Forums » Creative Corner » Read Thread

A piece of fan fiction I wrote a while ago about the Question and his death (and subsequent rebirth). I was six years old the first time I saw a man get killed. My mother was taking me to an ice cream shop a few blocks away from our house in Gordon's Corner, a once promising residential district in Hub City that had devolved into a slum by the time I was born. People called it Lucifer's Corner. That was underselling it. We were leaving the shop, ice cream cones in hand, when a car wrapped itself around a streetlight in the blink of an eye. The driver was killed on impact while the passenger pulled himself out of the window and barely managed to get up on his feet, stumbling in our direction. That was when another car pulled up. A young man in ripped jeans and a tattered hoodie hopped out of the passenger's seat with a gun in his hand and a glint of hatred in his eyes. He marched right towards the man that just survived the crash, grabbed him by the nape of his neck like a puppy, then shot him twice in the back of the head. No hesitation. No time for his victim to get a word out. Didn't even look at us before hopping into the car with his friends and driving off. My mother was screaming but I couldn't hear her. Everything seemed far away, like I had just been fitted with a new pair of concrete boots and tossed into the ocean. She pulled me away while screaming, took off her jacket and used it to wipe my face. She pulled the now bloody coat away and it was only then that I realized my face was covered in blood and brain matter. I didn't cry. I didn't understand what I had just seen. But it never left me. That man breathed his last on November 29th, 2001. People used to ask me if I had nightmares about it for weeks after the fact. I always told them yeah and left it at that. Truth is they never stopped. Matter of fact, I'm having a nightmare about it right now. My surroundings twist and morph, my mother's crying visage fading away as darkness consumes everything. All that's left is me, the man, and the void. His cold, dead eyes peer into my own. There's no emotion there, no life, no spark behind the pupils. As I stare into his eyes, I notice his skin is crawling, almost bubbling up as it consumes his features. It swallows his mouth, then his nostrils, ending with his eyes. His lifeless eyes. And then, as the skin finishes swallowing his features and his blond hair slowly fades into black, I realize that I am looking at myself. I was twenty-six years old when I died. I went to the docks chasing after my latest lead on Wesley Fermin. More proof of his mob ties, some racketeering ring, all the good stuff. When I got there, they were waiting for me. Must have known I'd becoming. About half a dozen mobsters with guns and snarls, ready to blow me away. I broke one's arm. Another probably hasn't walked right since. I think the third man's cornea ruptured as I hit him right in the eye socket. Then a woman stepped forward and they all backed off. She had black silk for hair and obsidian eyes that shined with a reflection of the pure white snow on the ground. A small smile on her face, dangerous, a look that could kill. She took another step forward and I readied my fists, a show of confidence more than an actual invitation to fight. I didn't like hitting girls; still don't. "Back off. I don't want to hurt you," I said, bravado dripping off my tone. "Don't you?" Before I even knew what was going on, I was on the ground. My body was broken, bruised, bloodied. Decimated by the woman with the obsidian eyes. The mobsters stepped forward, laughing, those that I didn't already beat to a pulp at least. One had a pellet gun. His specialty, "didn't need anything stronger", stupid gimmick. Shot me in the head. Threw me into the Hupert River. I breathed my last in the icy cold waters on November 29th, 2021. And then I lived again. She saved me. The woman who killed me. Lady Shiva. Legendary assassin, martial artist, mercenary. She saw in me a kindred spirit, a warrior's spirit, someone who could decimate his opponents the way she did to me. Just needed some guidance, a teacher, and she knew just the man for the job. She took me to Tot's, let him patch me up a bit, and when I was able to walk again she sent me on my way to Richard Dragon. Once, he was a world famous martial artist and adventurer. Now, a hermit with a log cabin, living in the wilderness, chopping wood, meditating. He didn't seem like much. "Gonna be cold tonight," he said when I approached. He grinned. "There's an axe and some logs out back. Get to chopping." I looked at him like he was crazy, then glanced down at the cast my arm was wrapped in. "You're nuts if you think I can chop wood like this. Is this a test or something?" His grin grew. "You could say that. Are you so stubborn that you'll just freeze your ass off rather than try?" I blinked at that. Dragon didn't give me time to answer as he turned around and walked back into the log cabin. I went out back and picked up the axe, trying to find a good way to hold it. Took a bit to figure out how to do it with one hand, but I got the hang of it quicker than I thought. The logs splintered against the axe's blade, growing smaller and smaller, nice chunks for loading up into a fireplace or furnace. It took a few hours, but when I was