Ficly

Hand

I hefted my axe for a minute, its weight sure and confident. The chrome-concrete barrier would not hold against the horde.
My job was slowly killing me. Hooked into the distributed processing system with four dozen others, my mental resources collected for the analyzing of video picked up and compiled from every imaginable source across the globe, looking for tell-tale signs of whatever our clients wanted. Looking for causes and effects. Watching for the patterns to emerge.
So I lost myself.
Her skin was a perfect white. The eyes the color of elephant tusks grown to massive sizes, used for entry-way decorations and for mounting on improvised combat vehicles. She was perfect. She stood above me as I took three steps to the left, and slit open the darkness with precision I previously could only dream about.
She would never leave me.
I would be the hand.

This story has no comments.