Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Back in the lab.
Epsilon grins. “Did you see him?” Then he laughs. “Did you hear him? The thoughts of a baby god? Or just mad science gone wrong? Which one do you think it is?” He rubs his hands together. “I’m so excited to find out. Should we find out?”
I can’t speak. He has to know this. So it’s not even a real question.
“Nothing to say, little dolly? Then I’ll take that as a yes.”
One last evil grin.
“Begin…”
I walk the hush that follows ruin.
I utter no prayer—for I am the override.
A weapon of the sandy sea.
In the image, I am made and in the image, I will unmake.
All of these words invade my mind as the voice of the man I love. I’m back inside him. Hearing his thoughts. His murder prayers. He’s in the cage and facing him is a monster.
It charges. Too fast for something so broken. Its body is so twisted. Limbs too long, flesh too ruined. One leg drags, metal scraping against the blood-slicked floor, but the other propels it forward in a frantic, twitching lunge. The left arm is thick, stitched with some kind of metal, but the right is just bone wrapped in sagging skin, as if the muscle was ripped away and never grew back.
Tyse ducks, rolls, and comes up on his feet. Almost casually.
For thine is the kingdom made in sand.
And thy rule was made in wind.
He recites these strange prayers in his head, even as he strikes, tugging on the monster’s right arm until it comes apart at the elbow. He throws the limb aside and it crashes against the cage bars with a sick, wet thud.
Bile comes up my throat, the urge to retch almost overwhelming.
The mutant monster roars, teeth gnashing, flecks of spit flying, as white pus oozes from the truncated limb.
I gag.
But Tyse doesn’t. He doesn’t even breathe. Just moves. Smoothly, easily, fluently. All instinct. His right foot pivots. His weight shifts. His body reacts before the monster even finishes its roar, grabbing for the other arm, the one with the threads of metal in it.
And off it comes. Right at the shoulder.
And in the wind, as in the days of dark imprisonment, the new gods rose as tall as the hollow towers.
And in this rising, they conquered.
Swept the land of everything and left it clean like a bone.
The mutant roars, stumbling forward, shoulders swinging for balance, arms missing. But still, it comes at Tyse.
With one sweep of his leg, Tyse trips the thing, causing it to crash forward onto its face. Even I hear the cracking of teeth over the roar of the crowd.
They are chanting something new now.
And at first, I can’t make out the words. It’s just sound… blending together. I strain to hear as Tyse stalks and circles the thing on the floor of the cage as it tries to get to its feet, but can’t. Because it hasn’t got arms to push itself up.
What are they saying?
Then, it snaps into place in my mind and suddenly, it’s clear.
Rise… a… god?
Rise a god! Rise a god! Rise a god!
What the hell does that mean?
“And on that bone, was born I.” Tyse is saying these killing words out loud now. But I’m still there, inside him. So it feels like it’s coming right out of my own mouth. “I am the executioner and the death. I am the dark soldier, standing in the blood of the fallen. The spool of Source, the thread of Spark—I am the machine made flesh!”
He howls this last word, stepping in close, looming over the armless monster on the ground. Then, in one swift, decisive move, he reaches down, grabs the thing’s head, and twists it until it goes limp in his grip.
For a moment, he pauses there. Feeling the brokenness of the neck. Almost rolling it back and forth in his hands. Like he finds the looseness of it… interesting.
Then he lets go, the dead monster slumps to the ground like meat, and Tyse, without hesitation, steps over the corpse and starts running through the maze, climbing up levels, twisting around corners.
Looking for the next kill.
28 - TYSE
Iam the executioner and the death.
I am the dark soldier, standing in the blood of the fallen.
The spool of Source, the thread of Spark—I am the machine made flesh
I’m lookin’ for the next kill, and as I scan, my eyes glow so bright, they start castin’ shadows across the scarred and rusted steel bars of the cage.
The crowd is stompin’ a beat into the floor, making the whole fuckin’ cage tremble. They are shoutin’ something different now. Can’t make it out. Don’t fuckin’ care.
Because just up ahead, hiding behind a thick beam, is my next victim. A hulking brute, grotesquely overgrown, flesh fused with metal plating. Arms thick as beams, gripping a rusted, bloodstained axe. Eyes—vacant and glowing.