Based on Scott Westerfeld's novel Leviathan.

revised 10/22/11; 1/7/12

It was a secret caged.

Of terrible things, of wonderful things, of silent wars that dented its great silver shell. A ship on wings of gossamer and sprinkling paint, flying high over the manicured pasts of lawns. Too quick to blow out the candlestick, it nimbly soared across the heavens, guns and men in tow. Always the head of the fleet, the rumors would say. Whispers told of its enemies toppling over at the mere sight of that ship-in-the-sky sailing on that deep blue sea of sky above.

Cynthia took pride in the fact that she served on the Coronet. That was fortunate, because there wasn't much she had left, in a world where such unimportance was bleached clean from the fabric of humanity. It was not about glory and shiny medals, no. More like staring straight into corpses' eyes, vacant bodies dressed in both uniforms. More like kill or be killed.

"Ha! Got your tongue, you skarmory!"

As she kept lookout on the mast, Cynthia waved to the birds squawking at the sight of big fat silver them, truly affronted. Here, where even the clouds were so far below, they seemed painted on the earth, she truly felt in her element. Flight or sky-skimming, as she liked to call it, did some good to her guts, the chains keeping her from floating away into insanity. For a while, at least.

"Sir, I think your watch is over."

She turned to face a pipsqueak, who would've been a trainer if the war never happened. No older than twelve, she lamented, and snorted. The boy looked so barking ridiculous, a flimsy I'm tough gaze that crumpled once she stood, towering.

"I think that you should go back to your mother," she retorted.

He shied away, but the face hardened into something of a scowl and grin. Lovely.

"I'd still rather be on the ground, sir," he began. "But—"

"No butts, butt-face," Cynthia interrupted, fighting the repulsive terror of this now familiar trainer.

"Sorry, Sergeant Clyde," he replied, no longer meeting her eyes. "I don't have any mother to go back to, like you were saying. Twinleaf was bombed. If only the champion had been strong enough to fight…"

And Barry, the legendary Dawn's rival, slid down the rope ladder once again, leaving her to take his lookout shift.

"Champion? Me?" she asked herself. "I'm still champion, right?" But even as she said it, she knew it was far from the truth, further than she was from home. This kid, pipsqueak and all, had disarmed her.

It hurts.

(-as she peered out across the floating sea, her thoughts start to bleed of a five-spired castle and blushed windows, shrouded in mist.)

Waterfall mist.

Of course, nobody knew that the former-superstar of Sinnoh was right there, inside the group of people who started this war in the first place. In fact, nobody realized that she's a girl, who still clung to the hope that the war will end before she dies.

She's been lucky so far; the short hair, the loose uniform, and the tie—that was definitely tied on wrong but only blended in with the sloppy soldiers, thank Arceus—had hidden everything.

If she's caught, then it's game over. Poof. Gone.

If she makes it through this, then she's home free, never mind the irony of it all.

Clyde the short-tempered, bristling blond sergeant did not worry over bloody towels and whether or not the Coronet will receive enough power to light up its showers again.

Cynthia the sad-smiling girl did.

(-she crossed her marred fingers and hoped for the best.)

At Jubilife they weeded out any Nurse Joys and stained the roads red.

Stupid pink-haired girls who should've disguised themselves. They also slaughtered trainers who should've tucked their obvious gaudy league caps away—the Pro-human army would've welcomed them in and fed their hungry mouths, she knew.

Knowing would always hurt her. That was why she was relieved when she ran out of fingers to count how many people she killed. Or when the Pro-past enemies, adorned in their vibrant green uniforms, ran out of name-tags to wear.

It made it a teensy-weensy bit better to fall asleep at night.

At Solaceon landed the massive Coronet, motor blades radiant against the resplendent skies.

She hoisted her backpack on her shoulder and looked back—maybe-maybe-not for the last time. Smaller machines would ship them to their next destination.

The Coronet had been her home when she most needed one, and it had secured a special place in her heart.

"Wistful, eh, Clyde?" Flint asked, panting beside her.

She spat. "Nah."

"I bet you are, fire-man," said Aaron, painfully stark clean against the blood and death. "You miss pokemon, don't you? I know I do."

The knot in her stomach squeezed too tight at the mention of it; something must have shown on her face, because Flint opened his mouth to say something. Probably stupid, since it was Flint she's dealing with here.

But the hovercrafts roll up, and she skillfully slipped into formation before she had the chance to be pried further.

Her disguise is too good even for a friend to recognize that sad-smiling girl underneath. It makes her feel infinitely lonely, but she stiffened up at the thought, let go of the breathing, very-much-living butterflies to the stars.

Soon Flint's trademark afro was lost in the crowd. She climbed in the hovercraft, jammed in shoulder to shoulder, avoiding the conversation, which was (by chance), about the champion of Sinnoh and how she failed - miserably.

At Veilstone they got ambushed.

