The writer gazed at the screen. Her dry eyes squinted against its harsh glow. As she randomly typed on the blank digital sheet of paper a figure stooped over to catch a glimpse of the monitor. Dark rows of Arial Black letters came quickly into view.
"What are you doing," Awaji asked.
The writer sat quietly a moment. She glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. Even she could not supply an answer.
"I suppose I'm just bored," the writer replied and paused as a thunderclap ripped through their living quarters. One might expect actual thunder, but they weren't so lucky. It was no secret Herald consumed far too many soda pops that resulted in extra fire power and soon toxic stench reached their fragile nasal passages.
Awaji tossed a fleeting look toward the door. It was the only miracle separating them from the full power of unpleasant odor. It wouldn't stop the vapors though from slowly seeping in through the crack at the bottom.
"Can you imagine what it must smell like out there," Awaji asked.
The writer took a moment to consider her and answered, "Probably like a sewer mixed with a toxic waste dump." What was her point again? Did she even have one? She peered closely at the monitor. The computer smelt hot. It had been her enemy but also a friend.
From the living quarters another monstrous sound of butt cheeks squirting out another blast of poison rocketed the atmosphere. Awaji grabbed a towel from the end of the bed and shoved it along the length of the crack beneath the door. She then stepped away, eyes glued to it as though it held some importance between life and death.
The stench was enough to kill an elephant although the writer based this assumption on no actual proof. It was common sense that anyone producing that much gas had to be lethal.