done, I had a few armfuls of firewood to take back and forth, enough to last a night. "Good work," he said. He got to work on starting the fire as I took a seat at a kitchen table. A kettle and two tea cups sat on it. When he was done, Dragon settled into the chair across from me, grabbed the kettle, and filled the two cups. He grabbed a cup and began to take a sip from it. Hesitantly, I took the other and did the same. As the cup left his lips, he spoke, "Do you want to hear a story?" "Sure," I said. "Tell me a story." He smiled at me. "Once, there was a man who dreamed that he was a butterfly. He fluttered around here and there, carefree, content. He had nothing on his mind but going from flower to flower. But as with all dreams, his came to an end. And when he awoke, he pondered something: was he a man dreaming he was a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?" I snorted. "Everyone's heard that one. It's just hokey pseudo-philosophical shit." "But the question still stands. What was he?" "A man dreaming he was a butterfly. Otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it." "But what if life, as we know it, is all just part of that butterfly's dream?" "Then I guess that butterfly's got a sick sense of humor." It was Dragon's turn to chuckle. "That he does." Weeks passed. Eventually, my arm was freed from the cast, and I was able to chop wood with two hands. Still no training in the martial arts from Dragon. I'd ask and he'd smile and say that it was coming. One night, we sat on the porch together, the cool breeze soothing my sweat soaked skin. Winter was winding down and giving way to spring. I didn't think Dragon would speak and I wasn't sure if I wanted to either. Eventually he broke the silence. "Why do you think Shiva sent you to me?" he said. I turned to look at him, but saw his eyes were set on the stars rather than myself. I turned my gaze to the stars with him. I didn't have an answer. Didn't want to say that, so I just repeated what she told me. "She thinks that I'm a kindred spirit to her. Some kind of warrior that just needs the training to unlock his potential... Or something like that." I could hear the smile through his tone. "That is why she thinks she sent you to me. Why do you think she did?" Guess I would have to think of something. "... Because without someone to hone my body and my mind, I would have wandered this Earth in search of answers for the rest of my life and never found what I was looking for." "And will you find them now?" "That's the question I keep asking myself. I won't find the answer from you. But maybe... You'll give me a hint." I looked to Dragon and found him looking at me, still holding that content smile on his face. Then, he stood and walked past me and onto the grass. "Get up. I'm gonna show you some moves." I blinked at that, but got up and followed right after him. He showed me some breathing techniques, stances, a few punches and kicks. Practical tools and movements of the body, meant to aid my mind in its trials and tribulations... And to beat the hell out of bad guys with. I stayed with Richard Dragon a few more months before my training came to an end. Everyday started with chopping wood, then stacking it, then studying Zen, working on martial arts, and ending each day with long talks under the night sky with my mentor. When it was time for me to leave, hike back to civilization with my newfound skillset and knowledge, he finally spoke on Shiva's assumption that I held the spirit of a warrior, for the first time since that night so many months prior. "I disagree with her on that," he said. "You fight, yes, but it is not for the joy of fighting. You find no passion in the fight itself. What you find passion in, what you fight for, is the never ending hunt for truth." He paused, meeting my eyes. "In another life, long ago, Shiva would have been a great warrior, crushing armies, leading her flock to victory. You, my friend, would have been a philosopher." "The man dreaming he was the butterfly?" "I think it is more likely you are the butterfly, dreaming you are the man." We said our farewells. He sat down on his porch, watching me go as I started the trek back to civilization. Fifty miles to the nearest town, another fifty after that to reach Hub City. Nothing but the long road ahead of me, barren, no cars or people for miles around. Long way to go with only the clothes on my back. A few years ago, I would have dreaded doing anything like this, like most people. Now? Now I don't care. Butterflies don't sweat distance.

Appreciate the thoughtful reply! As for the fight scene between Question and Shiva, I tried to keep it brief because of how quickly she just demolishes him in the source material I was adapting here. I'll be real, I wrote this for a roleplay on roleplayerguild.com which was basically just writing collaborative comic book fan fiction. I had a few more posts in that particular game that act as continuations to this one, so I might see about cleaning those up and posting them in this thread.

Oh, forgot to say, a Rorschach fan fiction would go so hard. I'd read the hell out of that.

Yeah there's a lot of stories ripe for telling during that time in Rorschach's career. There was a Watchmen game that came out around the time of the movie that covered that era, but iirc it kinda sucked lol.