Cynthia raced as fast as she could through the puddles, staying away from the direction of the gym, for fear that she would find Maylene or any of her karate wimps. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain; soon she didn't trust herself to not kill anymore; it had gotten habitual—easier to press than to resist. No big deal, she thought. She just needed to regain her focus and keep running, a slap of muscle and willpower spurring the desire to stop what she started.

But even sheer strength does not make up for clumsiness.

Somewhere in her rain, she had dropped her helmet, and it had blown to the feet of a shadow, yards away, who picked it up, coming toward her.

"Looks like you dropped this—"

"Stay back!" she snarled, whipping out her rigging knife. The mistrust that had fermented, deep down inside for so long, now chose a perfect time to implode.

"Chill out, man," the voice said, edging panic at the closer sound of bombs. "Or girl. Sorry! Look, I can get us out of here!"

Then (his?) hand thrust out and grabbed Cynthia's wrist—grabbed it hard. It throbbed—maybe more than it should have because it was the first time in a very long time Cynthia had felt any touch besides claps-on-the-back and fistfights. Girl? Did he say girl? Then that must mean…

She ripped herself from his grasp, and jabbed her knife sharply, nailing him in the leg. The person doubled over in pain, and she turned to run, but a thought caught her. All at once Cynthia knew she couldn't just leave him here—what, with the gunshots firing close behind and—damn you, conscience.

Stupid—by wounding him, she had to get this dead luggage to safety.

"Barking helmet." Wasting no time, Cynthia seized his collar, dragging them both out of the city, lungs smoldering.

At the cold, dark, already-destroyed Sendoff Spring, she's finally safe and hopelessly lost.

"It was only a scratch," she slurred through her gritted teeth, "so hold still. Hell."

"Well, that's what you think," the man-not-really-older-than-her said. He was more like a mutant boy.

With a granny's hair, she thought, peeved. "What I think is that you're a wimp. A smart one, unfortunately, since you saw through my disguise so quickly."

Despite his pain, the boy managed a cheeky smile. A bit better than a wimp, she would give him that much. "Thanks. It was just about your voice. And how it squeaked when you saw how good-looking I was."

"What—it was dark, you stupid bastard!" Cynthia twisted the make-shift bandage of her tie a little too tightly, because a yelp rushed to the night air a moment later.

"The name is Steven, not idiot." Again the grin, this time paired with an outstretched hand.

She hesitantly shook it, scars against scars. A sudden heat flushed her cheeks at that, and she looked away.

"Aren't you going to tell me yours?"

"Cl—no, Cynthia."

Her name was a blur of mixed emotions—petal-soft blots and smudges and bittersweet.

"You were champion."

"Yeah," she said, words sticking in her throat.

"I was too."

Of course! Cynthia looked at him, a profound respect bubbling with that dumb-butterfly-feeling deep down inside.

In the intact Valley Windworks, she found peace.

The Coronet might look for her, for their valuable sergeant, but she doubted that the war could afford to cross the mountains again, in the snow storms and cloud mines. Flint and Aaron would cause trouble, she knew—and just as they stomached Cynthia's death, they would also accept Clyde's.

She and Steven were biding their time, after all. They shared the empty building with a dozen other trainers and a florist; the room got warm pretty quickly, which was good, because the turbines were stilled, and frost laced their windows each night.

Atop the windworks' domed roof, it was a dead grand view, neon lights illuminating the threadbare trees in golds and reds, almost as if they had imaginary leaves again.

When spring came, she decided to venture out. Steven followed, much to her exasperation and relief.

They were two people hanging off of the same cliff, she thought, hoping not to fall down to certain death.

She lost some, and he lost some—they both killed people, scouts and spies, perhaps, people who stood in their way. She thanked Arceus that nobody she knew ran fast, except for Aaron, who was halfway across the region.

Whenever she passed by streams in the rose of dawn, mist spilled over her feet and that immediately made her think of home—which made her need comforting all the more.

She was home.

Of course, home didn't really count anymore, since it's a stack of rubble and splintered wood, cherry-topped with a headless statue or two. She would like to think that everybody escaped, unharmed, but that's not what the tears think.

She slowly, cautiously plowed through the destruction, ignoring pale hands and feet poking out at angles—a bit like spiders when they die, all shriveled, crooked, and so dead.

"I'm sorry that I never got to say goodbye," she muttered. "But you guys wouldn't care, right?"

Right then, she would've been content to just stand there, perhaps forever and more. A shadow peering into its lost-and-found box of keepsakes and paper dolls and glass figurines. That might be mine, those hopefully not, these might be mine.

The familiar hand-on-her-shoulder had never failed to tear her out of any bloody wish-washy thoughts, and now was no different. She followed the former rock maniac back to the ship-in-the-sky of her own, etching the very picturesque sunrise into the found half of things.

(-a breath tumbles and crashes, too soft and quick to make a real difference in the cold air and colder snow.)