The battlefield was finally settling — if you could call a field full of flattened crops, drifting feathers, and turkey carnage “settling.” The last gobbles had faded into pitiful gurgles, and the morning sun now shone upon the aftermath like a spotlight judging everyone involved.

Yumi trudged up to the men, scythe over her shoulder, breathing a bit heavier than normal, but visibly satisfied. Her clothes were a crime scene, and she looked like she’d bathed in a geyser of poultry blood.

But her expression?

Bright. Cheerful. Completely oblivious.

She approached Locke and Aramis with a spring in her step, raising a fist proudly.

[i][color=4c87bf]"Sugoi!"[/color][/i] she said, beaming. [color=4c87bf]"That was freakin' AWESOME!"[/color]

She had not yet noticed the dripping, matte-red, horror-film coating most of her body; a soaking, congealing mosaic of turkey fluids.

Yumi held a blood-covered fist out toward them encouragingly.

[color=4c87bf]"Victory fist bump!"[/color] she exclaimed.

A feather floating in the air landed on her cheek and stuck there in the muck.