He was tired, it had been a long, long day, hunting monsters was tiring but it was good training. It was enjoyable too in a strange way, he liked being with a team, with other people…being able to hone your own fighting skills around those your own age. The bladed staff in his hand had Materia slotted in, the green orbs contained subversion magic…he was a fan of it, and it was his go to tactic, surround…subvert, weaken…then win.
It worked, and it kept the monsters at bay. Funny, how as a child they had been terrifying, you got to know them…which ones you could get away with fighting. The Wererats, gorgers and ringmaws, you could take them on if you were good…the Doomrats, with a team. The Drakes were the worst, they could fly…they were best avoided, if you stayed low and quiet you could evade them…and the Wrath-hound…avoid at all costs. Run away.
He could deal with anything.
At least that was what Denzel believed.
For just a moment, he blamed the memories, told himself that the figure was just a fleeting thought, except, he wasn’t.
He was there, real, as real as he had been back then…and it rooted him to the spot, fingers curled around the handle of the staff tightly and he lifted his head, the teenage boy lifted his head, trying to appear bigger than he was.
“What are you doing here?” The rational part of his mind told the teenage boy to flee, another part, kept him here, adrenaline surging and ready. He wasn’t the helpless child he had been several years ago.
He wasn’t going to be controlled this time.