Which is a strange thing to say, but he holds onto her arm and closes his eyes. He's not had to use it much, thankfully, almost shouldn't so he can see the walls of the labyrinth. But he can feel wind whipping around them. He can smell the debris and the electrical charges on the air, the smog almost erased from his mind. He can hear those moans.
But his fin? His fin sees only flatness, the occasional struggling human form, picking up the shapes as it stripes with bright streaks.
Wait. There.
"Those ain't the ones in trouble," he warns. "There are actual folks this way. This ain't the truth."
no subject
Which is a strange thing to say, but he holds onto her arm and closes his eyes. He's not had to use it much, thankfully, almost shouldn't so he can see the walls of the labyrinth. But he can feel wind whipping around them. He can smell the debris and the electrical charges on the air, the smog almost erased from his mind. He can hear those moans.
But his fin? His fin sees only flatness, the occasional struggling human form, picking up the shapes as it stripes with bright streaks.
Wait. There.
"Those ain't the ones in trouble," he warns. "There are actual folks this way. This ain't the truth."