Impulse watches his house burn.
He doesn't feel much, which is par for the course. Being a ghost and all. He just kind of. Stares. Watches. As the flames melt the snow roof, charred wood against white.
(Somewhere in the nether, his blood turns the snow pink.)
Impulse watches his house burn.
He doesn't feel much, which is par for the course. Being Impulse and all. He just kind of sits there. Smiles. Takes it.
As the mace lands heavy on his head, as his teammate— Impulse's mouth twitches— presents him like a gift to the enemy. A lamb to the slaughter. A loyal dog.
(Ruff ruff, right?)
Impulse watches his house burn. He doesn't feel much.
He doesn't feel anything. He doesn't feel anything at all.
Betrayal stings like an old wound, so deep it goes past bone and aches somewhere he can't reach. It stings in a way that barely even registers anymore, so accustomed to its pain that all he feels is numb.
He could be angry, but what's the point.
Anger brought him to bitterness that sent him back into the cold.
His house will be nothing but a heap of snow and soot. At the back of Impulse's mind, he thinks of a funeral, a grave dug into the soil. It's a nice thought. He doesn't think he's had a grave before.
(He misses Tango.)
Impulse watches his house burn. Watches Jimmy crow and raid his home so quickly that even Grian was disturbed. Watches as everything he built crumbles apart once more.
A thought comes, and it's strange.
I want to go home, Impulse thinks. I want to go home.
He almost convinces himself that the sound he made was a laugh. It burns his throat, seeping out like smoke.
The story ends the way it started.
Impulse watches his house burn.