Direct continuation. I should've realized something was wrong about four wrong turns ago, or perhaps when the paved road stopped and transitioned into dirt, but the man within me was too stubborn to come to the epiphany. As I step out of the woods and gaze upon the prairie before me, stretching out endlessly as far as the eye can see, it hits me that I am lost. I want to curse and shout at the realization, let off my steam on the rusted up tractor nearby maybe, but I take a moment to steady my breathing and remind myself that all things must pass. This misfortune, this anger at that misfortune, will pass too. And while the man may be stubborn and angry, the butterfly is content to make the best of this. The track of dirt that one might call a road continues on for a few hundred feet ahead of me, ending at a white farmhouse that stands alone in the vast green sea. A coop sits in a fenced off area behind it, chickens and ducks milling about, pecking at the grass. As I approach the house, I notice a beat up Ford F-150, probably from the 70s or 80s, sitting parked out front. Up close now, I can see that the bumper is rusted and decorated with bumper stickers, all cracked and peeling away save for one in the center, pristine black on white: "John 3:16". I look away from the truck to the front porch which houses an old wooden swing bench and a wooden sign above the front door, proclaiming "As for this house, we will serve The Lord. - Joshua 24:15". And underneath that sign stands an old man in a plaid shirt and faded blue jeans, toting a double barrel shotgun. Not aimed at me, not yet, but ready to be at a moment's notice. The man sets his icy blue eyes on me, his gaze more suspicious than sinister. "You lookin' for somethin', son?" he asks. "Just passing through, sir. Might be in need of directions," I say as I raise my hands in a placating manner. He lowers the gun a bit and I lower my hands just a bit too. "That so? Where you from?" "Hub City. Trying to find my way back." He blinks in surprise at that, quirking an eyebrow at me. "You're far from home. What brought you out here so far?" "Enlightenment." The man snorts at that. "Ha. Guess you might find it better out here than in the Hub," he says, before trading his two handed grip on the scattergun for one hand on the barrel, resting the stock on the ground as the other hand extends outwards. I walk up the porch steps and shake the man's hand. "The name's George. What's yours, son?" "Victor." He smiles at that. "Victor? Had a friend named Victor once. From Hub City, too. Good friend." "Had?" "With the Lord now. Passed a few years back." The smile on George's face grows wistful as he remembers his friend, his gaze setting past me and onto the bright blue sky, no doubt going through memories like an old photobook for a moment before coming back to Earth. He sets his eyes back on me. "Just finished up lunch. Looking for a meal, Victor?" "I'd appreciate it, sir." "Come on in then," he says, opening the door. We step through and into the foyer, a quaint little hallway leading to a staircase at the end, with a doorway on both sides leading into other parts of the house. Framed photos hang on the wall, dotting the room with memories of years past. Most of the photos are of George and a man, going as far back as young adulthood. The last photo with the other man is of him and George sitting on the swing bench out front, the man smiling contently at the camera while George sneaks a look at the man, love in his eyes. Love. George sets the gun down next to the door, carefully. "Sorry 'bout the gun. Get some no good sons of a gun out here sometimes, love to cause a ruckus. Usually that scares 'em off." "Not a problem. Gotta defend your home somehow," I say. George grins at that. "Right you are, son." He moves forward, but I stand in place, still looking at the last photo. "You good there?" "That Victor?" I ask, gesturing to the framed picture. George turns to it, then back to me. "Yep. There he is." "... How long were the two of you together?" George's face goes a bit pale at that. He sputters a bit at my bluntness, letting out a cough, before regaining his composure. "... In the eyes of the law, two years. In the eyes of the Lord, forty-seven." "He looks like he was a wonderful man." George's smile returns at that. "The most wonderful man I could have asked for." He turns back to the doorway, continuing on through it. "C'mon now," he calls to me, "Food must be gettin' cold." We take a seat at the dining table in the kitchen and eat, chatting about nothing in particular. We jump around from subject to subject. Our pasts, our presents, our plans for the immediate and far future. Neither George or I have much to say on the last subject. Both he and I share the same commitment to just living in the now. The topic shifts to my need for directions. "I gotta swing by Highwood tomorrow to pick up some farming supplies," he says, referring to the town just 50 miles south of Hub City. "You can stay the night and come with me in the morning, try and find a ride into the Hub. I'd take you myself but it's been decades since I last set foot there and I ain't too keen on heading back." I give a nod at that. "I understand. I appreciate it a lot, George. Thank you." He waves a hand dismissively at that. "Don't mention it. You'd do the same for me, I'd hope." I give him a smile. "Of course." We finish up our lunch after that. I handle the dishes while George heads out back to tend to his poultry. Gazing out of the window overlooking the kitchen sink, I can see George scattering grains for the chicken and ducks as they crowd around him in excitement. A smile makes its way on my face as I gaze past the scene to examine the rest of the yard. About fifteen yards away from the scene I spot a large oak tree, casting a blobby shadow against the grass. Under it rests a grave. I can barely make out the inscription