what's back: the small whimper of something like real pain as hong lu's tastebuds go through all five stages of grief and then at least ten other made-up ones as they grapple with the grim reality that they're stuck with This Man and his decisions. possibly some of them are considering emigration. it's that sort of grappling. hong lu, for his part, thinks, rather poetically, that this cotton swab tastes a little like congealed despair. less poetically and more realistically, it tastes like trash crabs, but like, a hundred times worse.
there are tears in the corners of hong lu's eyes. he is grinning. ]
Yi Sang, Yi Sang, it's awful. [ happily, ] Maybe it's something Gregor could have cooked? I can't feel my tongue... Hey, Sinclair, do you want to try next?
no subject
what's back: the small whimper of something like real pain as hong lu's tastebuds go through all five stages of grief and then at least ten other made-up ones as they grapple with the grim reality that they're stuck with This Man and his decisions. possibly some of them are considering emigration. it's that sort of grappling. hong lu, for his part, thinks, rather poetically, that this cotton swab tastes a little like congealed despair. less poetically and more realistically, it tastes like trash crabs, but like, a hundred times worse.
there are tears in the corners of hong lu's eyes. he is grinning. ]
Yi Sang, Yi Sang, it's awful. [ happily, ] Maybe it's something Gregor could have cooked? I can't feel my tongue... Hey, Sinclair, do you want to try next?
[ pleased: ] You're going to hate it.