Michael
OUT OF DARKNESS INTO THE LIGHT
IF YOU WANT ME GONE
IF YOU WANT ME GONE
Shiny hair, giant ass trident, unnervingly quiet, some sort of… alien capture device on his back?
Now, Michael was always one to judge - his survival depended on it - but this was one of those times where he wasn't sure WHAT he was looking at. And it was important that he knew, if only for his own sense of
the things I don't know are much scarier than the things I do
Paranoia etched at the corners of his mind, tiny claws scraping. It told him to LEAVE, to turn around and get the hell out, and he was just about to when the man spoke to him about hunting 'them' for his region.
What in the nomadic fuck did that mean?
"Uuh. No?"
Slowly, he glanced downward and slightly to one side. Eyeing the deadly flowers that were - he just now realized - far too close to him. He sidestepped a few strides away from them before his blue gaze flicked back to the stranger. And then to the strange box on his back. Then back to his face, back to the box.
Face, box, face.
Box.
The sun on the snow wasn't too piercing here, and so he slowly removed his goggles. Wanting a better look at this giant and the weird little box on his back.
"Who the hell comes all the way to the Fangs with a giant fork and an empty box?" Snark there between syllables, the rumble of confusion. The slow twist of distrust far less at the moment than his curiosity.
YOU PULL THE TRIGGER YOURSELF