from this far away. Victor B. Waltson Loving Husband Romans 12:10 1949 - 2016 The man in me can't tell if his mood is lifted or soured upon seeing that, caught between joy for George and Victor's love for each other and sorrow at George's loss. I never knew Victor, but from what George has told me, he loved the man above all else. And while the man in me is conflicted, the butterfly that is dreaming of him is glad that they loved, once and forever. Finding peace and solace in another person, especially in a time when that love was deemed worthy of scorn and hatred, is a beautiful thing. I finish the dishes up and head outside to join George. He shows me the ropes, letting me scatter a bit of grain for the chickens and ducks, before moving on to showing me how to clean their coop while they're distracted by their meal. We spend a few more hours together before heading back inside for a quiet dinner of pot roast and mashed potatoes before George turns in for the night. He shows me to the guest room before heading to his own room. As I lay in the bed, red cotton blanket wrapped around me and a grandfather clock in the hallway slowly ticking away, I stare at the ceiling and contemplate how much might have changed in Hub City in the year I had been absent. Fermin's term wouldn't be up for another two years, so I'd at least still have my hands full with him. But my mind continues being drawn towards other things, other people, people I cared for rather than crusaded against. Tot. The last we spoke was in February, before Shiva escorted me to Richard Dragon's cabin in the woods. He seemed worried for me, at least in his own way, which meant snarky comments about how I "shouldn't try out any mushrooms the strange hippie in the woods might offer you." At the time, I laughed; now, I might actually advise him to rethink that statement. If Dragon offered me any mushrooms, I would've taken part. Sam. My boss, owner, founder, and CEO of Starrstruck Media Inc.. Last we spoke, he was hounding me for another article like the one I did covering Council Chairman Floyd's ties to the Chicago Outfit. "Drove our traffic up by fifteen percent, Vic!" he told me, all excited about it, but I convinced him to give me an extension of a month for the article. I was about to get documented proof of Mayor Fermin's ties to the Sinners, Hub City's answer to the Outfit, when Shiva ended my life. Hopefully, he'll be willing to increase the extension he gave me by another month, if we weren't counting the twelve I wasn't there for of course. Myra. Myra... The clock ticks away. The last time I spoke to Myra was two years ago now, just after my article on her brother for the Gazette was released. She called me to meet at a cafe in Hupert Square, said we needed to talk. I knew what about. When I got there, she had a window table all to herself, waiting for me. She looked absolutely stunning, as she usually did. Her long strawberry blonde hair was pulled tightly into a bun, as it usually was when she was working. It was gorgeous when she let it down. I loved to play with it. The gaze of her striking green eyes was set on the park across the street, watching the children as they played and laughed, a small smile on her face as she spectated. Her smile shifted to a scowl when I announced my presence. "Myra," I said, sliding into the chair across from her. I smirked at her glare. "Not really digging the vibes here. Feels like I need a beanie and an oiled up beard to be able to fit in. Maybe they'll settle for me starting up a tech com-" "Don't. I'm not in the mood for your smartass shit, Vic." She pulled out her phone and unlocked it, before sliding it across the table to me. I picked it up; lo and behold, my very own article, my claim to fame. My smirk widened into a grin as I looked over my work. "What the fuck is this?" "My own Kentucky Derby. Something that will lay the groundwork for all pieces of political journalism to come," I said, sliding the phone back and leaning back in my chair. She didn't seem amused. "What it is is you dragging my brother's name through the mud like he's just some, some-" "Some crooked politician, just like all the other no good bastards in City Hall. Just because he's your brother doesn't mean he's a good man." "Don't you dare say that about him. My brother has done more for this city in the two months he's been mayor than you ever have, or ever will!" "Right, right, really doing a great job at pocketing city funds, taking bribes, getting his mobster friends out of jail while he lets men like Hugo Wernher rot behi-" "Oh, Wernher, again? That man murdered a cop, Vic!" "Because that cop would've shot him and his wife if he didn't!" "It's a miracle he didn't get the death sentence. You know I was the one who lobbied for that, right? Everyone wanted him sent back to Indiana so he could be put on death row there but because you were so insistent on it I pulled some strings to make sure the case remained in Illinois, and I-" she pauses, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as she groans in frustration. "... Vic. I love you, but I can't... I can't stay with a man who hates my brother the way you do." "... Then don't," I said, before standing and walking away. In the reflection of the windowpane in the door, I saw her shocked expression, battling between surprise, anger, and sorrow at my response. Finally, she settled on a disgusted scowl, turning away. I walked out of the cafe and never looked back. I never looked back. The only woman I have ever loved. There had been others, before. I slept around a bit in college before I met her. A few women, a man here and there, but no one was like her. No one was able to keep me on my toes as much as she was. I threw that all away. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock... The clock continues its countdown. Tomorrow, I'll be returning to Hub City. But tonight, I am content.

