“Do you see that?”
“I don’t see anything,” Chocky hissed.
“Yes. Of course. But there’s something—hello?” The tourist’s voice raised an octave, increased in volume.
Chocky heard it, then. Shuffling, groaning, the rip and tear of clothing. He grimaced. “Leave them be. Their business. Not ours.”
“What are they doing? There is blood. They’re covered in it.”
“Then they’re almost finished. Whatever it is. Don’t get in the way.”
“I should do something.”
“You should mind your own business.”
“We should alert someone.”
“There’s nobody to alert. Come. We’re almost there.”
Chocky launched himself forward through the netting. He felt no disturbances in the lines. Behind him the tourist quietly said, “They stopped.” And then he waited for the tourist to catch up to him.
well, golly. this story takes place in a violent underground world of things going bump in the dark, where “bump” usually involves blades or teeth or claws. and, oh you sweet soft human all kitted out in your mannerly condescension and technological precautions, eager to figure out what makes these people tick for your ego-serving theeeeeesis, you may have misjudged some things.
“They are doing terrible things,” the tourist said.
do not underestimate the underground.
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