141

141


They ushered out of the sand and once again into ruins, pellets formed inbetween the folds of skin and cloth, they remembered a certain well, west of north after passing the arachnid pass. A shower, a cave, cold water to clean blisters and crannies, but received a long descending tube punched on silence.

it must have come this way

Long after the nomads were normalized, a spring used to run city's starboard, the one-eyed girl's whispers. They followed her glyphs, balancing over the ruined plate, youngsters without magma legs. Stopping by under ending's red lights, all that shaking and jazz could only produce the driest heaves. Collectively they thought: we want real vomit, somehow.

They wanted to partake in communal hydric bulimia, drink from each other's mouths the fluxes back and forth, the shared delirium of water stations, each round purified by the stomachal presences. Acid will make it right.

The less dis-guting option, pools, toilets, cisterns, plant vases, anywhere, everywhere. Death had already happened back then, thirst is way worse, it never ends even after your body forbade itself.

Untainted water doesn't smell, or, it smells as the absence that invites approximation, ye shall come and drink from me, fear not. Their noses longed for such an uncountable stretch of time, but that sensory hole persisted and etched itself in flesh, receptors fired false responses every moment or the other confused by never being used anymore.

It came. Their rabid snouts could not be deceiving again plus one, not the one-eyed girl, nor the man with crystal scars, not even the madness-prone old bone. Grilled hands and feet became those of dogs, under the thin thin crust where it could be boiling, doesn't matter, what is not infernal by now? It was there, ripe for the drinking. Cancerous tissue would allow only sips, sip, sip, sip. Throats parched for so long became a den of pestilence, but they endured the smell daily, trying to absorb dew from each other's lips. The desert's kiss might even get you hard, but what is there to get moist?

They found it canned, not in natura. Destiny might never be kind, else it lacks its meaning. Can after can, it could be a dead man's trove, a decentralized ocean, if alienated.

The first shot pierced the crystal's hand, he barely realized a kinetic force had perforated the shambles of his limbs. Powdery skin imploded into the hole, last remaining nerves transmitted impulses by desiccating the rest, so it can keep looking, pain was the first to go. The still intact hand opened one of the cans, only for it to be blown out of proportion as a fast movement darted through it shredding the rust-licked can into oddly irritant shrapnel.

what in hell is this

The face gained more elegant scars, now carved by centuries-old metal, wet sand and parchment-consistent flesh. The trio cut sections of the vision to come.

i am antares series, stay away from master's stash.


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