Bennue's been real pissy ever since you cut it: used to be that he could hide his entire body in your curls, but now he just tucks himself in the space between your horn and your ear and sulks. When he hears the rumble, though, he sticks his beak out and hisses back.

"Yeah, 'course," you say idly, turning the corner, "and I've brought something even better. Pops here is gonna be our torch. Shits hands-free."

There's no one on the street, so you gun it, and you let the bike skid to a shrieking halt when you reach the sewer grate. The way the curtains rustle all around you makes it well worth it, even if you can't see anyone through the pitch-black windows. Stupid bubbleblowers; hope you woke them all up.

You park the bike on the side of the road, pull out the antifungal case from your pocket, and swallow two pills dry. It won't do much if something maims you, but it'll keep the spores from settling in your lungs, at least. "Here," you say, climbing off of the bike, and toss it at Marduk's head.