"As long as you're sure you're fine, let's head that way." Kitty lay sprawled across Deathstroke's shoulder, pointing in a direction with her burning tail like a signpost. "I think I can smell some angels over there, meow."
"By the way, what do angels smell like?" Deadpool, who no longer had a digestive system, followed along and looked at Kitty with a question. "Aren't angels supposed to be super clean? They shouldn't have any smell at all."
Most people's impression of angels was that they were beautiful and pure. Fallen angels didn't count; proper angels were all very clean.
The feathers on their wings had to be fluffy, and the white bedsheets they wore had to be smooth. Cleanliness and hygiene were their whole thing.
"Hehe, foolish human, meow. It's only because your pathetic sense of smell can't detect their scent." Kitty raised her chin proudly. "Angels smell a lot like sunlight, while Michael is the finest among them. He even carries a hint of a natural breeze."
Rather than smell, it was more like a sensation. Still, Dream of a Thousand Cats truly sensed those things through a nose without nostrils.
Dreams were just that wondrous.
"Logically speaking, Lucifer should be the Light of Lights, but the last time I saw him, that guy reeked of cologne." Deadpool chatted with Kitty. Though gravity issues and the inverted, rugged terrain made it inconvenient for him to move, he still maintained the mindset of someone out on a picnic.
Hearing that, Deathstroke chimed in. "Actually, Lucifer doesn't use perfume. What you smelled was merely his ever-changing aura of seduction. And don't forget, you have nasal cancer. Unless something gets shoved right into your face, your sense of smell is worse than that of a mass-produced Synthezoid."
Those thirty-dollar good brothers did