The Walled Palace served as the biggest brothel in the entire city. Built on the site of the abandoned trade center, it was a place enclosed by overlapping stone slabs, with corridors called rat ways spanning the entire structure like a honeycomb. Once dragged inside, no prostitute, willing or otherwise, could hope to leave this humble establishment in any other way than legs forward. Eight had paid a visit to the place in the past and were somewhat amused at how well the owner, an overweight Orais, ran the place. His gang has trappings of professionalism, and any fool daring to ruin his goods soon found themselves devoid of organs. The owner spared no expense in ensuring proper beauty standards and health for every pleasure worker he possessed.
Nineteen doors led within the complex’s maze, all guarded. Most of them led to the underground levels, where the cheapest whores worked. Eight dismissed these exits right away and walked along the north side of the square-shaped building. No dust or dirt marred the stone place, and several workers cleaned the upper level with sand, hanging down on ropes.
Eight soon found a parking lot before an entrance. The space around a metal door was adorned with opulent gilding, and a large neon sign in the form of two making-out prostitutes shone even during the day. The Number found the scene tasteless, but four clean cars were parked near the doors, and two thugs at the entrance belonged to the Crabs. These men wore clean clothes, their machine guns lacked any rust, and body armor shielded the thugs’ bodies.
“Wait, is this…” One of them started asking, raising his weapon, and Eight jumped.
The time for subtlety was done. It was time to remind the world of the horror spread by the Numbers and utterly shatter any illusion of control Tulio Monzon ever had over this place.
Boots crashed into the surprised faces, shattering bones and leaving dents in the gilded arch, coloring it with brain matter and blood. Eight bounced off the corpses, made a somersault, and landed before the door, knocking on it as if nothing happened. A slit opened at the top of the door, and Eight saw the scared face of a young woman, her face protected by bulletproof glass.
“Hello, good lady! A search for the most exquisite pleasure had led me to this place. May I come in and satiate my thirst?” Eight asked.
“Are you mad?” The woman nervously licked her lips. “Leave the city before Senior Monzon crushes you like a bug!”
“I’d worry more about yourself.” He kicked.
The metal crumpled beneath his strength, and the woman on the other side screamed when the door got torn off the locks and tumbled down at her. Eight stepped inside, greeted by a corridor of total darkness. During normal times, this was a brightly lit passageway with paintings decorating the walls and a soft wooden floor, inviting guests to leave their worries behind and enjoy the hospitality. But the moment he attacked, the security turned off the lights, and the doors leading to the pleasure dens got shut tight. Eight’s ear heard both the frantic gurgling below him and the hushing voices of security guards, and his enhanced eyesight dispersed the darkness.
“Doctor Ulli,” a cold voice said in the corridor, coming out of the dynamics in the wall. “I had heard you have been looking for me as of late.”
“Of course I have, Tulio!” Eight spread his arms wide, holding a machine gun in one arm and a canister with fuel in the other. “We've lived in the same city for so long and never been introduced.”
“Cut the theatrics, fool.” A faint whimper accompanied Tulio's words, and the Number heard a slap. Flesh rubbed against flesh, a soft fabric rustling. “You have suffered an activation. Your erratic state of mind is to be expected. Take a breath and consider your options.”
Eight obeyed, feeling ecstatic. Liberated! Free! At long last, he no longer needed to interact with the filth of this world! “Way better,” he admitted. “I’d thought of simply popping your head, but skinning you alive and hearing you squeal sounds way more appealing. Thanks for the advice!”