Once again, the feedback is much appreciated my man! I'll probably hold off on posting more because I don't want to flood the thread with text walls. Part of me wants to get back into writing these again, I had a pretty good run going but stopped writing it after hitting a depressive episode last year.

... Maybe just one more today. My eyes shoot open at the sound of an engine revving up outside and headlights beaming in through the window, illuminating the room. Blearily, I sit up in bed and take a glance at the clock on the wall: 4:43 AM. I get out of bed and stumble over to the window, setting a hand on the windowsill to lean on, before setting my gaze outside. What I see is a black pickup truck parked a few yards away from the house, four men climbing out of it with guns in hand. Two have hunting rifles, one carries a double barrel shotgun, and the fourth carries a revolver. The one with the shotgun takes the lead, stopping a few feet away from the front porch and shouting, "WALTSON! COME ON OUT YOU OLD FAGGOT!" I tighten my grip on the windowsill at that. Something tells me they're not here for a nice early morning visit. I pull my clothes on as quickly as I can and throw myself through the bedroom door, nearly crashing right into George who's still in a pair of long johns. The old man steadies me with a pair of hands on my shoulders, then looks me in the eyes. His expression is stony and grim but I can see the fear behind his eyes. "Vic, go back to bed. I'll handle this," he says. I shake my head. "No. I'm going out there." He scowls at that. "I've dealt with these little fools before. They'll go running as soon as I head out there with my gun." "Have they brought guns before?" I ask. George freezes at that. "... No." "All four of them are packing heat. I don't think they're playing this time," I say, casting my gaze down the stairs before turning back to George. "Stay here. I can handle this." "Neither of us should go out there. Let's call the cops and stay inside, they won't try coming in." "You really think that? And you're so sure the cops will be able to make it in time? You live, what, an hour away from the nearest town? I don't think our friends," I gesture downstairs, "are inclined to sit outside waiting for us to come out for an hour. They'll break in eventually." George looks unsure at that. I shake his hands off me and start to walk downstairs. "Victor," he calls after me. I stop halfway down the stairs and glance over my shoulder at him and watch as his expression goes through a range of emotions before settling on resolution. He gives a grim nod and follows after me. We continue down the stairs, stopping at the front door where George grabs his shotgun while I stand ready to open the door. "I'll head out first. If you hear me shout, then you come out," I say, my grip on the doorknob tightening. He nods grimly. "... Don't get killed." I nod, then open the door and step out. The headlights nearly blind me. I raise a hand to shield my eyes, slowly lowering it as my eyes adjust to the brightness. I can see the four men more clearly: they look a bit younger than me, early 20s at most, all white with shaved heads, bulky builds and leather jackets. Skinheads, it seems like. These the "no good sons of a gun" that George talked about? The leader looks me over and laughs, looking over his shoulder at his buddies. "Ha, look, the old man's got a new boy toy," he says and they all chuckle. He turns back to me. "Was planning on just putting down one homo today but I guess two is a pleasant surprise." "You might want to reevaluate your expectations," I say, walking forward with a glare. He raises the shotgun and points it right at me. "Back off! I'll blow you away, motherfucker!" I continue my stride, stopping just an inch from the barrel leveled at my heart. "Will you?" The man within me is filled with rage, ready to bubble over and let it out in a violent explosion. Break their knees. Crack their skulls. Bust their noses. He has no fear of death, he's faced these odds before and every time he's come out on top. For once, the butterfly is in agreement with the man's assessment, but he holds no rage. These men have accumulated bad karma their whole lives and now the butterfly is ready to inflict it on them. Make them pay for their crimes. Right now, it feels less like a butterfly and more like a bee. I grab the shotgun by the barrel and divert its aim into the ground. He fires, the shot blowing apart the turf, and I swing an open palm into his nose once, twice, three times. His grip on the gun goes loose and I pry it from his hands, swinging the stock of the gun into his head and knocking him out cold where he stands. The man hasn't even hit the ground before I swiftly jump over him and send the shotgun flying at one of the riflemen, the weapon nailing