A Scripta

Grim wanted to kick the man who was on his knees before a large tree in Atlas Park, offering flowers to a grave. Grim wanted to kick him until he was nothing more than a smear on the ground and there would be nothing to put him back together again. No ghost, no armor, no bit of hair left to reconstitute him.

Grim had never felt this angry in all of his life. He had hated the man once before, but never with the all-consuming hatred he felt right now, the want and need to turn him into a bloody spot, all because of his cowardice.

Now the man got up, and Grim approached him quietly. He hauled off and hit the man right in the jaw. He rocked from the punch, but didn’t back off. “That’s from Idaho,” Grim snarled. He cocked his fist to deliver another punch. “This one’s from me.”

Masonry easily caught Grim’s fist before it connected. He thought of twisting Grim’s fist back, driving him to his knees, but figured why bother? He deserved it.

“Idaho can give me his own delivery,” Masonry said quietly. “I won’t hide from him, or any of you. There was nothing I could do.”

“Nothing you wanted to do! You wanted her dead!”

“It was futile—“

Grim pulled on his fist that Masonry held tight.

“Will you let me explain?”

“No, because you’re a liar! Let go of me!”

Grim tugged hard, and Masonry let go, letting Grim fall backwards onto the grass. Grim looked up at Masonry, fire and fury in his eyes.

Masonry rumbled, “Then I won’t bother to explain, not to you, not to anyone.”

Grim got up slowly, snarling, “I’ll get you.”

Masonry shrugged, and teleported away. Grim dusted himself off and glared at the spot he had been in. He was going to get him, and the simplest way was to get at the person he most cared about. But he was going to need a little help…