Dread, dread, dread. The forest is dark and full of autumn, chewed over by winter frosts and snows. There is a crunch to it as the sun sets behind the traveller making her way up the mountainside to the refuge and a warm, thick stew.
She bores me to death. I don’t want to go to the Cyborg Factory even if it is a family tradition. I want to get old, it’s cool. When she gets home, I will have made her a special tea. I loved her once.
He’d called in the CID, who took at least an hour and two deaths to get there.