By Simon Drax
October 20, 2009
* * *
Trista grimaced. Blood trickled from her lips, ran down her chin, splattered in large drops on the marble floor. Trista said,
“You—you’re not The One, Mori. You’re… the Exit Vector.”
Warping, twisting with a thousand mouths and teeth like cliffs, the Nox Golgoth screamed, Tell her what it MEANS!
Mori pulled at the cables coiled around her neck. “No.” Dreading the answer. “No…”
Coughing, tears of pain streaming, Trista said, “It means… you have to die, Mori.”
And the Nox Golgoth laughed, obscene.
* * *
The car ripped super-sonic across the dark open desert. Billy’s face was a rictus of fear, a helpless scream rising from the quivering gash of his mouth, “Ee-eee-yaaa-yaAAAA…”
And though Frost sat absolutely impassive behind the wheel, beneath her mask of metal and armored plates there was chaos and frenzy, the clacking of gears and the scream of ancient pistons, the thudding hammer of her mechanical heart—racing, racing against critical failure, against the lowering dark that she knew would claim victory, this time…
* * *
Die, the Nox Golgoth purred, the sound descending into a gurgle of infernal mirth. Oh yes, death for the maiden, DEATH for the soft stupid pretty girl thing. TRAGIC design flaw in your ultimate weapon, wouldn’t you agree, Mother? Tragic! Euerr. Euerr. Euerr. In order for your precious EXIT VECTOR to WORK, she has to DIE!
“Da-damn,” Mori winced, her head lowering, fingers still tugging at the cables around her neck. Her body arched, twisting as she was held aloft; her feet kicked empty air. “Damn… you’re… fucking… ugly.”
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