The child continued to cry on Mark's shoulder, and Mark knew better than to interrupt him. He had learned this from his grandfather, who would hold him just like this and let him cry it all out. He felt better that way rather than when people would interrupt him.
Tears are said to be made of emotions, and if held inside, emotions unconsciously bottle up and come out worse—this has been seen a lot of times. Mark heaved the kid up and settled him on his lap in his seat, patiently patting him the whole time the child cried.
After some time, the child's breathing slowed down, his sniffles became less and less, and he gradually stopped crying.
"Feeling better?" Mark offered him a reassuring smile.
"Yes, thank you. It must've been so awkward, I'm sorry," the kid said, joining his hands.
"Hey now, big boy, don't worry. Now tell me what happened?"
"They killed her—my mother. I live with her here. My dad died a few years ago. I was traveling to India to visit my grandparents. I was traveling with her. I was sleeping on her lap, and when I stirred awake, I made a sound. She threw me under the seat to the front row and pretended she had made the sound... they... they shot her," the boy droned on. He looked like he was going to break down anytime, but he didn't—another perk of having cried earlier.
"I'm sorry. It must be so hard on you. You're such a brave kid," Mark patted the kid in front of him.
"Quite the father material you are," Drima teased, his voice tender with sadness.
"I'm not as brave as you. I saw how you dealt with them," the boy said, shaking his head.
"What I Did was common stuff for me, but you, you are the bravest kid I have known. Don't worry, it will all get better. Do you want me to do something?" Mark questioned.
Mark saw the gaze of the kid wander to the bodies of the hijackers that lay like a lump at the back, tied up. Mark could sense remorse, contempt, and some more dangerous emotions, unfit for a child.
"We will hand them to the police. They will be in for at least a life sentence. Let's play by the rules. Let's see how long the governments can last," Mark said with a sigh.
"I and Richards... yeah, this guy sleeping beside us... will have to disappear. Your mother will likely be taken to the city hospital. I will see you there. How does that sound?" Mark said to the boy.
The boy simply nodded.
Mark asked the boy his age, to which he replied he was 13.
"I—I don't want them to live," he blurted out shortly, pointing at the terrorists.
"Trust me when I say this—I don't either. I may have killed a few, yes, but we need them alive so they can confess their other crimes. Please. Or you would have had their other victims die in vain without even having their killer punished," Mark said softly.
The boy nodded. Mark settled him onto his seat and then went to the cockpit.
"Pilots, I need a favor," he said.
"What is it, sir?" the copilot said.
"Well, I don't want to get into media and shit, so I was wondering if there was a spare pilot uniform here... I need two, please," Mark said.
"We do, but they don't have badges. So keep your hands folded up all the time—and keep them," the copilot said after a while of thinking.
"Thanks so much," Mark said as the pilot reached for his bag and handed two pilot uniforms.
They had almost reached the Delhi airport—the capital state of India. Mark woke Richards up, and they went into the bathroom to disguise themselves. They landed soon after, and Mark gave the kid a nod before he got out.
Sure enough, the media was there, ready to bombard them with questions, and more ready to take pictures or perhaps get a few dialogues with the hero who just saved the day. Mark acted like they felt sick, so they just ran to the washroom.
"What now?" Richards hissed at him. "We can't exactly leave the airport in a disguise. We're gonna get discovered in the end."
"Hmm, Drima, you said something about wings?" Mark said out loud as he slipped back into his own clothes.
"I did. Wanna try them?"
"Yeaup."
At this, Richards gulped hard. He clearly wasn't open to the idea. As Mark asked Drima how to do it, Richards imagined wings on Mark, always picturing him like an overgrown bird at the end of the spree.
"WHAT?? I HAVE TO MOVE MY ARMS?" Mark growled.
"Yeah, I'll teach you levitation once you're strong enough. For now, do this," Drima said with a sigh.
Mark and Richards went outside and looked for an opening.
"Just help me coordinate and prompt me when to move," Mark said.
He stretched out his hands on either side, gathered ether energy, and solidified them as massive wings. Under Drima's instructions, he was able to fly—unsteadily at first, then he learned quickly. He formed some claws on his shoes and lifted Richards up by lodging his claws into Richards' shirt.