DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now

[WANDERER]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Would his trip here result in some sort of profit? Probably not, at least this time around. Though the creature that stumbles into this mess now may be satisfying to fuck up (revenge always was at least a little nice, Val knows that), it's not like he's all that important. Most people here completely ignored him, and when they didn't, it was to say that he had a stick up his ass, that he needed to relax or — something. When it wasn't spin the bottle, it was someone's guts spilled across the floor or stumbling across a scene where literal jars of hearts were broken on the ground. They weren't really his idea of fun, so he didn't play along. Violence was met with gritted teeth and his own attempts to take care of the injuries later, and he avoided the captures. It was cold of him to do it, maybe, but he knows that he can't help anyone if he's dead. The only thing that matters is getting Butch out of that collar, then maybe he can work at chipping away at the edges of this group. But for all of his brains, he can't find a situation that would help things. He'd tried to clear his head with a trip out of the desert, but all it did was make him angrier. His mind wouldn't stop running through all sorts of scenarios.

Like the asshole he'd run into at that place's border, he was so. fucking. sick of jungles. The humidity makes his fur stick out oddly, and he knows that Butch would be trying to fix it even though his own's probably not too much better. This place stinks. He can't take a step without the crunch of leaves and twigs letting everyone know where he is, and if he tries to pay attention to that, he can't pay attention to the low branches and vines that proceed to hit him in the face. There's no easy way to win this, huh? Whatever, he wasn't someone who was in anything for the easy ending. He left home in a panic, searching for the man who had left him and everything they'd known for — for something out here, he doesn't even know what. Everything he cares about was gone except for the asshole that kept him here, in a place that he loathes.

Because that, for some reason, is how his life works.

The dog ends up spitting out leaves as he pushes through some of the undergrowth, half-dead pieces of it sticking into thick fur and tearing at his satchel. It's almost empty now and he should have left it back with Butch or something, but he's not turning back to that place now. Even with the sounds of life drowning him, this is better for his head than listening to those people talk. Breathing out here is like breathing in smoke; every breath in just makes the next more difficult. Every exhale is frustrated as he trudges forward. Even after a sharp crack of breaking branches and the smacking of light twigs on top of his head, Val can only feel frustrated. Then he looks up. Golden eyes widen and then narrow, posture defensive and leaning away from Feliks. "What, change your mind about listening to a dictator?" he scoffs, biting down crueler words.