Why do I get the distinct feeling this one isn't going to end good? --------------
Desmond stood at the entrance to the Farm nervously. Shaun was by his side, holding a small metal briefcase over his shoulder and his other hand occupied by Desmond’s hand.
“Come on, chin up. It can’t be so bad.”
“Dude, I ran away and then rejoined. Not by my choice.”
“You saved their asses.”
“And was the cause of an attack on them!”
“Desmond, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I gave up the life of an assassin to be a bartender. I’m a bartender again now.”
Shaun chuckled. “Well then, mate, looks like you’ve got your heart in the right place and are happy as a lark. Can’t think of what any parent wouldn’t want that. Let’s go, shall we?”
He moved forward and started dragging Desmond with him. He quickly straightened up and matched Shaun’s fast pace.
“Fucker.”
Shaun tittered. “Language, Miles.”
He huffed and looked around. It had rebuilt since the attack. The street was practically empty. It was like going back to the days of the cowboys and ghost towns. The roads weren’t paved, and the land surrounding the farm was arid and dusty. Several shops were in the center of the town around a large square with a fountain in the center. There was a grocery store, a general store, and several smaller weapons and armor shops.
As they walked down the street, they saw several people peeking out of their houses or watching them through their windows. Desmond shifted uncomfortably and moved closer to Shaun. He kept his eyes slightly lowered as they passed by the buildings.
“You look like a kicked puppy.”
“I probably deserve it.”
“Do you regret leaving?”
“No.”
“Then don’t feel bad.”
He looked slightly upset but remained quiet. They walked to the end of the street and stopped at a nice, if not small, house. There was a garden in front of it and a small overhang for the front step. He stayed back a bit and looked out over the street again. When he thought about it, it was slightly smaller than before. It was entirely his fault. The person across the street had come out and was looking at him from their porch. She was a petite little black-haired woman with bright brown eyes. A small boy clung to her leg, watching him.
He offered a small smile and waved hesitantly as Shaun knocked. The boy tugged on the woman’s pant leg and whispered something to her. She glanced at Desmond, then nodded at the child. The little boy lit up like a firework at whatever she said and ran inside. The prophet let his shoulders slump forward. He scratched his head as he heard the door open, but paid the voices no mind as he looked at the blue lines etched into his skin. They went under the tattoo on his arm, and perhaps it was the tattoo.
It was probably the lines, he concluded, that had appeared after “finding” Eve’s DNA like subject sixteen had told him too. And while he was glad Shaun didn’t mind them—he had found out how much his lover had enjoyed them their first night together after the ordeal—it still made him self-conscious in public, especially in a muscle tee and shorts. It was only amplified, not only by the fact that he was a worldwide hero, but also that he held such fame and popularity among everyone, everywhere. He couldn’t go anywhere without being treated by a celebrity, and the fan mail was the worst—even worse than the hate mail.
“Desmond, come greet your father,” he heard Shaun say, strained, and he turned around.
But all words died in his throat when he was who was standing there in the doorway.
Solitary Spectors
--------------
Desmond stood at the entrance to the Farm nervously. Shaun was by his side, holding a small metal briefcase over his shoulder and his other hand occupied by Desmond’s hand.
“Come on, chin up. It can’t be so bad.”
“Dude, I ran away and then rejoined. Not by my choice.”
“You saved their asses.”
“And was the cause of an attack on them!”
“Desmond, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I gave up the life of an assassin to be a bartender. I’m a bartender again now.”
Shaun chuckled. “Well then, mate, looks like you’ve got your heart in the right place and are happy as a lark. Can’t think of what any parent wouldn’t want that. Let’s go, shall we?”
He moved forward and started dragging Desmond with him. He quickly straightened up and matched Shaun’s fast pace.
“Fucker.”
Shaun tittered. “Language, Miles.”
He huffed and looked around. It had rebuilt since the attack. The street was practically empty. It was like going back to the days of the cowboys and ghost towns. The roads weren’t paved, and the land surrounding the farm was arid and dusty. Several shops were in the center of the town around a large square with a fountain in the center. There was a grocery store, a general store, and several smaller weapons and armor shops.
As they walked down the street, they saw several people peeking out of their houses or watching them through their windows. Desmond shifted uncomfortably and moved closer to Shaun. He kept his eyes slightly lowered as they passed by the buildings.
“You look like a kicked puppy.”
“I probably deserve it.”
“Do you regret leaving?”
“No.”
“Then don’t feel bad.”
He looked slightly upset but remained quiet. They walked to the end of the street and stopped at a nice, if not small, house. There was a garden in front of it and a small overhang for the front step. He stayed back a bit and looked out over the street again. When he thought about it, it was slightly smaller than before. It was entirely his fault. The person across the street had come out and was looking at him from their porch. She was a petite little black-haired woman with bright brown eyes. A small boy clung to her leg, watching him.
He offered a small smile and waved hesitantly as Shaun knocked. The boy tugged on the woman’s pant leg and whispered something to her. She glanced at Desmond, then nodded at the child. The little boy lit up like a firework at whatever she said and ran inside. The prophet let his shoulders slump forward. He scratched his head as he heard the door open, but paid the voices no mind as he looked at the blue lines etched into his skin. They went under the tattoo on his arm, and perhaps it was the tattoo.
It was probably the lines, he concluded, that had appeared after “finding” Eve’s DNA like subject sixteen had told him too. And while he was glad Shaun didn’t mind them—he had found out how much his lover had enjoyed them their first night together after the ordeal—it still made him self-conscious in public, especially in a muscle tee and shorts. It was only amplified, not only by the fact that he was a worldwide hero, but also that he held such fame and popularity among everyone, everywhere. He couldn’t go anywhere without being treated by a celebrity, and the fan mail was the worst—even worse than the hate mail.
“Desmond, come greet your father,” he heard Shaun say, strained, and he turned around.
But all words died in his throat when he was who was standing there in the doorway.