They came tumbling out of the rift, sixteen in number, weapons hot and blazing neon death. Their carapaces throbbed with halogen psycombat shields.

Fuck! Military thoughtkiller psycombat bots.

X let the onboard computer take control in a blur of limbs. His consciousness receded and his psychic gun sprang firing from the pituary gland on a slim of ectoplasm.

A soul shield sheathed him in sexy charisma.

Pure reflex governed his actions as sixteen became thirteen then four to, finally, one.

A wily one with unnatural programming.

They danced, streaks to the naked eye, pure choreography to the speeded up eye, flashing psyguns and fleshknives. The foundation of the Governable Banking Institution melted like butter as the murderous duo passed their battle through its offices.

The New Wok City Mane Street sewer system ruptured with diarrheal force onto news crews attracted like flies to shit by the architectural tragedy.

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