“Doctor, you have erred in judgment,” Tulio said in an even voice. “It is understandable, considering the stress you have to endure every day. And I would’ve gladly overlooked your intrusion in commendation of your skills. But you dared to lay a hand on my men. This cannot stand. Tell me, do you want to live…”
“If this is a recruitment offer, I’ll pass.” Eight spat on the ground and addressed the crowd in the dark. “Greetings, esteem denizens of this hole of degradation and filth! I am here in search of a bitch known as Tulio Monzon. He offended me, and I came to have my recompense. He brought my wrath onto your house. But as of now, I have no quarrel with you…” The woman beneath the door gasped, and he stepped off her, kicking the metal door outside. “See? A few broken bones, a lung puncture—nothing to fuss about. Only his men have died. And I only want him. Send this sniveling coward to me, and I shall leave you in peace.”
“Doctor Ulli. I am disappointed with your decision.” The dynamics let out another whimper, and someone got thrown at the pillows. “This one is done. Next. You had potential. Why is it always the same with vigilantes? You are all too stubborn to take a hint and live. It is a shame to ruin a body like yours.” Not a hint of glee or anger slipped into Monzon’s even, monotonous tone. “But what can I do? You leave me no other choice. I came here for the sake of pleasure, and no madman will distract me from it. I won’t hide or run. You want me? Come to me if you can. Guards. Whoever kills that madman gets the city’s hall.”
Flashes of light pierced the darkness, and Eight dove to the side, dodging bullets that flew through the corridor. “Seems like I will be leaving you in pieces,” he said, tossing the canister.
It flew across the corridor, cutting through the few narcotic fumes coming from the ventilation system, and landed next to a guard on a stairwell. Before the man could yell a warning, Eight had taken aim and fired, exploding the fuel and setting the corridor ablaze. Eight dashed across the corridor, ignoring the screams in the secured rooms. Tulio wasn't there.
A row of sharp steel bars emerged from the ceiling, blocking Eight's path. The Number broke through, utterly shattering this cage, and moved across the wall, confusing the guards who opened fire at the floor and ending the life of their own greeter near the entrance. Machine guns in his hands barked, striking the people standing amidst the flames in their necks and exposed parts of their faces. All these guards wore body armor and protective helmets, but short of having full-power armor, nothing could save them. Eight was a single digit, a magnificent tool of destruction brought into the world by the Creator’s skill. He saw the bullets’ trajectories and, thanks to the host’s Abnormal body, weaved around them, continuing his advance. Walls, ceilings, or floors—it mattered little for the Number which one to use, while the defenders expected him to stick to the floor.
But even for him, it would've been impossible to reach the guards unharmed. No matter how fast a person is, if you run through a narrow corridor and the people on the other side shoot at you, you are bound to get hit. The fuel explosion scattered the guards and also broke their focus.
Narcotic fumes wafted through the entire Walled Palace. Be it narrow passages, ventilator shafts, or pleasure dens, purple and orange steaming hues were everywhere, dancing on a wind. They aroused the customers, subtly encouraging them to spend more crests than initially planned. The guards and personnel here always used cheap respirators. And the explosion damaged them, throwing the soldiers into disarray.
In a storm of bullets, Eight reached the guards, most of whom were still regaining their footing after the explosion. He thrust the emptied rifles through the craniums of the closest guards and struck out with legs and fists, breaking necks and punching in the helmets. There was no need to use the metal, not with Tulio watching through the cameras in the corridor. The gang leader could’ve been gauging Eight’s abilities, and the Number preferred to keep him in ignorance as long as possible.
The Wall Palace was divided into sections, each connected by a series of stairs, with guard platforms in between. Most of the time, they were empty; the owner didn’t have nearly enough people to keep them at each post and to keep an eye on the situation. And right now, a group of guards, led by a Normie, started their retreat to one such platform to form ranks and fire at him.
Eight let the fools do this and jumped up, breaking through the stairwell above. The Normie officer turned around just in time to fire at him, and the Number felt a sting in his chest where the body armor took on the hit. He grabbed the edges of the hole with his hands and stood at his arms, making a spin with his legs. Two kicks left several guards with broken ribs, but the officer retreated, firing at Eight from his waist. The Number caught the bullet and winced in pain. His opponent didn’t use a small-caliber weapon anymore; this was a single-round anti-vehicle pistol, and the round had left Eight’s palm bleeding, exposing the muscles of his thumb to the hot air.
