Firefly Glen due to an internal explosion, it breaks into two parts

The buzzards had been flying too high for Nine to reach them anyways; they let out a series of baleful screams before taking off as one single organism, southbound.

He runs after them for more than he needs to with an erratic and three-legged stride. When he returns to their findings, he's winded but satisfied. There's nothing but the sound of his breathing, and cricket chirping at a slow decrescendo.

A sharp jerk of his chin, a wordless what do we have here? The answer: nothing much. Other scavengers had beaten them to the chase and the remains were, to put it lightly, depressing. He raises his head to look at Yosemite, almost thoughtful, before looking down again. Flies gathered and dispersed along the hollow of the ribcage, and their buzz joined the ambience. They were lucky that it hadn't started to rot quite yet.

You're lucky that I'm not hungry, he says, churlish and reluctant, before stepping aside to make room for another seat at the table. But don't think you'll be so lucky next time. I got a high metalibolism, or whatever.