The Cracker's eyes focused on the approaching perimeter drone and widened in terror. With hardly a second to spare, he jumped. His right shoe burst into flame as he tumbled through the limp section of razor-bush.
He fell to the ground on the other side, smothering the flames in the grass. He scrambled to remove the smouldering shoe. As he threw it aside, he looked down at his hands. The middle finger of his left hand was bent back at an impossible angle and both hands were covered in small cuts from flailing about as he tumbled through the razor-bush. The limp area was quite narrow and in his eagerness to escape being roasted alive, he had not been careful enough.
He took a moment to lick the wounds clean. He then clutched the bent finger with his right hand and yanked it back into place.
Crack!
He winced with the pain, but made no sound.
His gaze then lifted to see the distant figure of Zyra disappearing down the immaculately manicured streets of the Hill. He brought a hand up to his face, to gently stroke his burnt cheek.
‘Oh Zyra, my pretty-pretty.’ He cracked the knuckles of his right hand, sharply, deliberately, one by one. ‘You has crossed the wrong thiever. This ain't over yets. Not bys a long shot.’
Slowly, a truly ugly smile spread across his pockmarked face.