Confusion.

Warmth.

Touch.

A curtain was lifted, the darkness which separated boy from the world drawn away in one smooth motion, and for the second time Zero experienced birth into a world of light. Autonomic reflexes pulled his eyes shut, tried to protect him from the onslaught of vision, but the boy resisted with all of his might, his brain an explosion of wonder and joy. It was so beautiful, and for a moment his terror was gone, lost to the pure relief and ecstasy of being alive. Colors filled his periphery, indistinct movement crowding into his sunbeam gaze: he needed to see it all. Had it always been this beautiful? He could smell the salt, the sand, the plants and the bodies. Had there always been so many smells in the world? He was aware of every sensation encroaching on his tiny form, screaming louder than even the dull and overwhelming pain, forcing him to acknowledge them instead of the terrible it. A boy drawn always to the brightest parts of life, he let himself focus on it all, on the color and the sounds and the smells and the warmth.

Warmth.

Why was he so warm?

Thus far the boy had been wholly focused on the experience of himself - as might be expected of a small child having recently undergone trauma - but now his awareness began to expand, other souls winking into existence around the lightning's son. There was a body beside him, bathing him in warmth, embracing him in its wings. Initially, the boy had simply accepted this as Ma, because who else would it be? Who else would hold him like this, keep him safe and take away the pain?

Except... wasn't that Ma, standing above him, her worried face looming down from the sky? If she was up there, then who....?

The boy turned, blinked, and frowned, a single word with a million meanings spilling from his inky lips.

"Da?"

Are you my hero, Da?

Who's to say what might have happened next. Perhaps Zero would have overcome his conflict, seen through Gaucho's gruff exterior and realized the love he offered, the gift of protection he gave a child who may not even be his blood. It might have been a touching moment of family bonding. Maybe, in that instant, all of Zero's father issues would have been resolved.

But the world doesn't work like that.

Just as the boy's head began to droop, tension easing from freshly-healed muscles, a familiar voice brought his muscles tight. A child can always tell when their parent in angry, and Ampere was enraged. "Ma?" he croaked, blinking rapidly and struggling to rise despite the lingering pain in his wounded wing. Young legs flailed as he pushed himself away from the warm safety of Gaucho's embrace, struggling (and largely failing, the boy being utterly graceless at the best of times) to rise onto hooves of slate. "Ma!" his voice rang out again, eyes widening as he began to understand. Frantically he pulled his front legs beneath him, though his hinds remained reluctant to follow in kind, anxiety filling his youthful face as his best friend and his mother squared off, all because of him. Thoughts raced around an already rather disorganized head, tears rising in sunbeam eyes until at last he stood on shaky legs, and cried into the fray, "Ma, no!"

In the aftermath of his outburst, Zero's gaze grew wide. His words echoed through his ears, the defiance of them - had he ever defied his Ma like that before? - but what else was he to do - Ma, please, I'm scared, love me. Oh, he knew he was in trouble. When Ma was that angry nobody was safe, and even though the boy'd been brave when he leaped onto the tiger, he was very, very afraid now. Ma was worse than any tiger. Ma was worse than anything. Because a tiger could take away his life, but a Ma could take away her love, and right now the boy wanted nothing more than to feel his Ma's loving embrace.

But he wouldn't sacrifice his friends to get it.

Black mane danced over downcast eyes as the boy stepped toward his Ma. They were all there, all safe, Iso and Mesec and Gaucho, all there for him like they had been  during the fight, but now it was his turn to take the blows for them. Maneuvering his body like a tiny, stalwart shield, the boy pushed himself between his friends and his mother, and willed himself to look upon her, to swallow his fear and face down the oncoming storm.

"'S not her fault, Ma... 's mine. Don't be mad at her. Please."

And then, overcome, tears heavy in orange eyes, he took a staggering step forward and pressed himself against the stalwart form of Ma, the source of his stability, the center of his world. It didn't matter that he'd almost died, that she was angry, that he was hurt. It didn't matter because she was there, and they were both alive, and nothing could be better than that.

Muffled by her mane and his tears, the boy choked out out against her skin, "'M sorry Mama. 'M sorry. You can be mad at me."