(day one of goretober!) (life or shadow ban for motivated prime) (this is lowkey kind of edgy… but i am free…)

He was starving. Not a hyperbole. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. He was barely ever satiated, finding food sources large enough to satiate him wasn’t exactly easy. Expendable corpses worked fine. When he made excuses— dismissed the guilt— they worked just fine. He absentmindedly picks at the bandages tied tight around his third arm. A preventative measure. He can’t afford to eat himself, now. It’s quiet, the unending sputtering and whistling of the radio being the only noise, fading into obscurity amongst his thoughts. Something sharp catches his attention. A scent.

You are severely wounded, a large gash across your torso; courtesy of the Good People. You stumble, arms wrapped around yourself in an attempt to keep yourself from dying; a futile attempt, but it’s an attempt nonetheless. You push through the dark, a door opening as you approach. You’re met with dim red light, pierced by a single white one, a vent grate flying out and falling into what you can only assume is oblivion. Someone beckons you inside.

He’s trying to stay civil, speaking as he would to any new expendable, offering his wares, explaining his system of trade. But he can’t ignore it. He tries not to let the promise of food cloud his reason. There you are. Practically on your death bed. No medkit would help you stay alive in the state you’re in. At this point he’s just wasting time. Right here, in his shop, an ample food opportunity. And how tempted he is to take it. The smell of your blood. It fogs his senses. To taste viscera— he can practically taste it where you stand. But he needs business, he needs the data you could possibly provide. He can wait until you trade and keel over in the next room, collect back what you’ve traded, and have your corpse too. But god is he impatient. As you fiddle wearily with the items on his tail, he stares. God is he impatient.