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Silver belongs to my great friend

Moro belongs to me

Silver was extremely disoriented—just a moment ago, he had been standing on the ground, complaining about something or other that Moro couldn’t be bothered to listen to. Something petty, probably about not being allowed to look at or keep some piece of tech they'd found while exploring a newly cleared-out airbase. Moro hadn’t humored it with a response—just reached down and picked him up, roughly, bringing him here: dangling precariously above the maney’s mottled throat. A rather quick death sentence, if dropped, he knew Moro's stomach wasn't even close to empty below, it would be very violently active.

He knew that, of course. He’d seen Moro hand out such a sentence to an uncountable number of people by now—some rather recently. Though they certainly didn’t exist anymore. Nor did a lot of the equipment. The aircraft. A lot of useful things that Moro seemed to find more fun in erasing than letting anyone else enjoy.

None of that was evident on his breath. Moro’s breath carried the same stale warmth of whatever ordinary meal he’d had earlier. As Silver stared down at that cavernous mouth, there was nothing unusual about it either—just a few tiny flecks of food debris, the same thin film of saliva across his tongue, the mottled ridged roof of his mouth. Familiar, in a surreal way.

Silver felt gravity pulling on him intensely. Moro’s grip was loose—concerningly loose, despite whatever trust might exist between them. The humid air just kept washing over him in slow, cyclical waves. Moro didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The complaints had stopped.

(Story takes place in the post apocalyptic variant storyline)