ϕ .004
[Ever pragmatic, Hermes knew there were times you simply didn't have the time to be ashamed over the fact that you were pissing-your-pants scared. He had woken up, cold and alone, with aching muscles and an empty stomach, in a ravaged back-alley that led to a trashed Mott, which intersected with the destroyed Bleecker St. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew it was bad -- NYC was laid to desolate ruin, and nothing could've done that in one night. Not even frigging Cloverfield. All his swagger and bravura had vanished -- what did he need those for right now?
He saw them when he made way to the Health Food Market he knew to be nearby. Rather, he heard them, to his own luck. Hissing. Hissing in a way that was not-human. Hermes gave thanks for the clammy fog and he and his weak human body hid behind an overturned cab that had gone from the trademark cheery yellow to rusty brown. They seemed to glide over the asphalt, three of them, and Hermes didn't know what to make of them. They reminded him of Cthulhu, or Davy Jones. They were menacing, like they could suck your body dry within minutes, and he was afraid they could smell him, smell his cold sweat through those tendrils of them. They did not.
The Market had been ransacked. The few perishables that had been left behind had predictably perished, except for three... bodies, but Hermes was still a far stretch from going full-on Donner Party. Besides, these weren't fresh bodies: the flies had been feasting on them. Among other things.
He had chosen the wrong store to roost in. The Market prided itself on fresh food, so cans must have been rare, even before people had begun looting. Hermes considered himself lucky when he happened on a can of corn, nearly crushed by an upended shelf. One botched army knife job later, and Hermes was greedily devouring the yellow nubs with his fingers, the preservational juices making his fingers sticky. It wasn't much, but it was something.
He would need weapons beyond his knife. First-Aid. Food. Allies. Someone to talk to so he wouldn't go fucking crazy.
He didn't even question the fact that his cellphone still had a signal.]
Am safe, for now. Am deep in NoHo, near Bleecker. Anyone nearby?
Don't move if you don't have to. Arm yourselves. There's tentacley things in the mist.
He saw them when he made way to the Health Food Market he knew to be nearby. Rather, he heard them, to his own luck. Hissing. Hissing in a way that was not-human. Hermes gave thanks for the clammy fog and he and his weak human body hid behind an overturned cab that had gone from the trademark cheery yellow to rusty brown. They seemed to glide over the asphalt, three of them, and Hermes didn't know what to make of them. They reminded him of Cthulhu, or Davy Jones. They were menacing, like they could suck your body dry within minutes, and he was afraid they could smell him, smell his cold sweat through those tendrils of them. They did not.
The Market had been ransacked. The few perishables that had been left behind had predictably perished, except for three... bodies, but Hermes was still a far stretch from going full-on Donner Party. Besides, these weren't fresh bodies: the flies had been feasting on them. Among other things.
He had chosen the wrong store to roost in. The Market prided itself on fresh food, so cans must have been rare, even before people had begun looting. Hermes considered himself lucky when he happened on a can of corn, nearly crushed by an upended shelf. One botched army knife job later, and Hermes was greedily devouring the yellow nubs with his fingers, the preservational juices making his fingers sticky. It wasn't much, but it was something.
He would need weapons beyond his knife. First-Aid. Food. Allies. Someone to talk to so he wouldn't go fucking crazy.
He didn't even question the fact that his cellphone still had a signal.]
Am safe, for now. Am deep in NoHo, near Bleecker. Anyone nearby?
Don't move if you don't have to. Arm yourselves. There's tentacley things in the mist.