Page 124 of Godslayer
And then we’d be short a man on the way out and… die.
None of us want to die.
And anyway, Myra really did fall, and thisisa joke, but I still don’t like being called Tymmy. So she says, in an exaggerated manner, “Pardon me,” taking a low bow, “captain.” Her eyes rollin’ up to look at me, like she’s beggin’.
And when I look at her, she… shimmers. But it’s the wrong word. Because shimmer implies light. And Myra, looking up at me with those beggin’ eyes, is not lit up. She’s dark. Not dark as in looks, but actually fucking… empty. She’s black, like space, outlined in glowing blue spark.
What the fuck?
And thy rulewas made in wind.
And in the wind, as in the days of dark imprisonment, the new gods rose as tall as the hollow towers.
I shake my head, tryin’to make Myra go away as the Augment’s Creed spins through my head like a fuckin’ bad-trip Sanddji flashback. “I don’t have time to think about you now, Myra.” It comes out in a whisper.
I only have time for death.
And in this rising, they conquered.
Swept the land of everythin’ and left it clean like a bone.
The augment charges. Comin’ at me with his arm raised, ax high in the air.
On instinct, I reach for the Versi, but of course, it’s not there. So instead, I charge him. Head first. Full power. And for a moment, this confuses him. Because he’s thinkin’,I’ve got an ax. Who the hell does this motherfucker think he is?
Yeah, well… he’s about to find out.
And on that bone, was born I.
The executioner and the death.
My head hits him square in the fuckin’ gut and he goes reeling backwards, slammin’ into the metal bars of the cage. The breath comes rushing out of him in a great gasp, and then he’s suckin’ in air. Desperate for it.
Which is when I simply reach down and give that neck of his a little twist.
Just like the last guy.
When I look up, there’s already another one comin’.
It’s not just him, though. There’s a whole crowd of Epsilon’s mutant augments behind him. A wall of bodies, shifting and snarling, surging forward like a living tide. Glowing eyes—red, blue, sickly green—flicker in the hazy dust created by the stompin’ feet of hundreds of men.
And as stupid as it sounds, I stop here to wonder about these eyes.
An augment’s eyes are blue. Like spark.
So where the hell did all these colors come from?
Later, Tyse. You’re fightin’.
Metal limbs clank as they rush me. Flesh rippling over unnatural muscle. Some dragging weapons, others bare-handed, eager to tear into me with just their fingers. Mouths split open, revealing those teeth—jagged and uneven, like Luther’s.
A hallmark of Epsilon.
I actually stop to laugh.
But they keep comin’.
I don’t have a plan. I don’t ever have a plan. I don’tneeda plan. Because this is what I was made for. Instinct. Programmed muscle memory. I leap, fingers catchin’ a jagged edge of bent steel, boots scraping for purchase. Haul myself up, muscles screaming, lungs burning. Higher. Faster. The horde of snarling mutant augments below, reaching for me and scrambling to follow.
