The 101 smelled like a chemical fire in a graveyard.
Bile-green rain hammered the ruins of the 405 interchange, a billion toxic needles dissolving the world. Where the droplets hit the rusted skeletons of abandoned sedans, the metal bubbled into a sickly-neon soup. Outside the dome, the environment was liquefying.
Inside, the air was a sanctuary of cinnamon and ozone. Ash was tucked into the crook of Will's neck, the baby phoenix acting as a living hearth. Her golden warmth radiated through his armor, dampening the chill of the acid-mist that threatened to seep into his marrow.
They didn't walk; they blurred.
Will moved at the front, his boots barely touching the fossilized redwood branches that had reclaimed the concrete pillars. His [Warlord Aura] acted as a pressurized, violet slipstream. It stretched and snapped like kinetic glass, trailing behind him to encompass the four people matching his lethal pace.
