year zero
#7
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I've got to remember this is just a game

     Broken rib. He had never broken a bone before, and was mildly surprised that he had. As a boy, he had come home with cuts and bruises, but he had never done anything serious. None of the kids had—he had seen one of Bowie’s workers get a nasty kick by a horse, but that had been the extent from that era. London, however, was a different story. The majority of his innocence (or at least, what was left) had been brushed away in one fell swoop.
     “I just came from over the mountain,” he explained, for once being completely honest. “There seemed to be a way down this direction, and I didn’t know a pack was here.” Not until he had fallen head over feet down the mountain side. “I can leave now if it’s a problem,” he added, pushing himself to his feet with no great lack of effort, putting one hand to his side, hair tumbling into his face. That much, of course, was an act. As much as his side hurt, it was not enough to cripple him completely.






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