Hellsborough Exposed

An ordinary adder waits; a venomtooth hunts, tracking you by heat across open moor and correcting its line every time you change direction. Its venom works on a clock rather than a dose, so the further you run once bitten the more of it gets pumped round, which makes the instinct to run exactly the wrong one. Sit down, stay still, and let someone else do the fetching.

Beyond the Great Northern causeway lie the badlands (crosslands, netherlands, call them what you like), a canker on the butt of Hellsborough, all rust, detritus and the crumbling and grumbling of ancient architecture. The nethermen say exactly the same about us, and I'll admit it's refreshing out there to roam without a psycmask and without the organic network watching. Last time, the only soul I saw was a solitary moldenk with the requisite electric scooter, which, given they're always found in pairs, worried me more than it should have.