01/09/2023
"I know not if I may continue after what I wit, Huo," said the now pale beauty that was JENNA SMITH.
Her brown mass of hair was still long and tied in a bun at the shoulders. She was still tall and unbent by the war. Her eyes still held hazel hue. Her clothing still made her perfect. But her peach skin was now pale. And her expression was one of fixed terror, petrified, ever a memorial to the death she saw today.
She left the glory of the kitchen and headed up the stairs, trudging, slowly.
HUO GONG-SANG was left there alone, all signs of joy at seeing his friend fading. The man was short, black of trimmed hair, and light bronze of skin. Today he donned a suit, for he had not seen Jenna in many years, since she left New York to support her family in the Gun region. He had maintained correspondence with her via written mail, for that was the safest manner of transmitting information. At time, he had provided resources to her, such as the isolated house he owned south of Gun. The shelter provided life and cover for them, because it was rife with weeds and grass, so the warriors overlooked it. It was their haven for years, and they were relatively happy.
Now, a cake lay on the stone counter. Nearby a knife leaned eerily over the edge. A pot of tea was losing vigour because he thought to celebrate her safety. But his smile was cut short by the tale Jenna bore - of the war - of the trade between her and the soldiers, of her brother for her son, which she had never mentioned by mail - and of the recent plane crash at the airport, where their mutual friend, William, climbed in a fighter jet, took off, and deliberately nose-dived to his death. Today.
- míng lucì
[Shock Trooper]
