[ They throw that phrase around in newspapers, books and stupid Lynyrd Skynyrd songs, but few people are intimate with the actual scent. If they inhaled it, even once, Hei knows they'd never forget it. (Sulfur dioxide, methane, benzene derivatives and long chain hydrocarbons -- a detached part of his mind rattles the terms off, but they can't begin to describe the aroma in the air). He's taken to patrolling the check-points he's marked City-wide, trying to determine if the zombies have nests. Sometimes, coming into the outskirts of the Underground, he catches them. Holed up in a poured-concrete box of a warehouse. In a row of boarded-up storefronts. Or in a derelict walk-up or lot. Monsters. In groups or pairs, filling the air with their disgusting reek. ]
[ If he's feeling feisty, if the timing is right, he pauses to take them out. Except they're stubborn fuckers. They just refuse to die. (Maybe there really is no such thing as Twice-killed.) ]
[ Still, it's a good workout -- flashing blades, splattering muck, dismembered limbs. In the center of the melee, like the eye of a storm, he can forget how the stench makes his flesh crawl. Forget the snapshots of carcasses and blowflies popping in his mind, invading his dreams. Right now he's simply an extension of his blades. Engaged in a whirlwind dance with walking punch-bags. Live therapy. ]
Action;
[ They throw that phrase around in newspapers, books and stupid Lynyrd Skynyrd songs, but few people are intimate with the actual scent. If they inhaled it, even once, Hei knows they'd never forget it. (Sulfur dioxide, methane, benzene derivatives and long chain hydrocarbons -- a detached part of his mind rattles the terms off, but they can't begin to describe the aroma in the air). He's taken to patrolling the check-points he's marked City-wide, trying to determine if the zombies have nests. Sometimes, coming into the outskirts of the Underground, he catches them. Holed up in a poured-concrete box of a warehouse. In a row of boarded-up storefronts. Or in a derelict walk-up or lot. Monsters. In groups or pairs, filling the air with their disgusting reek. ]
[ If he's feeling feisty, if the timing is right, he pauses to take them out. Except they're stubborn fuckers. They just refuse to die. (Maybe there really is no such thing as Twice-killed.) ]
[ Still, it's a good workout -- flashing blades, splattering muck, dismembered limbs. In the center of the melee, like the eye of a storm, he can forget how the stench makes his flesh crawl. Forget the snapshots of carcasses and blowflies popping in his mind, invading his dreams. Right now he's simply an extension of his blades. Engaged in a whirlwind dance with walking punch-bags. Live therapy. ]