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It's your boy.
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When he caught her attention he started to shake violently, profusely sweating in his clothes despite the cooled air of the outdoors. His tremors were visible, terribly so, and his heart began to palpitate as his body worked autonomously. His grip tightened on the rifle, and he made a motion as if to hold it aloft but stopped before mid-way. He didn’t know how to operate it, and it seemed she was in the motion of surrendering. He looked noticeably distressed and fearful; she would find that his eyes were wandering from her bandanna to her own eyes; he was visibly thinking or assessing. He started to breathe deeply and slowly as if to calm slightly before speaking up.

“Sorry.” It came out at a strange pitch, a vocal snap with awkwardness comparable to when the voice breaks in an adolescent male.

“I ha-“his rifle lowered and fingers were far from the trigger, but his grip on the stock was still firm, his fingertips going white from the pressure he was exerting on it. He formulated his words very slowly and shakily paused, not returning a smile of any sort. His eye contact broke as he assumed a very defensive body language, clutching the rifle as if it were an island of safety.

“Just, that you know. I wasn’t planning on shooting. I’m just, I- it’s that, I feel sick to my stomach and there’s nothing to vomit out.” He voice wavered out ever so slightly, as he realised that he sounded a little disjointed. He wasn’t communicating what he was feeling properly either, as what he had meant to say was that he was feeling very uneasy.

However, now that he had found a team member he was feeling a little less threatened, for he felt uneasy when moving in solitary. Even the brief time he had spent cautiously traveling had been mentally straining for him, as he had feared a sudden ambush. So now that he had a companion, he was able to calm enough to recall that her face was familiar. There was no name to match with her appearance, as he’d never actually spoken to her in the past but had at times seen her from afar. He tried to recall her name, falling silent for a time as the gurgling river and sounds of nature quickly became the dominating aural element for a short time.

“I don’t remember your name.” he admitted tactlessly, feeling regretful as she apparently knew his. His eyes trailed to the bright pink scooter and a pressure caught in his throat, grimly realising that there was only one proper weapon between the two of them. His expression seemed visibly disheartened as he very plainly gazed at the toy.
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Ones Who Fly Twos Who Die · The Orchard
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