Whirling Knives

A news copter sent its nanocamera after that queer smear in reality, its footage sending gasps and in the case of some, acid reflux, through the esophagi of newshounds.

Bloodied from minor wounds, X’s psyche dropped bits of himself in translucent trails of memory and sensation.

The bot was no better, leaking psyche RAM in slime green spurts. Its psycombat shields was a flickering rust brown. Failure was imminent.

A thought bullet rippling ectoplasm mirages of dreams caught it in its flank, sending a titanium plate protecting its internal processes springing into reinforced concrete where it buzzed, vibrato.

A fleshknife whirling with engine powered double serrated teeth cut through bone and sinew until X’s arm hung from a shred of skeined flesh.

He screamed, anger scything from the third eye and it parried with the dredged memories of a housewife’s first real orgasm, the collective of a raucous comedian’s audience, and a child’s purest joy.

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