What Thunder Left It Behind by DT Martin 6 The Cry of Thunder
6:12 PM Saturday, September 14th TDX House Cambridge The sun
hasn't quite surrendered, but St. lamps begin their silent
takeover, pools of amber blooming across the sidewalk and
steady intervals. Music thuds faintly from the
rooftop overhead, measured bass layered beneath laughter and
clinking glass. TDX looms ahead, all sharp
geometry and ambition, a three story testament to over funded
tradition. The front steps flare outward
from a double wide porch trimmed in Edison bulbs and half draped
Ivy. Someone has left the door ajar,
the welcome entirely implied. Tammy ascends the stairs first,
confidence braided into every step, her black dress anchoring
the evening's gravity. I follow half a pace behind, the
air cooling as we climb, tension folding into fabric.
My hand steadies the railing. It's metal, warmed by touch and
repetition. At the top, James stands beside
the door, 1 foot perched against the threshold, red solo cup
tilted against his palm. In theatrical disinterest, he
scans the sidewalk, then sees us.
His mouth opens, closes, recalibrates.
Well damn. Tammy doesn't slow.
Your jaw's going to collect insects.
James let's out a low whistle, stepping backward to make room.
This dress was a war crime. You're going to kill someone in
it, Possibly me. Tammy adjusts A curl without
answering. Then his gaze shifts to me.
The silence stretches for half a breath, weighted and palpable.
He takes in the collar, the edge work of the hem, the deliberate
asymmetry. His expression shifts in
increments, 1 brow lifting, the corner of his mouth tugging
sideways, caught between disbelief and delight.
And here I was thinking I'd be the hottest 1 here.
Dream bigger. Tammy says James places a hand
over his heart. I am reborn.
He reaches for the doorway with mock solemnity.
Welcome Queens, may the beer be cold and the boys be manageable.
Inside, the house glows at half volume, light pooled against
hardwood, voices bending around corners, every hallway strung
with tension held just below the surface.
I cross the threshold. The music thickens, My dress
finds its rhythm, my posture holds.
And the storm remains somewhere above us, still unspoken.
We climb the base, diffusing through wood and insulation,
then cresting into clarity as the final door opens and light
spills outward, brushing the top step in amber and dusk.
The rooftop stretches wider than I imagined, bordered by steel
railings strung with naked bulbs, their glow softened by
motion. The crowd is already dense,
arranged in constellations orbiting the ice buckets, the
folding bar, the pockets with the best view of the skyline.
Buildings stretch beyond the edge and jagged silhouettes,
windows burning low across the river bend.
Tammy steps out first, her heels catching in the wooden slats,
her dress dark as ink against the light.
My own heels pinch with every step, but I keep pace behind her
heads turn some immediately, others with delay.
None return to what they were doing.
James slides in beside her, casual as breath, flashing a
half smile at the seniors before drifting toward the bar.
I pause at the threshold, the air thinner here, the wind more
opinionated. The temperature has dropped by
at least 4° since we left the sidewalk, though the heat of
movement and presence keeps it livable.
I scan the crowd for exits. Tammy is already speaking to
someone across the railing, one hand on her hip, the other
gesturing and rhythm with her voice.
Laughter follows. She doesn't look back.
James reappears beside me, now holding 3 cups, 2 already
threatening to spill. Rum or murder?
He says. I don't remember which is which.
He hands me one, studies my face.
You doing all right? The question lands softer than
it sounds. I nod once, then again.
He doesn't press. Instead, he leans toward the
ledge and mutters about how rooftop lights are an overrated
hazard and someone should really report these people to the local
fire Marshall. My gaze drifts over the crowd,
the glow, the rising tension beneath the soundscape.
Then the air shifts, a drop in temperature.
The wind cuts sharper through the warmth of gathered bodies.
Pressure rearranges itself across my skin.
The air folds, barely a breaths worth, but the hairs at my neck
lift in response. A break forms in the crowd,
subtle, calculated movement that doesn't announce itself but
demands attention all the same. Steven emerges unhurried, hands
loose at his sides, sleeves pushed once past his forearms.
