[Only minutes ago had Volgin been nursing a drink at a booth at a Halloween party for the faceless at a nameless bar behind a seemingly normal door, snug in the illusion of a city where everyone kept asking which "James Bond" movie he was from. Oh, he thought that was going to be the worse of his problems.
Instead, someone got sick with a case of... something and started sharing.
Even better, someone else had the foresight to seal up the place before the giant could leave and now the bar was ripe with the stench of the dead. The exit was clotted with bodies, easy kills for the things. How Volgin survived that, he had no idea himself; the things were fast, furies of claws and fangs and gnashing whatever else that mangled and made bloody ribbons of anything they came across.
Concrete, metal drums, and an impenetrable hull later, he could not break down a door fast enough and had to run to the other side of the bar.
The bitter Soviet was now in the cellar, with a table as a shoddy barrier, its leg in his hand. He was clinging to it like a lover over the distant dream of a shotgun. Or something mildly explosive.
[THIS IS THE THREAD FOR THOSE WHO WENT TO THE WRONG PARTY]
Instead, someone got sick with a case of... something and started sharing.
Even better, someone else had the foresight to seal up the place before the giant could leave and now the bar was ripe with the stench of the dead. The exit was clotted with bodies, easy kills for the things. How Volgin survived that, he had no idea himself; the things were fast, furies of claws and fangs and gnashing whatever else that mangled and made bloody ribbons of anything they came across.
Concrete, metal drums, and an impenetrable hull later, he could not break down a door fast enough and had to run to the other side of the bar.
The bitter Soviet was now in the cellar, with a table as a shoddy barrier, its leg in his hand. He was clinging to it like a lover over the distant dream of a shotgun. Or something mildly explosive.
He was getting tired of these bad days.]