#*open starter.

             An explosion, and screaming. Lots of screaming-- then a body and a familiar face, void of life. 

The exhale rushing out of his mouth was heavy, almost a gasp when eyes snapped open and wild golden brown irises flicks. Then settles on the shadows of his current accommodation, and his father’s six-shooter revolver is aiming at it too. He’s waiting. But nothing comes, and the next exhale is quieter. A tad shaky as he shuts his eyes, and his head falls back on the pillow of the sofa he had fallen asleep on. 

“Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes with fingers of his free hand. Before sitting up with a grunt, a slightly pained one, because he can feel the shrapnel from a projectile that had nearly ended his life years ago. Just a tiny piece, but it’s there-- jammed somewhere in the right side of his torso in between bones of his ribcage.  

When he stands, he didn’t put his revolver back under the pillow. He held it as he walked over to the small kitchen counter. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey, but decides against it. Coffee. Yeah, better off. 

"Seems to me, someone's gotten quite attached to disposable lives"

Do not worry!!! Blowing up the forest was not intentional!!!!