Marcus isn't the only one still carrying his stave.

There is no lightening to wreath Derrica's body, no tang of ozone or sparks catching at her fingertips. There should be. She is prickling and aware of every rasping sound echoing in this dark tomb of a building.

It's so quiet. Terribly so.

Derrica breathes out. She wants to speak, fill the space with something, but it would be foolish to the point of suicidal.

Marcus stops, and she stops a few paces ahead of him, turning to look. Take in the store that's caught his attention.

"Should we look?" is a breath of a whisper, carrying only because they are so in tune with the silence and what things disturb it.