>>5398551The Hexane pistol writhes with a hatred and spite that worms its way into your bones, an unquenchable fury that’s given outlet in the barrel it’s been hammered into. Its wielder swings it up with one hand, bringing it to bear against the onrushing train to meat and rage that’s hurtling towards her at breakneck speed. Eyes meet, a fist is cocked, and a trigger is pulled.
You don’t understand what happens next.
You think there’s light. What color, you couldn’t say. Maybe there was a sound. You blink, trying to make sense of what’s just happened, forced to turn your attention to the aftermath of the single shot that was loosed from the alien weapon—sand is glassed, corruption scoured clean in a clear, cruel line as far as your eye can see. The slinger spins the revolver on her trigger finger vertically and horizontally before she nudges her hat up with the tip of the barrel…and, finally, her face is revealed.
She looks to be your age, the tan skin of her sharply-angled face through with hairline cracks. A strand of flaxen hair is loosed by the movement of her hat, the tip continually dissolving into specks of sand that promptly burn away to ashes before hitting the ground…but of all this, perhaps the most striking thing is her smile, a too-wide thing jammed with needles of shimmering gold to match eyes that feel too large for their sockets. Pupils shaped like stars glow with golden light, a girlish and wild-eyed grin leveled at the destruction their owner’s wrought.
The stars spin, narrow, and then…she turns.
She turns to look at you. Not your swarmlings, not your scouts.
You.
Across the miles that separate you, through chaos and conflict and corruption, you feel her starry-eyed gaze trained on you like a firing squad. Both the Contender on your right hip and the Silver Key in your left pocket feel heavy and uncomfortable, as though being pulled towards that strange, distant Daughter. You stand your ground as she holsters the Hexane weapon in her left hand while signing with her right, a handful of quick motions spelling out something that causes Francine’s breath to hitch in her throat even as the gunslinger grins with barely-restrained anticipation.
“She…she knows who you are.” The good doctor whispers in your ear, clearing her throat before adding; “She says ‘Hello, Defiant’…”
Stars spin, lips smirk.
A trigger finger twitches.
“Care for a duel?”
>>FIFTY-FOURTH VEIN: CLOSED 