It seemed that Sorrel decided to spend a little more time in the city… of course, as Sorrel— not Gamma-Burn. Instead of a haunting specter with a gas mask, he had a simple knit sweater with a patterned yoke in Icelandic styling. He had his dreadlocks half-up in a bun, and his feathers framing his hairline puffed out. The sweater absorbed his thin form, bunching over his hips and leaning to one side and covering his slim hands almost entirely. Those baggy jeans he chose to change into didn’t do him too many favors, either— each movement still showed just how much of a stick he was, and it made him want to peel his skin off. At least… the height was right..? The jeans didn’t sag onto the ground, instead stopping right before the heel of Sorrel’s trusty steel-toed boots. 

He still felt like absolute [i]shit.[/i] While he got his core back in control with a quick visit to the meta-doctor stationed at Ground Zero, a few minutes of little intra-venous drips and painkillers, he… was supposed to be fine. He wasn’t dying— that counted as fine, but Sorrel struggled to stand up or swallow food. Why did he decided that [i]today[/i] was the day he had to air out a bit, to be in the city and be… among other people? Ground Zero is a wonderful settlement, a great community built upon the work of the people and [i]ran[/i] by those same people. Everyone also knew exactly who Sorrel was, there. He was alone, in his double shipping-container house overgrown with vines and trees. He was alone, in the repurposed guts of the power-plant that became a perfect lab for him. He was alone, as he double-checked the tasks of the day and talked about nothing in particular with people who… tried to treat him like a god, for some reason. Long story short— he was alone, sitting in this stupid Mexican-American restaurant, but… sitting with strangers who just saw him as some dude with feathers and green hair was much calmer, for some reason. 

His taco bowl started getting cold. Why did he come here anyways? He could cook! He was a great cook, he had fresh garden ingredients and fresh meats and a mighty set of recipes stored in his head, but… he frankly didn’t have the energy. That, and… Sorrel just wanted to feel normal for maybe two seconds. 

Of course, he wasn’t normal. He wasn’t ever normal. He knew that, as he stared down at the stupid taco bowl as he sat at the very corner of this stupid restaurant in the center of town. He still felt like his insides were two steps away from becoming outsides. He still felt like his lips were stained red. 

Sorrel coughed into a napkin, still staring at that stupid, overpriced, probably-full-of-GMOs-and-preservatives taco bowl. He finally moved his mismatched eyes to the brown napkin crumpled in his hand. Blood. Of course. [i]Nine Hells,[/i] this day was the worst day his body could’ve chosen to just fuck him over so severely. For some reason, he still felt cold, despite that thick sweater and despite that pulsing core radiating an eerie heat from his solar plexus. 

Eventually, Sorrel fought against his nausea and fatigue to take a spoonful from that taco bowl. It was… okay. The shrimp was obviously frozen, the cheese was from a bag instead of freshly grated, the tomatoes were maybe a week old instead of freshly-picked, the sauce was obviously from a mass-produced can— Jesus. He could say it was okay, but it cost him 12 dollars, and he could cook better at home for basically free. What the fuck? 

He crinkled his green and blonde brows together as he glared down at his meal. Well… this was his fault, for wanting to try a new place. No matter. Wasting food is just plain [i]bad.[/i] As he took a second bite, he looked up to the sound of the front door’s jingling bell. A short man with pink hair and horns entered, with large and pointed ears. Where did Sorrel see this man before? He could’ve [i]sworn[/i] he knew those features from somewhere else. It seemed his two seconds of being normal had ended, because Sorrel literally just stared blankly at that familiar stranger, half hunched over his mediocre food.