OVER AND OVER AND OVER — octane

[MYERS]

[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]He's almost drifted off, thoughtfully exhaling thick clouds through parted lips in rhythm with the crash of the ocean; it was never difficult for him to lose himself in the intoxicating flavor of clove and poison wormwood. Like nicotine and any other vice, it was a terrible habit - but he rarely inhaled, only swilling the taste through his teeth and occasionally taking a puff, so he reached the broad conclusion that seeing the effects of a painful herb were unlikely. (This was, of course, deeply untrue. He lived in a distant past that claimed itself much safer than the present knowledge.)

Perhaps it is luck that somebody walks by, their high voice jolting him back to the present - his previous incident had been caused by his trailing off to sleep. Ahab blinks, breathes; slow and steady, he reminds himself, not bothering to flinch as a plume of sand catches in his fur with the passing breeze. If Octane considers himself a tactician, he's already failed the role - his blunt words put the bear on edge as he chews, a little, on the paper snagged between his fangs. He half-expected the cheetah to simply reach up and snag the smoke for himself, but when no paw reached for his face Ahab allowed his shoulders to ease back once more.

Ahab turns, blows a thin trail of smoke in Octane's direction. He smiles like the sharks on the tide. "I don't waste herbs on people who don't need them."