies than every other clue. Obviously, he had some sort of relation with the Rhapsodies- specifically Cloud and Rain, from what I've read so far. But why would the journal be hidden in Crisis Island, when it's suffocatingly obvious that the Rhapsodies never lived there?

Perhaps they were planning on moving- of course! The white building belonged to the Rhapsodies- the lab to probably the genius scientist. But why didn't they move?

They went missing before they could fully move. That's why the cult moved in. Perfect, too- if I found a building as lavish, I would settle in without any qualms.

At least, I would have.

Glancing in remorse at the lone polished coffin sitting in the large mausoleum, Markel moved towards the white stone, towering over the box's inhabitant with an unreadable expression.

We went to Crisis Island, a thirty-strong group of us, every single one healthy.

We came back to the United States with twenty-seven, plus one in a body bag and two with PTSD.

'A rather costly trip, don't you think, Sicily?' He asked aloud, slender fingers glossing over the glass that temporarily served as the coffin's lid.

'You said that this trip was free, aside from the roundtrip plane tickets. Is this free?' He glared at the peacefully pale face from the other side of the thick pane, as though expecting an answer. When none came, Markel looked away, focusing his attention at the blank walls, the steady drizzle of raindrops on the overhead glass tiles finally audible.

'I never got to tell you, did I? At least, not until it was too late.' The faint whisper echoed weakly back to him, and he sighed.

'I only ever had two, three friends at most. Xavier, my father... but also you. But it's too late to let you know. Sicily- or should I say, Joy... I was going to start calling you the name you wanted for yourself when we got back. I guess it's too late now.' Letting out a harsh laugh, Markel huddled himself into his corner once again, wincing when an accidental tug on his blanket strained his bandaged shoulder.

But he paid the pain no mind; instead, he drew out his phone and sent one text before returning to his previous position.

As the steady pounding of the raindrops drew out into a slow decrescendo, Markel headed out of the graveyard, his bright orange shock blanket wrapped tightly around his thin, disheveled figure as though it was the only thing in his reality aside from himself.

15:00- Markel Peter Denzle, sent to Sicily Joy O'Connor.

I'm sorry.

A/N: Above picture is the Gurnee Mausoleum (I imagine Sicily's to be like that...). By now, whoever checks my Chrome history probably thinks I'm planning my own funeral.

Which I am, but hey, most people don't.