Cool air blows through this dimly lit room. Banks of computer nodes behind rounded transparent doors occupy most of the chamber. Several lights in the eastern part of the room flicker on, revealing an alcove that contains Filip hanging limply from several sets of chains. He is shirtless and patches of skin have been expertly and bloodlessly peeled from his body.

“Oh, I see you, dark lady,” says Filip, bloody tears rolling down his cheeks in something akin to ecstasy. “Your embrace awaits.” His eyes close, and he gasps. His bones crack, breaking like twigs as his body folds in on itself. He disappears into a whispering mote of shadow that vanishes with a sigh.

“If it isn’t the troublemakers!” says Kane Zaphol, lurching forward. Symmetrical, bloody gashes line his cheeks and forehead. His eyes are glossy black and surrounded with gray veins. His armor is damaged and dotted with gore. He makes a sweeping motion with both hands, one of which holds a grenade. “Where do you think you’re going?”

IX 136538
Robert W. 118626,2
Butch 137197
Racksovik 101885
Mace Windu 141329
Rick Decard 102082

Leave a Reply