Helmutt

Deep, bloody wounds.
A slashing pain. And that arm, that mechanical extension which makes him itch like mad.
The corrosive fumes surrounded him, held him, kept him.
He grunted, wiggled his limbs, his burnt flesh was growling.
Crossing the cloud.
These small droplets of acid suspended in the air thick with humidity and the scent of oxidation protected the opening of his lair, nestled in the depths of the abandoned power station.
But each crossing of this misty and protective veil was a trial.
A painful rebirth.