To choke herself in the blanketed aromas of detergent enticed her, to feel the shrouding ends of a broomstick was an utter bliss, echoes of a vacuum sank Ammonia Pine into amnesia. Nothing could ever match such rapture.
Of course, there were those who would disagree. A shameless man attired in a purple child's bed-spread, his eyes anchored onto her haven, as storms clouded his sight with an undead mercy. He came pouring down with the rain, the vigilante's gaze stinking her to a ridicule.
Ammonia resented filthy individuals, including ones that fit the particularity of Darkwing's vex. Yet, she never envied their minds; the truth could be better taken when it was filled to the brinks of grave's dirt. But if truth needed to be coherent or existing without false, to light itself onto the city once more, it needed more than a rinse over for people to see. These same hypocrites refused such a truth, much as a child would clam his mouth against a dentist's healing hands.
She would choke St. Canard in stenches of pure integrity, force the citizens to view the shadowing side of the broomstick, their protests echoing into a vacuum that would never lose power.
Darkwing grappled for his gas gun, Ammonia merely granted a foaming grin.
