@thefatalbelievers
[ruin] for my muse to sabotage your muse’s attempts to finish a task
Pistol in hand, pipe in the other, he let the metal of the rod clang against the grates of the floor as he walked, slow and deliberate through the pulsating rust of Ashfield.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he called. He grabbed hold of a knob to a door, slamming his shoulder into it, just enough to break away the hinges. He left it hanging, the ver-calm smile crept back on his face and a voice that didn’t waver.
“But I’ll forgive you, Henry.”
He raised his gun to shoot, but not at the man who had other things to do (Walter still needed him, of course), but at the book, too close to Walter’s own life. No need to gather the essence of Walter’s defeat, tucked away in a box in another room. Walter should go and find it. But chasing the man for the sake of ripping panic out of his stoicism was far too much fun.
Henry let out a shout as he stumbled, the shot close enough to make his legs shake. The book flew out of his hand at the impact, loose pages scattering across the filthy floor, and he grabbed desperately only for them to slip through his fingers.
Jerking his head over his shoulder, he could see Walter approaching at that same calm, unhurried pace. The distance was short enough to make his heart pound, but he couldn’t afford to lose what he had. So he quickly crouched, scooping the maps and diary fragments into his arms.
“Get back,” he yelled. It came out sounding more strained than threatening. “Don’t come near me!”