Snippet #1863686

Izzie stepped back, dark eyes like those of an ever-vigilant hawk taking in the fresh carnage that she (and indeed a particular fedelho whose name Izzie did not make a habit of using in reference) had rapidly inflicted seconds previously. The remnants of a veritable massacre were strewn about before the two women who merely looked on at the sanguine scene, one with a most evident sadistic pleasure, almost pride in the result, reflected in the amber expanses of her irises, the other possessed only of a callous, cruel apathy that would have disgusted and sickened her herself not long ago--even though it felt like it could have been lifetimes ago when Izzie wasn't...as she was now. As though any time she couldn't bring herself to stop her mind wandering back to those years, it felt like they had befallen someone else, thousands of miles and vast eternities away from Izzie. And maybe they had. Because the unhappy, miserably helpless girl living in the favelas of Brazil, and the immense being now ruthlessly indifferent to the lives of others...

"Well, if we are done wasting time and energy on this kind of pointless shit..." Izzie turned; having replaced the spent cigarette butt with a fresh smoke, she was intent now on simply returning to her apartment, figuring it was worth it if its thin, meagre walls would rid her of incompetent snipers and insufferable explosion-causing brats and crowds of idiotic, witless thugs and random-ass twerps dropping their goddamn footballs...

"I am out. Before you little scene here attracts more these jackasses." Or maybe the police. Hell, they had to do their job at some point; even they couldn't ignore a street full of (pieces of) carcasses strewn all about with inexplicable burns and blunt force trauma. Though, all distaste for the police aside...Damned if I'd just love to be there to hear them try to figure this shit out. Well, they were, in general, pretty fucking useless, but even Izzie had to confess that had she not partaken in the massacre herself she'd be damned if she could figure out what in the fuck could've happened. They'd probably chalk the burns up to a bomb or something, taking the burnt-out shell of the still flaming auto-mobile as evidence of a car bomb, perhaps, but the most probable explanation for the blunt force trauma Izzie had inflicted was that somehow the force of a train had been focused on every other thug, on some point of their body, conveniently into the mass of a fist (or an elbow. Sometimes a boot.).

But of course, humans just don't punch with the force of a train.

Anybody knows that happens only in sci-fi novels, or movies, or on roleplay sites.

Which reminded Izzie (in the non-sequiter of the century) that she'd forgotten to pick up groceries for breakfast. Or for dinner the previous day. Or for breakfast the previous day. A small fact brought to mind that, for some reason, upon turning away from the visceral scene of carnage, Izzie realised she was really hungry. Is it bad that dead bodies make me hungry? Pretty sure that's bad.