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)
And I let him down.
Shhhhhhhh, a little voice hushes me. Soothing. Calming. Rational. It’s not over yet, Clara. Quiet now. You’ve got more. You know you do. You feel it. There’s more, you just have to—
I look down and there it is.
My heart shard.
My eyes roll up. And there’s another little bit. The cherry spark. The final little bits of me. Mine. To use, or give away. Not much, but maybe enough if I combine them together.
It’s not even a conscious decision. My heart shard sputters, goes out.
The clinking and clanking turns into a loud bang. And just before my little cherry spark extinguishes, the VersiStrike hovers up into the air, hits the wall, pulls backwards, and leaves through the fucking door!
43 - TYSE
I’m the last man standing on a stage made for monsters. Down below me, several dozen dead mutants are splayed out on the floor. Some didn’t even make it that far, their bodies catching the scaffolding of the maze so they’re hangin’ off railings and platforms like discarded life-size dolls. There’s blood everywhere and the whole arena reeks like death.
The winged mutants keep comin’ at me. They don’t seem sentient. They’re all teeth, claws, and instinct. But there are a lot of them.
I’m full of spark now, though. So it’s not much of a problem. It’s just… this isn’t how we win. I don’t know how many more of these things Epsilon’s got, but surely he does have more.
It’s a time waster. He sent his best guys up first, they’re already rottin’ down below.
These mutants here, they’re a holdin’ pattern, and nothin’ more.
Because that fucker knows he’s lost. And now he’s tryin’ to get away while I’m up here, busy workin’ my way through a horde of mistakes.
But there’s no point in runnin’, tryin’ to catch him. Because as long as he’s got one minion left, they’re gonna stand between him and my revenge.
And now, when you add in the fact that the stands are empty—and I didn’t kill all those men—it means they’re hidin’. Waitin’ for an ambush.
Maybe, if it were just me, I could find a way out. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could pull that off. But it’s not just me anymore—it’s us. And there’s no way—not even as small way—that I get away from these semi-sentient battle bats with Clara in tow.
I need to finish them, and then I need to finish the hundreds of men who weren’t yet augmented into battle monsters, and then I need to finish Epsilon.
And this blessin’ of spark—deluge as it is—isn’t enough.
It’s just not enough.
I look down at my right hand. Trying to lock in. My palm seizes, every nerve in my hand firin’ off like a system glitch. Tendons burn as an ice-cold wave of pressure climbs up my arm, only to be shut off at the elbow.
Data display flashes at me: RETURNCALL FAILURE.
Please, please, please.
Clara!
All this takes but half a second, that’s all the time I have before more of the battle bats come at me. They are pathetically slow. Which is why Epsilon waited to use them.
It’s a last-stand kind of moment for him.
But again, they don’t have to be boss-level murderers to be effective—they just need to waste my time.
I kill a few, rip off some wings and throw ‘em over the railing, punch one in the throat and let it choke on the metal platform while I try again.
But this time, I pray—and I pray hard.
I am the executioner and the death…
My heart thumps.
I can’t breathe. I’m dyin’, gaspin’. A feeling of horrific guilt washes over me—her heart is breakin’.
Because this is Clara I’m feelin’.
And it’s a good thing, because she heard me!
She understands.
Immediately, my data display lights up. Commands flowing down like a cyan-blue waterfall. A snap, a click in the tendons of my palm. RETURNCALL ACTIVATED.
Yes! I laugh. Yes!
My forearm pulses. A low-frequency rumbles through my chest as my hand locks up, then bolts open like a trigger.
I hear it before I see it. Metal clankin’ against metal. The pressure in the arena drops. The air folds around somethin’ incoming—resists it for a split-second, then surrenders. A gale of wind passes me by, slammin’ into the battle bats. They scatter like debris, wings shredded, bodies flung against the far wall.
And then—a whizzin’ sound. Half a second later, the Versi snaps into my hand with enough force to knock me back a step.
RETURNCALL ONLINE.
A split-second later, my data display detonates in a flood of cascadin’ light—
PULSEMATCH: ONLINE.
AUTOSELECT: ACTIVE.
MINDLINK: ENGAGED.
SOULBIND: LOCKED.
PHASETETHER: LOADING…
VERSIPATH OVERRIDE: SEARCHING…
GHOSTMARK: CHARGING…
The air around me distorts—heat, static, pressure.
The Versi isn’t just a weapon anymore.
It’s a system.
It’s a goddamn event.
Now the game’s fair.
VERSIPATH OVERRIDE: TARGETS LOCKED
GHOSTMARK: DEPLOYED.
I raise the Versi, no aiming necessary. The weapon hums low, then screams when I activate it.
GHOSTMARK FIRING: BIOMETRIC SWEEP INITIATED.
The world bends as everything not tagged as ‘friendly’ gets ripped from the arena like a tempest sweepin’ dust across the desert in a storm.