[center][h1]Lucas Bray[/h1][/center]
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Cracks in the sidewalk, falling through when the world broke. Broken made his head hurt. [b]“Ow.”[/b] Lucas winced a few seconds after Grace realised she’d cracked her helmet, pressing his hands to his own head and no longer paying attention to the talk he’d started or the memory that had caught him up and slipped him through warmth and sliding, parting slippery resistance. Cracks in his head were a good distraction and he didn’t want to think anymore. But he wasn’t done, was he?

They were still talking; breathe in and out and listen to the right words dropped in desperation just trying to survive. Sorry, not sorry, he didn’t know what he was, but neither did anyone else, he thought. No, not him, the man with the knife and strings attached. Not him, her, dry in the wet and smiling sad, Liza. She was here and talking and looking his way, but he didn’t know what she wanted so he just shook his head and covered his ears, he’d missed the words. [b]“He knows not to do what he did.”[/b]

He didn’t know if he was helping or not. Didn’t know if anyone was listening anymore. Too much tension in decision and indecision, bated breaths and waiting. Running scared with lines splicing city into swamp in his eyes. The man shook his head and blinked again, hard, feeling his breath speed up in answer to the tight worry beside him as the girl came back with a phone. Her phone, she’d had one, he couldn’t read it, but Tarvos did. Didn’t like it. Didn’t like what he saw and all Lucas could do was forget the rain chilling his skin and the double vision splintering his eyes and brain as the militant man raised his voice to raise the alarm.

[b]“That’s bad for you don’t tell me.”[/b] Accident or not, the words that came out of his mouth were rather sincere. He didn’t think he wanted to know. In his world, ignorance was more than bliss, it was quiet and calm and safe. But the real world didn’t care about his preferences, and everyone found out too soon what the newest trouble was. He was rubbing at his eyes and trying to find Liza in the mess of distorted images when it came in a wave of fireworks and festival fiascos. 

Fear.

Fear under fire.

Not lights, guns. Lucas hadn’t even the chance to realise on his own what was coming. He’d still been pulling words out of the muddle when the convoy fell into a nightmare. Everyone was frightened. Scared, scattered, scarred. Every vehicle, every bit of cloth and worn down precious possession that knew the feeling gathered it, echoed it, strengthened it, and strangled him. Squeezing close comfort.

He couldn’t breathe.

A bright-flower target in the middle of chaos. A sodden and shaking man. He couldn’t look, couldn’t see, didn’t want to. His eyes were closed, tears leaking out to mingle with the rain, fingers tight against his scalp, nails scraping skin as he tried to block out every sharp retort to keep it from echoing. But he couldn’t press his palms hard enough to his ears. Couldn’t push back against the flood. It had come too suddenly and he was caught, lost in the current and gasping for air.

Lucas crumpled under the onslaught, crouching down to make himself smaller. He tried to hide in his head, somewhere the gunshots couldn’t reach him, where the grasping fingers of terror couldn’t catch him. He didn’t know what else to do. Hiding in a car was the last thing on his mind.