A single instinct - eat flesh - trickled down Quentin’s skin in a wave of goosebumps as he sat unmoving, legs sprawled out ungracefully over the edge of the street-side curb. It was a slightly unsettling feeling, because on some level he felt like following that instinct would be a terrible idea. Though he didn’t know exactly why. His thoughts, which were normally busy working nonstop overtime, had slowed to the speed of your typical corpse. Which is to say-- he wasn’t half as concerned about these impulses as he would have been if his brain been functioning properly. So instead of working himself into a moral panic, he found himself simply sitting, quietly watching flocks of strangely-dressed people laugh and scream down the street as they passed in groups. Watching was less effort, anyway, especially because it didn’t require thinking. But the temptation hadn’t entirely disappeared. “Eating someone would be... bad,” he said aloud slowly, testing it out. “Right?”
