ceci n'est pas une combate // lucas vs lobster telephone

Thirsty.

He was so goddamned thirsty.

He'd wandered for what seemed like hours, the voices of Wylla and Riven and Eva having abruptly cut off ever since he'd fallen into - fallen through? - the puddle. He'd wandered long enough for the squish squish squish of the damp forest floor to transform into the crunch crunch crunch that oddly sounded like what he would expect from pebbles or sand.

Whatever the case, he was thirsty. And not in the usual sense, either.

The cloth had come with one major detriment, at least, if you didn't count the obscuring of his sight, either. No matter what he attempted, whether it was from the yellow canteen he had drawn way back on the first day or the strange drink he had picked up after falling through the puddle, not one drop could penetrate his clothy confines and relieve his parched throat.

How ironic, then, that given all of his sexual encounters, he would end up dying of thirst.

Eventually, legs gave way, and a body wracked with malnutrition and exhausted from being chased by giant mutts could go no further, and he passed out.

---

He woke sometime later to a sharp pain in his right arm.

A cry of pain erupted from a throat dry with lack of liquids before he was truly conscious, and slowly, lethargically, he got to his feet. A quick examination of his arm revealed that, there was, in fact, something attached to it.

Oh, lovely.

His left arm fumbled for his tote bag, unzipping it and grabbing one of the knives that he had drawn the previous day, knives that were thankfully still whole and unmelted.

And as he threw towards the lump on his arm, through a haze brought on by poor sleep and poorer nutrition, he could swear he heard the sound of a telephone ringing.