Re: log: grant/matt, the woods
The name meant nothing to him. Nothing. It didn't trip a memory loose in his head, it didn't connect a pair of wires, it didn't jump start a single thing. But the voice and the face of the man who had followed him into the woods, those were familiar as old shoes, comfortable and worn in, flickering red-gold like a good fire.
But that didn't mean it was just fine, seeing him, because it wasn't. He turned fully, squinting back at him, face contorting briefly into ugly, flat surprise, then slackening.
The oil platform. A full year ago now, and that was impossible. Here he was. The best assassin they had, and it only took a year for a man who never saw him to track him back to this place.
His muscles remembered to be tight, then. He knew who this man worked for, and he knew what it meant to be staring him down. He didn't account for the bonds of dead friendship. They had reached him, gotten to him, sent him to go find somebody he once knew without a name.
Matt didn't know if it was silent in the woods, now. He didn't notice. He was hear, staring at someone who was comfortable, someone who was known, but who had nothing but a name and a face.
There was no use pretending Grant had the wrong man. He wouldn't believe that, no chance in hell.
"Going back?" he asked. All his words had dropped away. Are you here to take me back. Are we going back, you and me, back there, to them. He didn't believe in coincidence, or good news. One of them survived the explosion on the platform, and got their claws in the man across from him. No other explanation. His vision was almost white.