#pls enjoy one (1) minorly radicalized himbo

[hilo--keahi]

Thursday, 24 September 2020; Club territory, outer district; afternoon

The week was finally coming to a close, but Hilo was still having a goddamn time of it.

It’d been at least five days since he’d had decent access to untainted water, and roughly a couple since whatever meat he had stocked up in his flat had seriously dwindled. Between the dehydration creeping in and a distinct lack of protein, Hilo was really starting to struggle. He felt sick; run-down. Obviously he’d feel worse if he drank corrupted water -- whatever the hell was in it -- but he certainly didn’t feel great now.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single thing Hilo could do about it, so he was still going about his days and his work the best he damn well could. He’d written Anton a couple days ago to meet him further out from the center of the city; normally he’d just have his friend swing by the Forge, but the Spade relief setup in the Joker meant for seriously congested foot traffic that Hilo didn’t want to deal with.

The knives he’d fashioned were wrapped first in paper and then in a thick cloth, tucked under Hilo’s arm. He leaned heavily against the nearest wall and, for the time being, simply stared straight ahead, unfocused. He kept his mind blank, because if he thought about any of it too much -- the water, the system imbalances, the latest rumors -- he’d just get angry, and Hilo didn’t have the energy to spend on that.

@junganton​