Fear fell fast, a frantic flutter flattening his focus. His pulse filled the fissures where his thoughts had been filed before. The boy stared blankly at his father, who was now standing just before him.
The man reached out, his hand covered by an obsidian glove, and buzzed faintly.
He reached to the side, fingers extended, and closed them around something that wasn't there. Or hadn't been.
The air between his fingers compressed, a faint shimmering outline of grayish energy. It buzzed like a bee, the sound low and continuous, the sound of a storm that had yet to pass. It wasn't a violent tempest, more like a smiling rain storm.
The outline gray turned clearer, growing more 'material' with each passing second.
The boy knew what it would turn into. He had seen it before, many times in fact, in the way you came to know the instruments of a recurring nightmare, recognition mere words would always fail to describe.