He doesn't speak my name, doesn't smile.
He stops directly in front of me, gaze steady, the distance
between us holding its own charge.
You did well on the test, he says, low, certain,
unembellished. Before I can answer, motion
slices in from the right, Tammy radiant and unapologetically
timed, her heels catching briefly on the deck as she
reaches him, one arm slides over his shoulder in a fluid arc.
Her mouth finds his with a kiss meant for watching eyes.
Told you she would, she says, her voice bright against the
silence still stretched between us.
Tammy loops her arm through mine and shifts direction, cutting a
soft path toward the far edge of the rooftop.
Come on. She says, her tone light but
aimed. You should meet someone before I
steal all his attention. Before I respond, she's already
guiding me through the maze of silhouettes and low
conversation, her heels a rhythmic signal against the
deck. We pass pockets of laughter, the
smell of beer and sharp Cologne folding around cigarette smoke
and BBQ ash. I stay a breath behind, letting
her lead. We stop near the railing where
two figures stand, 1 upright with relaxed certainty, the
other half folded into the wind as though in familiar
conversation. A black man with warm skin and
brown eyes straightens at our approach, the sleeve of his
utility jacket caught on the edge of his elbow, a pencil
tucked near the cuff. His gaze meets mine without
pretension, the look of someone who notices structure in
silence. Beside him sits a black Korean
man, his weight tipping the chair against the metal post, a
cracked server casings spinning slowly between his fingers.
His hoodie hangs open over a faded banty, sleeves pushed up
enough to show calloused wrists and the edge of AUSB chain.
His round glasses reflect the rooftop glow, obscuring the full
red of his face. Tammy stops at their side.
This is Lily Ross. She says with the easy pride of
someone introducing a favorite weapon.
The one who's currently breaking the curve.
The man sitting nods out of recognition.
A mathematician. He says, his voice full of
warmth. James mentioned you said your
mind hums louder than half the lecture hall.
I blink. Oh, James said that, Lily.
This is Rowan. She gestures to the black Korean
man. And this is Carter.
She indicates the man beside her.
Rowan lifts his eyes round, lenses catching a sliver of
light, expression unreadable behind them.
James says a lot. He offers deadpan.
But in your case he might have undershot.
The wind presses harder along the edge of the roof.
Somewhere behind us, a beat of music shifts tempo.
Carter gestures toward the railing.
You up for a few questions, Lily?
Tammy glances between us, already grinning.
Carter's in the same classes as Steven.
She adds. He's trying to see if you're
human or a math bot with better. Cheekbones, Rowan adds.
Which would actually be a relief.
Most math bots don't get nervous in crowds.
My mouth opens, then closes again, uncertain whether to
retreat or hold, but Carter's eyes are kind.
Rowan's curiosity carries no edge, so I breathe once through
the ribs, steady the Fibonacci sequence in my chest, and nod.
Carter shifts, 1 boot hooking against the base of the railing,
his gaze never leaving mine. There was a line in your seminar
transcript I couldn't stop thinking about.
He begins. You mentioned recursive
harmonics applied to bounded systems.
Used it to explain paradox stabilization under theoretical
time fold. I blink once, then again.
That wasn't part of the assigned material.
He continues, tone soft. You improvised it mid answer.
Tammy's brow lifts, impressed but unsurprised.
Rowan stills, the cracked casing between his fingers coming to
rest. I shrug, heat rising into my
collarbone. I was tracing interference
patterns, one of the diagrams folded back on itself, but the
error corrected in a loop, so I wondered if noise could function
as a kind of echo anchor. Carter smiles, subtle and
genuine. You reverse engineered harmonic
stabilization from a mislabeled chart.
I didn't reverse anything. I heard something wrong and
followed it. He leaned slightly closer, the
weight of his attention calm but gravitational.
That's not wrong. It's architecture.
That's what bridge design is constructing resonance that can
hold weight through repetition. Rowan speaks up then, voice dry
but deliberate. He's being poetic.
