Page 121 of Godslayer
And they chant. Mouths open as they yell, revealing the same crowded, crooked, and stained teeth of the one who yanked me back into this dimension.
For several moments, I can’t make out what they’re saying. The words all mesh together in the thunderous chant.
But then, I recall what Luther said. And that’s when I remember the city we were in when those bot things scanned us on the train.
Epsilon!Epsilon!Epsilon!
They are calling for him. Their god.
Epsilon!Epsilon!Epsilon!
Each time they shout his name, the entire arena vibrates. Pounding like a heartbeat. They raise their fists into the air, pumping them as their feet stomp the floor, making the massive stadium shudder.
Above, brilliant floodlights glare down from a scaffold of steel beams and dangling cables, casting the cage in a blinding, artificial glow. It makes everything too sharp and harsh. Shadows stretch long, flickering as the augments move, writhe, and lunge.
I see everything from above, but when I try and see myself, I am… not me. I don’t really have a body, just a space where a body should be. And inside, I see my heart shard, still glowing, but duller now. Like the used-up spark leftover in those unspooling needle tubes. I am just a hovering outline of a Spark Maiden. Pulsing and undulating to the beat of the chants. Inside the space, but apart from it too.
Suddenly, there is a violent shift as my senses explode.
Heat. Stifling. Heavy. Like I’ve been sealed inside a furnace. The air is thick—not just warm, but wet, dense with sweat, blood, rust.
Smell. Rot. A stale, meaty musk.
Sound. The chanting.
Epsilon!Epsilon!Epsilon!
All the mutant augments are staring at the head of the arena now. Their eyes fixed on a massive screen. The smiling face of their god—their Epsilon—up close and personal.
He is every bit the monster as the broken man unspooling me. His voice booms into the arena, bouncing off the walls as an echo that reverberates back into me with such a force, I float backwards in an out-of-control twist.
Then, suddenly, I am looking up at the screen, not down. A new viewpoint.
I feel Tyse before I understand what’s happening.
I hear his mind racing…
I am the executioner and the death.
It’s Tyse’s voice, but different.
I am the dark soldier, standing in the blood of the fallen.
Lower. Deeper. Darker.
The spool of Source, the thread of Spark—I am the machine made flesh.
Holy shit. How do I get out? How do I stop hearing this? These are his private thoughts. Private killer thoughts! Probably things he’s said a thousand times before battle, or whatever. Is this how he summons the will to kill?
I don’t know. What I do know is that these are not words you tell yourlover.
Panicking, I try to back out of his mind, but can’t.
Shocked, I instinctively pull back. Then there is a feeling of…
Unspooling.
Unraveling.