him in the face and sending him to the ground. I pivot into a side kick aimed at the second rifleman's chin, snapping his head back and giving me an opportunity to grapple him and throw him at the only man still standing, the one with the revolver who's taking aim at me. A shot fires from the revolver, the bullet whizzing right past my head, but he doesn't get a chance to fire again as his friend crashes into him. They both groan in a heap as they attempt to untangle themselves and stand. The first rifleman is standing again, his nose twisted and bloodied. He snarls at me, baring his chipped and bloody teeth, while raising his rifle. I crouch down and dart forward, zigging and zagging so he can't maintain a bead on me. The gun goes off anyways, a bullet clipping my shoulder, but the adrenaline flowing through me keeps me from feeling it. I spring forward and upward the last few feet, sending an uppercut into his throat. He gets sent stumbling back and onto his ass, gasping for a breath. A quick stomp on his face and he goes silent. I twist back around. The gunslinger and the other rifleman are standing now, rifleman missing his gun but gunslinger with revolver in hand. I pick up the rifle at my feet and quickly set my sights on the gunslinger, firing; the shot tears through his calf and he falls to the ground, screaming in pain. I twist the gun in my hand around to use it as a club as I sprint at the final man, who stands with readied fists and terrified eyes. Once close, I swing, and he brings up his forearms to block the hit. The force of the impact staggers him but he remains standing, so I duck into a sweeping kick and knock him onto the ground. One hand holds him down by the shoulder while the other brings the butt of the rifle down onto his face. And then I do it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Again. Aga- I toss the rifle away, forcing myself to stop. His features are distorted, twisted in ways they shouldn't be. Nose folded against left cheek, eyes swollen shut, lips split open, gashes and welts all over the rest of the face. His fair skin isn't even recognizable as skin anymore, more just one giant black and blue bruise. He gurgles up a glob of blood and broken teeth as he tries to breathe. I turn him onto his side and a spew of vomit, saliva and blood spills out of his mouth. Then he can breathe again. I stand up, my whole body shuddering as I take in deep breaths. The man's bloodlust is crying out for more, more, but the butterfly must contain him, tell him that they have gone far enough. This has been enough to ensure the man will never hurt anyone again. There's no need to kill him. No need to kill him. No need to kill. No need... Need... "Victor?" I snap back around to see George standing there, shotgun in hand. He examines the scene on his front lawn with wide eyes, taking in the carnage I had dealt onto these men. Blood has splattered onto the grass which still blows softly in the breeze, unaffected by the battle that had just occurred. George brings his eyes to mine and I can see the fear in them. "How the hell did you..." his voice trails off but I already know the question he's asking. I don't answer. Instead, I start walking towards the truck. I open the driver's door, about to get in when- "Victor!" A hand on my shoulder. I twist around, snarling, seeing George's worried face quickly morph into shock. The man is in control right now with all his feral, violent tendencies. He holds no love for anything, no care, no tenderness. All he knows, all he is, is pain. But the butterfly is greater than him, and it exerts its power over him, sending him away for the time to take over with its bliss. I let the tension leave my shoulders and give a sigh. I look at George with a soft gaze. "... I'm sorry. I can't stay any longer. Have to go before the cops get here." "Why?" "I need to get to Hub City as soon as possible. I'm needed there. I can't spend all day talking to the cops and then keep making court appearances for the next few months." I turn back around and climb into the truck. "Victor." I turn to him. George looks at me with a conflicted expression. Fear. Concern. Apprehension. Finally, his expression morphs into a smile, not too sure of itself but standing on that uneasy ground confidently anyways. "... Godspeed. And take care," he says. I give him the slightest upturn of my lips and a nod, before I close the door and take hold of the steering wheel. George backs up as I back out of his yard and onto the dirt road, heading back through the way I entered this serene little field he calls a home. I gaze into the rearview mirror and see George standing, watching me. I can't make out his expression from this far away. Can't imagine what it could be either. I set my eyes back onto the road, intent on reaching Hub City.