The farmer stands at the edge of what used to be his field, hat clutched to his chest, staring down into the smoking wreckage of two overlapping craters with the particular, wounded solemnity of a man watching his own funeral.
Somewhere behind him, a few stray chickens have already wandered back to peck curiously at the scorched earth, entirely unbothered by the general collapse of local physics.
Lucien stands beside him, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed at exactly the angle he's found works best for sincere apologies. He's had a lot of practice with this particular angle.
