It was a sweltering hot afternoon, and the missions were just as relentless. I can see fatigue laying claim to my section mates, smothering them in suppressive void. Spindly fingers clinging onto pallid hands, masters are now at the mercy of shadow puppets.
I can sense my puppet beginning to control me, slowly like a constrictor in its elegant curls around a hibernating bear. But like the constrictor and the bear, whom has never met each other in their lives, so is the connection between me and the puppet. I felt it, yet I can't. Its this numbness or emotional retardation that somehow connects yet severs this puppet and master relationship between me and fatigue.
All these changed when the pitter-patter of angel's sweat danced across the land, droplets carried in gentle zephyr. The puppet melts, and perhaps, after a very long time, I am finally able to recall how happiness feels like. The exalting jubilation of sheer sprays on simmering skin was a definite welcome.
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