Conversation had mostly died after the last fight—though it wasn't so much because there was nothing to say, but because none of us could find the energy to say it. We trudged onward through ankle-deep muck and rising steam, each step took more effort than the last as our clothes plastered to our bodies with sweat and whatever else the sewer had coated us in. Every breath tasted like mildew and rot, and the air was so thick it felt like we were wading through it, not just walking, which only added to our dissatisfaction. It was one thing to trudge through a sewer, but it was another thing entirely to force your entire boy through it.
The deeper we went, the worse it got. The tunnels twisted and narrowed, guiding us farther down into the belly of some ancient, festering entity whose only purpose served to confuse and disorient us. The walls were slick with moisture, and the stone underfoot had long since been worn smooth by time and sewage, so much goddamn sewage.