The officer hesitated, and Eight overheard a panicked report about an attack on another entrance. This momentary distraction cost him his life. The Number came at him like a hurricane, moving too fast for the man to take aim at him once more. Fingers found the neck and passed through skin like butter, closing on the bone. Eight had a certain respect for professionalism, so he finished the officer with one twist, tearing the windpipe and breaking the bones. He picked the pistol and a round off the dead body, along with another rifle, and moved ahead, ignoring the rest of the guards’, who scattered in fear.
He let them go. Hunting humans one by one was never an optimal solution to the problem. But the more armed people are left alive, the greater the losses will be in the future. Contrary to popular opinion among the Numbers, humanity was worse than a monkey wielding a shotgun. For one, a monkey would not understand how to reload the thing.
The Number grabbed a petrified out-of-fear guard, ripped off his comms, threw the man down the stairs, and pressed a black pearl connected to a radio by a cord into his ear. Communication chatter was filled with panicked shouts and incoherent reports, along with sounds of gunfire and grenade explosions.
Someone else was attacking the place. A turf takeover or an attempt at Tulio’s life? Eight decided it wasn’t important. If the outcome was the same, did the method matter? He followed up the stairs, shooting down cameras out of boredom, when a familiar scream attracted his attention. He kicked on the door on the platform and came face-to-face with several terrified women and men, dressed in transparent silk dresses that did little to hide the intimate areas of their bodies. They huddled in a small corridor, trembling in the dark together. Dozens of people of various ages, children and old alike.
“Nice,” Eight whistled, maintaining the role of idiot under the effects of euphoria. He bowed. “Dear whores, I believe there is…”
“Watch out!” a woman’s voice screamed. The same woman who was taken from his hospital was here, devoid of all clothes and with fresh whip marks all over her body. Someone acted very wastefully, and this could only be…
A wall to his right exploded, and bolts of electricity speared the darkness, kissing Eight's skin and leaving nasty burns on his face. The incoming fist almost reached his cheek when the Number twisted, letting the arm pass above him. The punch landed on one of the frightened slaves, shattering the boy’s face and sending his lithe body through the wall. Arcs of lightning shot from the hand, whipped across the bodies of the people, and then stopped. The attacker found deep steel fingers buried in his own abdomen.
“Oh,” Magpulong gasped, blood spurting from the mouth of his mask. Lightning disappeared from his hands, and he grasped Eight’s arm with unsteady fingers. “Pull… pull it out…”
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you all, but I believe it is your cue to leave.” Eight cracked his neck. “Follow the trail of the dead and dying; the exit is that way. And if you can spread the word on the streets that the Crabs are going down, I’ll be much obliged!” Not all the indentured servants were fully here, but the ones who kept their marbles despite drugs helped others down the stairs. An explosion thundered somewhere within the building, and Eight decided to hurry.
Still holding the hand entangled in Magpulong’s guts, he pushed the big guy to his knees and pressed the barrel of a machine gun to his cheek. The room from which the idiot came was one of the more exquisite rooms in the brothel. Soft pillows and blankets covered the floor, and an array of drinks peeked out from under the silk, ripe for the taking. Soft music played in the room, a pleasant rhythm that calmed Eight’s nerves a bit.
“Take… Take it out,” the thug spasmed, choking on his own blood.
“Here is how it’s going to be. You will tell me where my earring is, or I’ll pull the trigger,” Eight told him.
“Your… your what?” His eyes turned round.
“Earring, you degenerate. The one you stole from me.”
“I… gave it to the boss…”
“Good boy.” Eight loosened his grip on the man's intestines. “And where is Tulio? I take it that since you are here, his sorry ass is nearby, too?”
“Screw you. The gun… won’t do shit,” Magpulong declared, but his eyes darted to a richly decorated door within the room.
