Redsand Canyon One more drink, one less I’ll lose

Like radioactive decay, he lost more and more of himself to the yawning vacuum of the world, scattered so thin you could look through him like sunlight leeching through the thinness of an ear...

He is in agony. He is in the garden.

Nemesis had fought tooth-and-claw into existence, and she had fought tooth-and-claw out of it. It takes so long for her to finally die, and it will take even longer for her to stop bleeding. The photos of the crime scene are laid out like so: Nemesis, plucked straight out of a film noir murder, another Black Dahlia, a small white-haired woman who puts one hand in the spilled inkpot redness and provides her medical opinion, clean-cut and sterilised...

Donovan. Grandmaster. Drenched in blood like the monster in a slasher, the man who had built billboards and handed out pamphlets and built a new city from the ground up, it drips from his mouth. Parts of Nemesis are still stuck in-between his teeth, trickling down his throat, pooling in the blackness of his stomach. 

He can hear the frown in Dove's voice. After all, she did get a few hits in... not that it did her any good.

What happened?

Off-screen. Colin steps back from the pool of blood as it nears his toes. He already knows the answer. Turning to Dove, his jaw tight, his teeth needling around the exclamation, A show? 

There is nothing much else to say.