Adrenaline is cutting through the fog of your brain like a knife through a page: one minute, you're still groggy, and the next, your thoughts feel keen enough that they're ripping holes into your pan. Your bloodpusher feels like it's going to climb out of your throat, and you abandon Marduk's arm in favor of following Hinnom.
You're still swaying, but fear is keeping you steady enough that you're not falling over.
The air stinks of fear pheromones, and part of it's coming from you. You've never been in a culling sweep before, but you've heard the stories, and you know how it goes. There's always too many maroons in the population, more redbloods than they can fit into house allotments, more then can be fit into the hivestems, and they're always looking for reasons to thin the herd.
You and Sipara have worked too hard to keep the two of you alive for you to get culled by a bloody drone, of all things: lobotomised soldiers, barely sentient, barely trolls. Better to have been culled by a person than to die like that, because you were too daft and drunk to just stay indoors.
Marduk is shooting off some lovely nonsense about safety, but she's green, and you don't even have to hear what she's saying to know it doesn't apply.
"You two can participate, then," you snaps. "I'm not. Goodbye!"
[pheres subscribes by the idea drones are trolls] [is he right? WHO KNOWS] [he runs off rumour]
Well, fuck.
Adrenaline is cutting through the fog of your brain like a knife through a page: one minute, you're still groggy, and the next, your thoughts feel keen enough that they're ripping holes into your pan. Your bloodpusher feels like it's going to climb out of your throat, and you abandon Marduk's arm in favor of following Hinnom.
You're still swaying, but fear is keeping you steady enough that you're not falling over.
The air stinks of fear pheromones, and part of it's coming from you. You've never been in a culling sweep before, but you've heard the stories, and you know how it goes. There's always too many maroons in the population, more redbloods than they can fit into house allotments, more then can be fit into the hivestems, and they're always looking for reasons to thin the herd.
You and Sipara have worked too hard to keep the two of you alive for you to get culled by a bloody drone, of all things: lobotomised soldiers, barely sentient, barely trolls. Better to have been culled by a person than to die like that, because you were too daft and drunk to just stay indoors.
Marduk is shooting off some lovely nonsense about safety, but she's green, and you don't even have to hear what she's saying to know it doesn't apply.
"You two can participate, then," you snaps. "I'm not. Goodbye!"