The night was dark, even for northern Canada. The two figures—one towering over the other—thrashed through the brush, almost blind. The lights and the sounds followed closely, never more than a few meters behind the pair.
Ring worried for his job security. “Ring, oh Ring” they would say, in their infuriatingly squeaky-scratchy voices. “How did you even manage to set fire to that building,” they would go on, shaking their tiny heads in tiny, tiny disapproval. “It was made out of concrete and steel. Concrete and steel cannot burn. It is impossible for those materials to do that. You are very bad, and, thus, you are not at all good.”
It was not Ring’s fault that people around him died. If they did not want Ring to shoot them, than they should not attack him. Ring had never found that concept difficult to understand.
And the fire was not Ring’s fault at all. It was the gray things that had done that, not him. He hadn’t even let the gray things out, that was the scientists mistake. He reassured himself with this knowledge. Perhaps he wouldn’t be fired after all.
“Do you have a destination in mind, or are you just scurrying?” piped the voice of the other survivor. Ring started slightly, having forgotten that they were there.
“We must to the craft, we will” he said. Had he forgotten word order again?
“I hope to God that that was an affirmative” said the scientist.
Sion took this moment to appear from behind a tree. Ring levelled his revolver at the other man, the scientist yelped, and Sion said “Don’t shoot! It’s me!”
“Twelve copper” said Ring
“Fifteen copper” said Sion

Ring shot him twice in the upper body, and once in the head when he fell to the ground. The scientist stared in horror at the pooling blood.
“Isn’t a real sign, that one.” mumbled Ring in an apologetic manner.


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