this gunpowder diligence is a learned trait, no better than a heap of scar tissue (unavoidable, now, but ingrained either way on the end of a father’s survival knife, pinfinger in a shack in louisiana on the bayou), and at it’s best, removable, a beaten brown leather jacket. his m1911 silver grip pistol sits steady between his hands, no rookie tremble or improper posturing.
california makes sam all heavy with nostalgia and want for a life that is just beyond his reach, now. but a job is a job – cattle mutilations and sightings are enough of a lead until proven otherwise, though the museum in chula vista was a tourist hotspot, and churning the waters of tourism was a potential source of the renewed sightings. money was inspiring.
sam slips into the veneer of hunter exceptionally well. it’s as much his skin as the one he was born into, maybe more so. holding the firearm in a trained position, he strafes tentatively to round his way to the boy’s front, examining the body in flicks when he can. ‘ likely story. what are you? ‘
careful not to move, griffin focused on recovering his breaths and stealing his terror away. he would not let his voice betray his fear again. footfalls came from his side to front, slowly, softer than griffin expected from someone who sounded to be much taller than himself. he couldn’t help the instinctive head tick to turn his left ear toward the sound and better follow their movements.
but with the man’s brass question, he couldn’t stop the tone that followed. “That’s none of your business.” griffin lowered his hands but remained still, arms loose at his side. “You’re the one with the gun anyways. What are you? Because if you pull that trigger, you’re a murderer.”
his mouth clicked shut with a silent curse as griffin berated himself. why oh why couldn’t he just stay quiet? the back of his head ached something awful as it always did when griffin encountered the threat of violence with a weapon, but he ignored it in favor of clenching his hands into fists. “Maybe you already are. You smell like gunpowder. How do I know YOU didn't shoot them?”