Mr. Stevenson believes in the stars and (stripes) wrote in repose,
Re: log: grant/matt, the woods
For Grant, Alaska was one of a long line of missions, a clearly-defined set of parameters executed with a group of competent and (better) good men. It had been one of the few times recently that he had worked in tandem with soldiers in the employ of the US Government, and while they had not been as pleased to work with him (an outsider, a contractor, with no loyalties and an absence of that sense of loyalty that was so necessary to their jobs), he had relished the experience as an echo of days lost to the decades. He had finished the mission with more friends, coming out on the other end without real understanding how close he had come to it being his last one. Now he was raking through the memories, trying to recall from whence all intel had come, searching through the flashing faces for a trace of the familiar that was now embodied here before him. The adrenaline had been a constant, and he didn't recall any of the blows--just impact of fist to armor, the sound of the shots, and then the thick clouds of burning oil.
He came out of his memories hard on Owen's heels as they crossed the clearing toward the silhouette of the house crouched under the trees. Grant was alert, set off kilter by Owen's oblique references to someone after him, and everything from the man's glassy eyes to his vague paranoia struck strong chords of trauma in Grant's considerable military experience. He wouldn't have let the man at his side into a battle, nor was he planning on letting him out of his sight if he could help it, not until he found out what was going on.
"Owen?" Grant stopped too, and circled around his friend, out of reach and knowing better than to grab or touch him. It was more that he was ready to catch him if he fell, shifting immediately into the person he was on the battlefield, fully aware and quicker to shield than to kill. "What's wrong?"