fog of war | {saylor/reagan}
Mar 12, 2021 11:54:07 GMT -5
Post by hesper hart 🐺 d9f on Mar 12, 2021 11:54:07 GMT -5
Why people chose to linger around, Reagan thought, when the fight had already been lost for them, she would never know. It had happened at the bloodbath first, her alliance all resting on the hoard of their riches, constantly catching glimpses of those they'd beaten for the wealth just on the edges of their surroundings. Take the loss, she'd thought, confusedly, retreating to the center of their pack in case someone decided they wanted to go for a round two.
And now, again, in the wake of their fight, Reagan kept seeing glimpses of things in the distance: a flash of silvery-blonde hair, footsteps small enough to belong to the girl from Nine and now this: the boy from Ten. Only he was not rounding a corner just as Reagan caught sight of him. He did not duck out of view. He was not even facing away from her. She saw him, and he saw her.
She'd helped to kill his friend only a few hours ago.
It stung, thinking of how she would feel if the tables were turned. The anger she could feel within her chest was enough to know that if this boy had played any part in killing someone she cared about, she wouldn't have still been standing, dumbfounded, in that exact place. She would've already bust forward, hands clasped around whatever the fuck she could find first: gun, knife, or his throat.
She felt sorry to him, but not enough. In the fog of war, there would always be a battle line. Anyone who stepped on the other side was fair game. There was no feeling bad when survival was the prize for doing such unspeakable things, not when entire nations had defeated one another for less.
"You aren't running away," she said, steeped with unease and refusing to show it. The battle was over for the day, and she'd been on the winning side. She saw no need to escalate things further unless she believed it was his intention to try and do so first.
"Why?"
He hadn't made a move on her yet, which meant that he probably wasn't interested in fighting her. At least not on his own. But, just to be sure, she lied.
"The others are still around, you know. Within earshot."
And now, again, in the wake of their fight, Reagan kept seeing glimpses of things in the distance: a flash of silvery-blonde hair, footsteps small enough to belong to the girl from Nine and now this: the boy from Ten. Only he was not rounding a corner just as Reagan caught sight of him. He did not duck out of view. He was not even facing away from her. She saw him, and he saw her.
She'd helped to kill his friend only a few hours ago.
It stung, thinking of how she would feel if the tables were turned. The anger she could feel within her chest was enough to know that if this boy had played any part in killing someone she cared about, she wouldn't have still been standing, dumbfounded, in that exact place. She would've already bust forward, hands clasped around whatever the fuck she could find first: gun, knife, or his throat.
She felt sorry to him, but not enough. In the fog of war, there would always be a battle line. Anyone who stepped on the other side was fair game. There was no feeling bad when survival was the prize for doing such unspeakable things, not when entire nations had defeated one another for less.
"You aren't running away," she said, steeped with unease and refusing to show it. The battle was over for the day, and she'd been on the winning side. She saw no need to escalate things further unless she believed it was his intention to try and do so first.
"Why?"
He hadn't made a move on her yet, which meant that he probably wasn't interested in fighting her. At least not on his own. But, just to be sure, she lied.
"The others are still around, you know. Within earshot."
