Meanwhile, in a club somewhere in Nysus City, a certain Omega is pouring out the remains of his third bottle of … rum? Gin? Or is it vodka?
He doesn't know. He can't taste it at this point. The burn, however, is still the same molten lava down his throat. It sets him ablaze, making him forget anything he doesn't want to remember.
He slumps his head on the table, his mint green hair spilling over the cheap metal. The soft padding of the booth is warm underneath him, a little sticky from where he spilled a drink five cocktails ago. Out in the open, there's no barrier to protect his ears from the loud music, and every beat is delivered to him through the foreshocks on the floor.
No, that isn't right. It's the bass that's causing such vibrations, isn't it? Or is it the swarm of feet marching on the dance floor?
