#pomoprometheus

The various traps hidden among piles of garbage have stolen two of his handlers already; #018 on the stairs, #134 in the bathroom. Caspian is more frustrated than afraid, Theseus in a labyrinth of trash that he wanders with increasing frustration. 

“I dinnae want a group that wants me as a member.”

“First of all, fuck you,” WarDog says. “Second, it’s symbolic. The Hounds can protect you. Don’t start, Munro. Even you needthat sometimes.”

And Moire is tempted: the way anold wound aches when she wanders Beacon Boulevard, eyes feasting on small knotsof friends with their faces laughing close together; when she walks distantfrom people in the Park, young and old bound in their togetherness, how anypatch of grass they claim is theirs for a moment.

“Ye dinnae know me.”

Quinn grows up around monsters.

The Manor Madame is a monster; strict and unforgiving. The men that come and go are monsters; slimy hands and dirty mouths. Even Mama can be monstrous; a sharp hand across the back of impish Quinn’s thigh.

5. Someone or something they must pretend to like. 

The smoke feels like it's sticking to him, coating his throat and lungs with a thick layer of tar and grime. Worst, it'll stay in his mouth and burry into his clothes and skin until he's able to leave this unpleasant bar. Then he can scrub out every part of his mouth and wash his clothes again and again until they return to smelling like cheap detergent. 

The Black Glass Lake was the furthest Jackie was willing to venture into the Park; it made a nice landmark to turn around and usher the dogs back towards the clinic.

Atlas was more excited than normal to be on a walk, straining at the end of his rope and forcing Jackie to keep a tight grip on his end of the leash or start running. Beano too seemed antsy, and when the lake came into view Jackie immediately saw why. There were fish everywhere, beached and dead, along the muddy banks, their colors emblazoned against the dull brown.

your words…