Oh, I wasn't trying to show up anyone, I say almost too
quickly. I just thought it was wrong.
That impressed me. Carter replies.
The silence that follows doesn't stretch.
It settles, something weightless but deeply structural, a pattern
briefly in balance. Behind me, laughter breaks
against the railing. I turn my head slightly.
Steven stands at the far end again, watching.
He doesn't speak. I return my focus to Carter.
Can I ask another? He says, careful with the
phrasing. My voice stays level, but I
smile at him. Only if you tell me what you
plan to build. With the answer, Carter grins,
row, and exhales, nearly laughing.
Tammy at my shoulder beams wide enough to eclipse the growing
wind. Carter shifts the pencil between
his fingers, a quiet tick of motion.
Hypothetically. He says if.
You had to stabilize a Truss system exposed to dual resonant
frequencies. 1 predictable, 1 irrational.
Would you isolate the interference or let the
harmonics collide and measure the yield?
My answer arrives before I can stop it.
You let them collide. If the structure holds, it's
worth building. If it doesn't, at least you know
where it breaks. Rowan tilts his head, intrigued.
That sounds personal. Oh, no, it isn't, I say, too
evenly. Carter studies me another
second, then nods, almost imperceptible.
That's what I thought. From behind us, a new voice cuts
in, sharper, unwelcome. Of course, she thinks that her
brain runs hotter than a quantum processor.
I don't turn to know who it is. Jeff Willison steps into view
with a drink in one hand and something smug in his posture
that doesn't need translation. His gaze skims me, then Carter
then circles Rowan with narrowed calculation.
So he says. What's the consensus?
We figuring out how she scores off the charts or just asking
about waveforms to flirt. Tammy's hand tightens on my arm.
Carter doesn't flinch. Rowan, however, straightens in
his chair. Don't confuse your insecurities
with other people's curiosity. Jeff's smile doesn't reach his
eyes. Touchy.
I'm just saying. Someone who finishes 200
questions in under 60 minutes might want to share how she did
it. Or should we all pretend it's
totally normal to outperform grad students on sleep
deprivation and black coffee? I lift my chin.
It wasn't 200. Oh.
He tilts his head. It was 203.
Carter's lips curve slightly. Tammy exhales in something near
triumph. Even Rowan presses his thumb
once into the server casing, a soft trigger.
Reset. Jeff scoffs.
So what's your IQ? The rooftop holds its breath.
My voice cuts through it, low and certain.
Does that tell you anything you don't already assume?
He falters a fraction. I don't care about IQ.
I continue. It doesn't measure how fast you
connect, only how narrow the test is built.
Jeff tries to recover, but Rowan steps in before he can.
Funny how the ones most obsessed with numbers usually fall apart
when the answer doesn't belong to them.
Carter leans forward, relaxed but unshakeable.
You were saying something about wave forms, Jeff.
Jeff doesn't answer. His jaw tenses, then loosens
into the approximation of a smirk, one that falters before
it finishes with a flick of his drink and a retreat.
Feigning indifference, he turns away and disappears into the
Press of bodies. Tammy exhales through her nose,
muttering something inaudible that definitely includes his
name and possibly a curse in Cantonese.
Rowan slides the cracked server casing back into his pocket, the
motion deliberate, meditative. Doesn't matter how smart they
think they are, if they need an audience, they're already
losing. Carter remains silent.
His face stays composed, untouched by anger or pity.
Just precise, observant. He shifts his weight 1 shoulder
easing against the railing, the wind pushing the edge of his
jacket up enough to reveal the mechanical pencil clipped
beneath. The silence folds in, braced and
contained breath collects in the hollow it leaves behind.
A familiar voice rises behind us, a performance James has
clearly been rehearsing since we arrived.
OK, OK, this corner wins again, obviously, but I've circled the
dance floor twice and I'm ready for wisdom wine.
Or both the. Drama up here tastes better than
the wine. He slides into view with that
practice spin, shirt rumpled, vest unbuttoned, curls wind toss
from his earlier lapse around the rooftop.
