>>5884940From your work of slicing up underbrush, you slowly turn your head.
From the center of the burning portion of the forest, there is a family of four. Mother, father, son, daughter. The father has a makeshift wooden spear, and both the boys have slings.
You don't move from a simple observing position over the pile of brush you've cut up.
And you don't intend to.
The gesture of nonaggression doesn't seem to influence the son, who launches a rock directly at your face. In the blink of an eye you bat it away with your scythe, the blade swinging up and mechanically locking into its spear-like combat position, your arm cast over your face to permit only a sliver of your eyes to be seen, a petrifying gaze which shocks them stiff.
It is all so tiresome.
But there is a silver lining.
You don't have a body camera on.
"You've better aim than your father," you chuckle, as you lower your weapon.
They are still so silent.
With a free hand, you gesture vaguely to the side.
They finally begin to get it. "Where should we go?" asks the man.
You snap your scythe back into its proper harvesting position. "Where I will never see you again."
The family utters a thanks, and scurries off over the hills.
A line of fire approaches. The flames begin to crawl over the piles of brush you've sliced. There's probably thousands of leaves, you've piled up, burning into nothing, as the forest gets ready for its next morrow.
You do not worry for Fiona's safety. No, no, no. She's too smart, too strong.
You worry for her fragile, precious little heart.
