A flash of green, too bright. The snap of a leather coat, caught on the wind. A glint of metal, silver hanging in the air, carried behind him. The scent of gunpowder.
His gunblade is still smoking when he stops, a few feet away. He’s always been quick on the draw, even if always has only been a few weeks for him. His eyes gleam, pupils narrow to slits, not unlike something big and hungry.
And he is hungry.
The small creature twitches and goes still–a survival instinct, or a death rattle, he won’t know until he gets closer. It won’t be a good meal, but it will feed him and his brothers, and that’s all that he needs from the thing lying in the road.
The creature twitches and leaps up, speeding off away from him, and Yazoo shoots again, a fatal shot that takes the beast limp to the ground in an instant. The meat is sure to taste awful. Sour, ruined, nasty. The others are going to complain about the flavor. It’s as foreseeable as Loz crying over a mild scolding, or Kadaj snapping at either of them.
Regardless, it’s been days without eating, and he wants to now. Nevermind how bad the taste is. They’ve all eaten worse, since they came into this world.
Justification, excuses for bringing back bad meat to Kadaj? Yes. It is neither the first, nor the last time he’ll have disappointed his brother. He’s learned already to live with that, in a way that Loz apparently has not.
Neither of them are nearby, nor are they calling for him, but he can feel, like a pressure on the back of his skull, their impatience. He collects the corpse of the beast and disposes of the inedibles efficiently. He turns to head back towards camp. There is a truck coming down the road, billowing dust behind it, and he has a mind to shoot the driver for sport. Will they slow down, at the sight of a traveler on the side of the road, or speed past when they realize what he is?
His grip on his gunblade tightens and relaxes again, and he turns focus back towards returning to their camp, watching the truck pass him out of the corner of his eye.
They speed up.