#imgposting

flint's internal clock ticked wildly in his chest. oh my cog.

oh my cog he really just did that. he's done it time and time again but oh my cog.

flint kept the gun trained on tumbles, just in case he showed any signs of life. he had to do this. he had to do this for him. there was no other way.

even as the light faded from tumbles' eyes, as his head completely drained of ink, those pupils still were focused on flint. staring down the barrel of what was once his own gun, but turned against him. flint knew it was just the way tumbles fell, there was no soul or mind behind those eyes anymore. but still.

it never got easier.

but there was a job to do, and flint had become very familiar with that job since... well, yeah. uh, step one. loot tumbles of all he's worth.

flint grabbed the backpack from tumbles's corpse and dumped it out onto a table. weapons... medicine... bottles of water... trinkets... all stuff he could potentially use or just... use to decorate. great. great haul. he also took tumbles's sunglasses off the floor and added it to the pile. they were cute sunglasses. flint then began to steal tumbles's clothes. sure, toon clothes couldn't ever begin to fit flint or graham but they did make excellent rags. besides, graham wasn't exactly the biggest fan of chewing through cloth. the fact that he had stopped trying to eat flint's arm was proof of that... and the bite scars painting flint's arm was proof of that proof of that.

with all the gathered loot from tumbles in their respective places, flint began step two. clean the crime scene. flint propped tumbles up against the wall, in a way where he'd only continue to bleed onto himself and not onto the floor. getting the ink out of the carpet... flint couldn't tell if it was worse than getting motor oil out of the carpet. both stained it horribly, so flint has to act fast before in completely soaked into it and dried. luckily, tumbles's ink was a close match in color, so flint could afford to miss a few spots. nobody in the near future would notice a slight offshade blotch on the ground, at least not until it was far too late for them.

with that step done, it was time for flint to be the best boyfriend and move onto step three. feed. grabbing tumbles by the invisible arm, flint carried the food down the stairs again. his flames naturally lit up the dark cellar, quickly drawing the attention of graham. oh, graham. why did you have to get bit when running from the luxury suites and textiles district to the coal and ice district. why didn't you fucking tell flint. why did you think your processors could naturally fight off the disease, were you scared your leg would have to be amputated? your legs would better off be amputated now, with the state they were in. all twisted and atrophied like that, they looked more like bones than legs.

flint surveyed the last "sacrifice" he bestowed upon his boyfriend, cosmo. his shell was gone, just a skelecog now. flint tried not to think about how he knew that guy once. whatever helped keep graham from starving, whatever helped stall for another day in the frantic hopes for a cure.

flint knelt down in front of graham's crawling form, caressing his sunken in and half-torn open cheek. it'll all be over soon, i promise. someone will find a cure, someone will soon. and then they can go back to being happy as usual, and everyone will forgive flint for his crimes against both toon and suitkind... because it was a crime of love. truly. what was he meant to do? let graham die? PUT GRAHAM OUT OF HIS MISERY? what if he put graham out of his misery a day before a cure was discovered, that'd be horrible! he wouldn't. couldn't.

graham made a hollow groaning noise. flint took that as a good thing.

flint set the food down on the ground, pressed a kiss against graham's forehead, and walked back up the stairs. he tried not to listen to the tearing and frantic gulping sounds. once back up the stairs, flint closed the trapdoor and sat on top of it, trying desperately to continue to excuse all the horrible shit he did, has done, and will continue to do. the daily sob settled in.

tumbles took one last glance at his gun sitting on the table, before deciding to look around. when else was he going to get the chance to walk around a cute little house made by hand? certainly not anytime soon, considering the apocalypse. it was a very cute little makeshift home, pictures in photographs, half-wilted yet still pretty plants, paintings "borrowed" from other abandoned shops, trinkets. it seemed untouched by the chaos and havoc that went on outside, as if it existed in it's own little pocket dimension. it was so lovely.

but as tumbles continued deeper and deeper into the house, the odd smell he noticed before became more and more prevalent. less like an odd smelling candle, more... tumbles brain blocked it out. it was probably nothing, the general good vibes from this home couldn't shield it from EVERYTHING going on outside. maybe the original owner died in here and flint just wasn't able to get the smell out. but, damn, it was potent.

the smell got noticeably bad near a trap door on the ground though. curiosity got the better of tumbles... what died down there? smelled like a fucking animal or something. he kicked it open, the stench immediately overwhelming him.

tumbles: oh, cog! what the hell, maaan!?

belle smiled sweetly at a slightly suspicious tumbles as the two walked through anchor avenue. belle was mostly leading the way, according to her this safehouse was in a more secluded and hidden location. apparently it was a cog hideout for while before the infection started.

belle dama: see, young toon? this isn't so bad, is it?

tumbles merely shrugged in response. eventually, belle approached a gated up alleyway near a now abandoned toon hq, the signs attached to the chainlink incredibly fickle in nature. multiple "no toons allowed" and "no trespassing" signs were now spraypainted over. more makeshift signs were now the prominent ones on the fence, advertising that toons were cool actually and now allowed in. belle's old hands carefully unlocked the infected-proof lock (which was quite similar to childproofing a pill bottle all things considered) and opened the gate. as the two walked towards the safehouse's elevator, a nearby security camera flared to life, a good sign that the people working there were diligent in making sure no infected people swarm this place. the elevator doors closed up, displaying that someone was going to take it down to the entrance to greet the new refuges.

after a couple seconds, a lanky figure stepped out of the doors, with something slung over their shoulder.

tumbles was about to explain to this mystery person just who he and belle were, and tell them their story, but he was cut off before he could even finish his breath.