An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
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The gathered onlookers turned upon hearing Sun’s cry and quickly parted, letting him through with ease. On the grass stood Chief Powell, with two other officers nearby disarming a pair of disgruntled teens. One of the human security guards carried a fire extinguisher in her arms. The shade umbrella that was normally upright was now laying on the ground, its canopy angled to still cast shadow onto the ground. Sun locked eyes with the chief, rays partially retracted and hands clenched into shaking fists.
Powell silently looked to the umbrella.
Without a word, Sun walked right by him and around the canopy, the smell of petrol now overwhelmingly potent. He looked to the ground—
Sun froze in place, his voice box squawking—eerily mimicking one choking on a gasp of air. “M-Moon…?!”
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