[Dillon is careful about touch the way that poison dart frogs are: without flinching, but also without slipping. When he was younger, when the power first started welling up in earnest inside him, something twisted and hungry latched itself onto his spirit. For over a year before it was purged, all of his influence was tilted toward destruction, toward unraveling the systems that lay so vulnerable to him, reaping the energy coiled in them for it to feed on. A perversion of his nature. His touch was dissolution then, and a thousand addled moments erasing his parents' faces like sand against seaglass.
The dangers are different now, subtler and broader, less immediately terrible and less relentlessly cumulative. But he still has the habit of it, the way of grinning and accepting, ducking into her space and ambling through it without touching anything at all.]
[spam]
The dangers are different now, subtler and broader, less immediately terrible and less relentlessly cumulative. But he still has the habit of it, the way of grinning and accepting, ducking into her space and ambling through it without touching anything at all.]
Your bus? Or something else?