He lifts an imaginary hat, bows toward Tammy, then leans
dramatically in my direction. Lily Ross in Axis aligned
asymmetry. That dress should be a proof in
motion. I arch an eyebrow, resisting the
smile. You already said that.
Yes, but now I mean it. Welcome to the Elite Quadrant,
you. He points to Carter.
Must be the bridge poet I keep hearing about.
Carter's eyebrow lifts, noncommittal but present.
James nods, satisfied. Angular face engineer shoulders.
Yeah, I get it. Then his eyes land on Rowan.
River Quill still haunting rooftop edges, I see.
Rowan shrugs. Only when the signal is clean.
James grins. Don't let him fool you.
Rowan's the reason half the campus still has firewalls.
The other half is trying to figure out if he sleeps.
Tammy tugs James toward the drink table.
Come on, you promised scandal and salt.
James follows without resistance.
And you promised not to make out with Steven in front of a
freshman audience. She tosses a wink over her
shoulder. No witnesses under 18, I
checked. Their laughter trails behind
them. The rooftop settles.
Rowan leans against the post again.
Carter's gaze stays forward, and for one measured breath, the
wind holds steady. Carter doesn't move when the
others leave. His eyes remain on the horizon,
where city lights dissolve into a low haze above the rooftops,
clouds stacking slow above the skyline.
You ever think in structures? He asks, voice low.
Meant only for me. I glance at him.
Oh. Depends on the day equations
more than materials. He nods.
Barely. Same thing.
Math is form less visible perhaps?
A pause folds between us. Not heavy, simply honest.
He speaks again. When I was 8 I built a bridge
out of toothpicks, triangles, layers, joints.
Glued it too fast, cracked down the center before it dried.
I don't answer waiting. I kept the pieces.
He says. Still have them in a box.
Every acute angle, every stress fracture.
Can't throw them out. They remind me what not to miss
next time. There's something in the way he
says it that roots deeper than the anecdote.
The story isn't about toothpicks at all.
I study the lines of his profile, the way stillness
settles over him as an element rather than a mood.
His hands rest against the railing, 1 knuckle faintly
stained with graphite. I write proofs in the dark.
I say softly. Sometimes, in my sleep, I wake
up and the numbers are already there, but they don't always add
up in daylight. He looks at me, then truly
looks. They will.
He says a shadow falls across the wood at our feet.
All right, Heartbreakers. James declares, reappearing with
Mock, a fence and a refill. Did I or did I not promise one
of you a dance? He points directly at Carter,
who blinks once, unmoved. Excuse me?
Carter says, but the corners of his mouth have already betrayed
him. James flourishes his cup in a
loose circle. You Sir, have the best center of
gravity on this rooftop I've been watching.
You've been drinking. Carter corrects.
Both things can be true. James replies, setting his cup
on the railing. Besides, if Tammy can kiss
Steven in public, I can claim one slow song with the
structural engineer of my dreams.
Carter looks at me for confirmation.
I lift one shoulder. He doesn't relent.
Not even slightly. James confirms, grabbing
Carter's wrist with deliberate elegance.
Let's go triangles. Carter allows himself to be
pulled, his laugh nearly silent but real.
Back in five. James calls over his shoulder.
If we survive the tempo shift. They vanish into the crowd
again, leaving the rooftop open, music swelling, storm edging
closer. The Thunder hasn't started yet,
but something in the air fractures low voices bleed out
from behind the vents. I turn my head, but the music
folds over everything. In that breath, I think I
imagined it. Then it happens again, louder
this time, coarser. Look at the queers.
A pause. Should put that on a brochure
MIT where your sons come out in tuxedos.
The words hit low, sharp. A few stifled laughs scrape
across the metal siding behind the vents.
Rowing tenses. His head tilts in the direction
of the voices, then turns toward me, eyes narrowed, glasses
reflecting nothing. I step forward.
My pulse lashes through each limb, ungoverned and blinding in
its velocity. The voices persist, threading
venom in the seams between the baseline and shadow, every
syllable a fuse. I round the corner.