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“Initially,” Eight agreed and pressed the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off the man's chin, causing him to grit his teeth at the irritation of a bloody smear on his chin. The pain of a hand gripping his insides kept him from jerking his head away. “It has a kind of chisel effect, doesn't it? One shot would do little. A series landing in the same place won't be so painless. Skip the defiance phase and tell me. You insulted me, true, but there is no reason for me to kill you. Not anymore. You have paid with blood and humiliation. A due payment, considering you are too weak to ever be a problem for me anymore. If you treat the wound fast enough, you may even survive. So what’s the point of…”
A shrill screech of iron against the floor distracted Eight, and he tore his hand free, rupturing the guts and the heart for a good measure. The Number somersaulted back just in time to evade a metal column that crashed into Magpulong, pushing the dying thug through the wall and casting him down the stairs, smashing the corpse. Eight started turning when the silks and cushions moved, flying and engulfing him in the soft cocoon. He slashed through the fabric, and the ground rose. Wood, stone, and metal beams in equal measure covered his body to the neck, pinning him in place.
"Look what I caught!" Roz, the henchwoman whom he saw in the hospital, came out of the darkness, pressing her fingers together. “I got myself…”
“Bullets,” Eight grinned, closing his eyes. The sunglasses exploded, and sharp shards hit the eyelids, breaking against them. Steel flowed across the arm holding the weapon, covering the muscles and enlarging them, and the arm came free. Roz never even managed to raise a finger in defense; her bike helmet got riddled with shots, and the woman started falling back.
Eight sprang out of the weakened prison, letting go of the weapon. The steel left his skin, gathering at his fingers, thinning and sharpening their edges. He reached the falling Roz and thrust, seeking to spear the woman’s skull. And he immediately jumped back, faced with intense pain in his hand.
She didn’t create a telekinetic wall in front of herself. She didn’t use her power at all, as Eight understood, lifting his trembling hand. The tips of his fingers were missing. Roz swung her torso like a snake, closing the distance between them and driving Eight back, but not before another searing pain licked at his forearm. The forearm he had shielded with the metal. Shocked, he stepped back to the exit and examined the bleeding and torn wound on his forearm. Some sort of razor-sharp instrument tore through both the meat and the steel, and the wet meat gushed out trickles of blood, soaking his sleeve.
Roz stood in the corridor, calm, her arms outstretched. The helmet's glass shattered in a shower of shards, revealing skin partially covered in half-formed scales. She had a long forehead and two big, oval eyes that she kept closed with thick vertical eyelids. From afar, it looked as if the woman was smiling, but in reality, her mouth spread from one ear to another naturally, and her lips parted, revealing a forest of the sharpest white teeth.
A Deepborn. Eight gulped, turning both of his hands into metal claws. A rare breed of Abnormal that populated the deepest floor of the biggest ocean in the world. Rare sight, even in the best of times, their people kept to themselves, paying no attention to the world above. They came into being by chance; a piece of glow had fallen into an underwater research dome that sank down the Cavalcade Trench during the Extinction. The immense pressure within this triangular crack in the ocean floor should have killed the crew and tourists, but pieces of glow scattered throughout the complex transformed them, giving them forms suitable for survival. For years, these strange Abnormals lived in the pitch-black void below, forty-five kilometers below the surface, building algae farms and waterproof domes that served as their cities.
Until, some hundred years ago, they emerged. A group of Deepborn swam to the surface, rode the waves, and surfed in the warm moonlight, laughing and exploring the unfamiliar world. Those who left the trench were teenagers, less than fifteen years old, and a passing pirate ship picked up some of them, locking the captives in cages and ignoring the shrill screams of the ones who escaped. What rose from the depths in response to this had less benevolent intentions, and for months all ships burned as the Deepborn clawed their way through hulls, used gravity beams to drag entire cruisers underwater, and tried to squeeze answers about the whereabouts of their children out of the crews Such methods yielded few results because neither side knew the other's language, and both groups had different ideas about sign language.
