Cucumbers and Death

Sweat glands in abject rebellion, Dakota could not fight her growing dampness and uneasiness. Options and possibilities cascaded before her mind’s eye. None of them were particularly cheery.

Stop. Breathe. Think.

Words from the past echoed, a blessing given over years of careful training. With a silent thanks for a once trusted friend and teacher, she paused, sought the stillness, and cleared her mind. Unrest quelled, the answer sprang into clarity, an epiphany both radiant and violent.

Careful steps brought her back to the shattered lab. Patient work with a lazer pen, an insufficient weapon for most foes, fashioned a makeshift weapon, a crude machete with her own shirt removed and wrapped at the base for a handle.

She was going to hunt. She was going to kill. She was going to put on one hell of a show.

With a bow and a one finger salute to any camera that might have been watching, Dakota stalked back into the hallways. Two, three corners and the scent was unmistakeable—cucumbers and death.

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