Tammy is nowhere insight, her laughter lost somewhere in the
crowd behind the vents. 3 stand there.
Jeff is one of them. Steven is there too.
Their laughter slows when they see me, though Jeff doesn't stop
grinning. Stevens jaw sets, but he doesn't
step away. Say it again, I say.
My voice shakes enough to betray me.
Hands are trembling, fingers curl tight, nails biting into my
palms. My voice is level, but inside
everything coils. Jeff raises an eyebrow.
Didn't know you were on patrol tonight.
My breath stutters, but I forced the words out again, louder,
harsher, A tremor running through each syllable.
Say it again. Steven doesn't speak.
His gaze shifts slightly toward me.
The others avoid my eyes. My knees feel unsteady, My jaw
clenches, but I can't stop the tremor in my voice.
You think it's funny, saying that while they're dancing?
No one answers. I step closer.
My whole body is shaking now, shoulders tight, heart hammering
so hard I can barely hear myself.
You think no one hears you? That you get to stand back here,
safe behind the vents, and throw slurs into the air, blending
them into the soundtrack? Jeff opens his mouth, perhaps to
crack a joke or deny it. I don't let him.
Lightning strikes somewhere overhead.
A burst of white ignites the clouds.
The Thunder cracks half a breath later, sharp and splitting.
It rolls through my spine before I can brace, and I jump, every
muscle seizing, shoulders jolting back.
The sound lands too close, too immediate, echoing inside my
ribs long after it vets. My voice wobbles, but I don't
stop. I can't.
You're cowards. I say, louder now, not bothering
to lower my voice. You think your silence makes you
decent? It doesn't.
It makes you complicit, every single one of you.
A flicker of movement to my left.
Someone turning. Music stutters.
You don't get to laugh at them. I continue.
You don't get to mock what you'll never understand.
Carter and James are more honest than any of you.
Someone tries to shush me. The Thunder cracks overhead.
Closer now. I jump, shoulders recoiling, the
sound reverberating through my chest.
My hands are shaking so badly I have to clench them into fists.
My words come out ragged, voice splintering.
I speak louder. You walk around in your designer
jackets and talk about intellect as a shield, but it's paper
thin. You think you're better because
you don't say it to their faces. You're worse.
Something cracks then, my voice, raw now, splintering mid
syllable, not all at once. The fracture leaks through
vowels I can't hold steady, but it's the control that fails
first. The words keep rising, fierce,
unrelenting, drawn from a depth that long predates this rooftop,
a fault line years in the making, split open by Thunder.
I never learned to quiet. My whole body is trembling now,
every muscle tight, every word of battle.
You don't know what it means to be seen and hated for it.
You don't know what it's like to live inside a body someone else
decided to ruin, to walk into a room and wonder which laugh is
meant to split you open. The music has stopped.
I look up, still shaking my hands, my voice, my breath.
The Thunder had cracked so close I jumped, my whole body
flinching, pulse rattling in my ears like struck glass.
Everyone's watching, especially him.
Stevens expression is unreadable, but the set of his
jaw is unmistakable fury. Not at them, at me.
The breath leaves my chest. I turn and I run.
Rain slices through the air before I clear the steps.
The first drop finds my neck, then another, then the sky
releases. I don't slow.
The storm builds behind me overhead, my heels lost and my
feet slap water. The dress sticks and my breath
pitches. I start to count. 30, four,
5589144233, 377. Each number draws breath from
the one before it, each step narrowing the world to a pattern
that never asks questions. My legs buckle as I reach the
quad. I catch myself, scrape.
My hands push up. Keep going. 610, nine, 180,
seven, 1597. Seven steps to the door. 4
windows across the lobby, 8 stairs, one hallway, my dorm
room. I enter, lock the door,
collapse. Sobs tear loose.
Before I can form a thought, I curl to the floor, ribs aching,
my breath torn into fractions by the storm still screaming behind
my eyes. There's no one left to yell at,
only me.