Unmade Remade

Arthur is stock still, rigid, but the strength this stance usually holds is nowhere to be found. Instead he looks like the next gust of wind would tip him over, shatter him on the ground. But he stares up at the platform defiantly, eyes blazing with some indescribably emotion.

He won't stop staring at one man, with blue eyes and blonde hair, who stood and stared back until the very moment, the fall, the violent snap that leaves those same blue eyes glazed over and lifeless.

It's only then Arthur moves: a hand shooting for a hidden pocket in his shirt where a little red die tells him what he doesn't want to here. This is real. If you die up here, you don't come back.

Clint wasn't coming back.

Arthur tears his gaze from the dead man. He turns heel and walks until he's lost, alone, in an alley. He draws his fist back, and punches the wall as hard as he could, not caring that the brick tore the skin from his knuckles, that his knuckles cracked from the impact, or the his arm jarred nearly out of its socket.

Clint wasn't coming back.

Arthur takes a breath. He's holding his shoulders still with all he has, battling the constant tide of the same thought. Clint was dead. They executed him. He wasn't coming back. This constant loop of the same image threatened to bowl Arthur over.