// Giving in
How did the neurotic, temperamental and -- let's be honest -- quite insane young mercenary feel about this current treatment?
Hungry. Achingly so. And if that meant devouring the flesh of his fellow patients, then it was quite the welcomed price. After all, he was already used to the old cafeteria manwiches before the rule change. Would this be any different? Sure, he was being forced to this time around. And sure, this time he was going to have to hunt and cook his own food rather than having it being served to him... but that was okay for him too. It would be no different from hunting down deers and ducks.
Their screams would be different. But that's all.
His pittrap (his trademark) was set to the entrance of an old building, the only light entering from the busted doorway to reveal the boy bruised and bloody -- a mere cloak. The bruises were his own and the blood, a struggle with a patient that had escaped a struggle with him. Their blood made the illusion realistic.
Laying against the wall, eyes squinting towards a figure in the distance, The Mole meekly called out to his soon to be snack.
"Please... iz someone out there...? I need help... I won't survive for long..."















