Quoted By:
As Sundae and Bulwark performs a tactical withdrawal, another shape steps out of the swirling smoke. Grins pushes himself clear off an operative and uppercuts him for good measure, creating brief space and then Grins - good instincts - drops to the floor and rolls away.
They say in a sword fight there are Seven Cuts and Infinity.
Everett only cuts four times.
Sometimes the blade simply goes through one man or gun and keeps on going.
As NeoGenesis overrides the lock and Gallium flings a grenade out and throws up an emergency shield against the *real* danger, the fragmentation storm, the front of the cabin is clearer in the wake of the shockwave but it all lingers. Operatives drop to the ground. Pistols. Weapons. Hands. People. They fall, clutching their wounds, crippled, confused, in pain, alive, horrified and the blood they seep slow and sure on the soil stained carriage floor is not . . . as red . . . as it should be
in the corner, Nadir stands
Smiling
Flicks their tongue out. Tastes the air. What a feast to arrive to. What a bounty to be given.
What a wonderful series of small rocks slowly falling downhill adding up to an <span class="mu-s">avalanche</span>.
The light at the end of the tunnel is not an exit, you begin to dread.
That light is an angler fish, luring you in, and terror comes with claws and teeth and smiles and the gradual impolite insistence that the final thing you will betray to simply not have to face the things in front of you will be yourself, your principles and all you hold dear and the shrivelled, cowering, long-dead but still breathing shell that drives the knife home that ends your life won't be some hostile enemy or antagonist cunning and clever.
You'll do it yourself.
Just to not have to face the nightmares any more.
Sharp blades there, Subject.
There are two things sharper still: the sword they call Riven, and the knife of terror you slide into your own soul.
>DREAD PHASE
