Fox swallows the lump in his throat as the fog in his head begins to clear-- slowly, like sunlight parting morning mist. His body, once overheated in the face of the flames, was chilled to the touch as he weakly lifted a hand to hug his opposite bicep.

“I…”

He could feel Lars’ presence behind him, a shadow, a warmth, but not entirely a comfort. Fox’s mind plays over everything he’d just revealed here, a play-by-play of traumatic proportions.

Like an arrow from a bow, he rises to his feet and turns on his heel to stalk away.

“We’re done here.”

Laurence Anderson
stretch of the imagination

☉

“I neither need nor want your help, commander!” Fox snarled, turning on the balls of his feet to snap at Lars like a Seviper striking its prey. “But it is exactly that kind of pompous, presumptive arrogance that continues to prove me right about you-- so, for that, I thank you.”

He ground any aspect of familiarity or camaraderie that may have been forming to dust beneath his heel.

“As I said. We are done here.”

And he stalked away without a third glance.

Laurence Anderson
stretch of the imagination

☉