Sanchez on the Wind.

               Wide open, in the field, Sanchez tried to run. He slipped often, made unusual sounds, and didn’t look as if he should even be trying, but he kept on, and the distance between he and Todd grew. Todd couldn’t hope to move quickly, not with his swollen head laying out in front of him on the wheelbarrow as it did. But Todd smirked, as if Sanchez had already lost.

               It was a four foot abomination of a smirk, but still a smirk. It made slurping sounds.

               Sanchez felt his shoulders clench, he anticipated some horrible impact. Nothing happened.

               The wind blew across the field and shook the grass and made fleeting suggestions about how it looked. But the wind did not care for either of the men. It merely blew on as it would have.

               The distance was trivial, and Sanchez felt the weight of a doubt when he looked back and he could still make out that slurping four foot mouth. But his resolve was impossible to defuse. He had no purpose at all in the world, for the moment, but to escape the horrors of Todd’s factory. So he did. As awkwardly as necessary, and with zero stealth.

               After five months on his own, out in the Wild, he returned. For it was not enough that he alone escaped. He must hunt down every last piece of her. Tear her eyes from whoever had gotten them. Tear her frame from beneath some foreign head. Most of all, tear her heart from what malignant chest cavity it had been forced to, when she’d been scrapped for parts.

               So long after Todd had stopped looking, he came near, and he idled in every dead zone carefully taking in the routines and feeling out the weaknesses.

               He’d be damned if an abomination like Todd would stand between him and that lovely Springtime he felt so strongly he must reassemble.

               And Sanchez came like winds from the North, to penetrate Todd’s Iron walls, and take Springtime away for himself.



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