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Description
I swear it blinks just to mock me. It's caught somewhere between laughter and a sneer.
"Look at me!" it says. "This is where you are; nowhere!" It mocks me, it mocks me! Look at it. Disappearing, reappearing, every time reminding me that the page around it is blank. Nothing fits. That cursed bar only wants to move backwards, and gobble up any progress in it's wake. But it is of no consequence. It must be written. It has to. It's not fair to play the game but then not share with others. Yes, yes! Others must know, whether there be a lapse in creativity or not.

Furthermore what is a chase with no spectators? It is not enough to know the game and to know the players if it is just a game. Once all is known and all is shown there is no greater test of men than in the chase. The Fox knows this best of all, for him there is no objective but to run. If they were to catch The Fox then he would be the lesser of the bunch. For the Hounds it is much simpler, there is one goal now but another later. Who is to know which challenge will be the greatest? They are the pieces in chess. When wielded by a master, some worthy Huntsman, the Fox's ploys are broken and the game is over.

He is the ultimate challenge. Never truly is it the Fox against the Hounds but he is pitted against the Huntsman's wits. Every action another turn, baited traps, or forcing movements. It thrills me. Like some giant game of poker any flinch can mean the end. You're forced to read a man and read him to his core, while yourself remain a shadow, an impeccable screen of lies and mist. Reach an arm too far forward and find it stumped and bleeding. Shelter too far back and your rival becomes a blur. It is a dance of blades in which the first strike always kills.

Every plan is intricate and propels past fifty turns, yet it rarely survives the first. This is the game I play. I am Timothy the Fox, Timothy the runner. This is my game, and I've been playing like a king.

**H**

Miles Lesage was trying to unwind. He had spent far too long sifting through report upon report at his office. Trivialities and misreadings muddled the mind. It was high time to stop thinking in-the-box and approach from a different angle. For now though, he was just whiping the slate clean. Nothing calmed the nerves like an espresso, and today was no exception. He was at his usual hang out, the local bookstore's Starbucks. The silence of the room was only interrupted by the occasional cough or turn of a page; his favorite aspect of a coffee shop in a book store. Book shelves and magazine stands waited calm and collected, offering knowledge. The overcast sky blurred the corners on shadows, as if to soften the environment further. Seated in one of the padded reading chairs Miles had fallen asleep once, he ended up paying for the book he consequently drooled on. But today he was in no mood for naps.

He retrieved a calling card from his shirt pocket and studied the blank side. He flipped it. Miles' fingers ran down an edge that had dulled from constant handling, but the faces of the card still felt like the expensive stock they were made of. Only his own fingerprints stained the surface. He carried it with him everywhere; it was his curse. Nothing weighed down his pockets more than this single slip. Five words and a letter.

"Catch me Huntsman, catch me. -F"

Cocky bastard. He went back to sipping his coffee.

Description
I swear it blinks just to mock me. It's caught somewhere between laughter and a sneer.
"Look at me!" it says. "This is where you are; nowhere!" It mocks me, it mocks me! Look at it. Disappearing, reappearing, every time reminding me that the page around it is blank. Nothing fits. That cursed bar only wants to move backwards, and gobble up any progress in it's wake. But it is of no consequence. It must be written. It has to. It's not fair to play the game but then not share with others. Yes, yes! Others must know, whether there be a lapse in creativity or not.

Furthermore what is a chase with no spectators? It is not enough to know the game and to know the players if it is just a game. Once all is known and all is shown there is no greater test of men than in the chase. The Fox knows this best of all, for him there is no objective but to run. If they were to catch The Fox then he would be the lesser of the bunch. For the Hounds it is much simpler, there is one goal now but another later. Who is to know which challenge will be the greatest? They are the pieces in chess. When wielded by a master, some worthy Huntsman, the Fox's ploys are broken and the game is over.

He is the ultimate challenge. Never truly is it the Fox against the Hounds but he is pitted against the Huntsman's wits. Every action another turn, baited traps, or forcing movements. It thrills me. Like some giant game of poker any flinch can mean the end. You're forced to read a man and read him to his core, while yourself remain a shadow, an impeccable screen of lies and mist. Reach an arm too far forward and find it stumped and bleeding. Shelter too far back and your rival becomes a blur. It is a dance of blades in which the first strike always kills.

Every plan is intricate and propels past fifty turns, yet it rarely survives the first. This is the game I play. I am Timothy the Fox, Timothy the runner. This is my game, and I've been playing like a king.

**H**

Miles Lesage was trying to unwind. He had spent far too long sifting through report upon report at his office. Trivialities and misreadings muddled the mind. It was high time to stop thinking in-the-box and approach from a different angle. For now though, he was just whiping the slate clean. Nothing calmed the nerves like an espresso, and today was no exception. He was at his usual hang out, the local bookstore's Starbucks. The silence of the room was only interrupted by the occasional cough or turn of a page; his favorite aspect of a coffee shop in a book store. Book shelves and magazine stands waited calm and collected, offering knowledge. The overcast sky blurred the corners on shadows, as if to soften the environment further. Seated in one of the padded reading chairs Miles had fallen asleep once, he ended up paying for the book he consequently drooled on. But today he was in no mood for naps.

He retrieved a calling card from his shirt pocket and studied the blank side. He flipped it. Miles' fingers ran down an edge that had dulled from constant handling, but the faces of the card still felt like the expensive stock they were made of. Only his own fingerprints stained the surface. He carried it with him everywhere; it was his curse. Nothing weighed down his pockets more than this single slip. Five words and a letter.

"Catch me Huntsman, catch me. -F"

Cocky bastard. He went back to sipping his coffee.