04-04-2009, 11:08 AM
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He had been raised to believe the world was wicked. He had been trained to listen, to be aware, to know his position and be aware of the settings. All of these things could not outweigh experience. Ezekiel had a fraction of a second to realize the air had turned when the man came at him. Had he been completely unaware, he would have been frozen, for the stranger was massive and a shadow (save the peculiar white collar) and came without warning. That millisecond saved him. Move!MOVEMOVEMOVE!
All four feet sprung, and he rushed out of the way of the body. His speed, that God-given speed, was all that saved him. He felt the heat from the stranger, saw the flash of his teeth and the intent of his game, and for the first time in his life was afraid. There was something hellish in this man, something mechanical, something that was wicked and that would seek to destroy him. Ezekiel recalled all he had been taught, and all that instinct told him, and swallowed the fear. It settled in his gut like a lead weight. Above all of this, though, Ezekiel was a soldier—and his face locked in with the jarhead’s intensity, with the absolution of all his mistakes and training, and knew that the enemy would seek to destroy him. [/html]