Eugenia Mylli, the accursed Redeemer of Iterna, had solved this crisis. After capturing several Deepborn and learning their language, she plunged into the ocean, approaching the Royal Council of the Sleeper. Queens and kings listened to the Elite, quenched their wrath, and received the locations of the pirate cove holding their kin. Eugenia even agreed to stay as their hostage, shedding both her armor and undergoing extensive drugging. If the Redeemer had hoped that the Deepborn would hold their wrath for a while and let Iterna handle the situation, she drastically misread these people. Nothing was more precious to the Deepborn than their young.
Blood and guts of the pirates filled every inch of the hideout, and the teens were liberated, shaken, abused, but alive. Several underwater ships brought them back to their kingdom, where sunlight no longer reigned, and the Deepborn handed over the rest of the slaves to Iterna, forging a non-interference pact between the countries. The Deepborn surrendered the soldiers who had carried out the massacre of the Iternian ships, and they spent a few decades in prison before returning to the Deep.
Since then, the Deepborn would seldom leave the depths. They would only show up on special mercenary ships, trading their weapons and jewelry in exchange for surface food, delicacies, energy cells, and other materials. A few of them turned to mercenary work, sailing along with the pirates, serving as instructors for Iterna’s underwater teams, and sometimes helping Iterna diffuse the weapons of mass destruction found on the ocean’s floor.
By capturing and vivisecting one of them alive, Nine learned of their government and swam beneath the depths, hoping to collapse the generators that kept this nascent nation alive. But someone, or something, met him there—a human so changed and so alien that he no longer could be considered a person. The Sleeper, as the Deepborn called him, the emperor, who rules and yet does not rule. Even the Creator had no idea what had happened to Nine; a truly warped mind had lacerated the Number’s psyche, ripping out all the knowledge Nine had possessed. The host Nine used was later discovered with his family, remembering nothing of the underwater encounter or enslavement, and bearing no scars.
Nine returned to the Creator as a mewling infant, devoid of all knowledge. Maximilian had to patiently teach Nine everything from scratch, and they left the Deepborn alone. The Sleeper didn’t touch Eugenia; in fact, he, she, or it chose to ignore her altogether. This meant that this pathetic emperor of the hole in the ground could discern the intentions and had some sort of mental awareness spanning over his empire. It knew that the Numbers meant ill to its people, and Eugenia was a non-threat. On their own, the Numbers could not enter this place. And Two warned the Creator about harming Nine’s former host; the Sleeper’s dream was on it. She could not elaborate on what this meant, but they decided not to risk driving a potential foe closer to Iterna. If Two was to be believed, Iterna wasn’t even aware that the Sleeper existed and wasn’t a superstition invented and believed in by the Deepborn’s royalty.
Why would a Deepborn be here? Why would this Roz serve a mere gangster when she could’ve found a more lucrative job by coming to Iterna? Is her presence here a sign that the Sleeper is taking a closer interest in the Numbers? Was it safe to kill her? The questions boomed in Eight’s mind, and Roz chuckled, but no word left her lips. The sound came out of the gills at the side of her neck.
“Don’t look so shocked.” Roz's eyelids opened to reveal milky white globes. “You should actually be honored. It’s rare that I am forced to use my fangs in battle.” She smiled, revealing a bitten fingertip on a flat, rectangular tongue. The steel-covered flesh disappeared, swallowed whole. “What a dainty. Nothing like the tenderized meat of those kids. Yours is coarser, stained with powder, and yet somehow more invigorating. But a paltry won’t do to satisfy me; it won’t do at all. Step closer, curiosity. If you’ll be nice, little Roz might start with your head rather than your legs…”
“Far away from home, aren’t you, Deepborn?” Eight said. Roz started narrowing her eyes. “I studied in Iterna once. I’d thought better of your kind.”
“Know about us?” Roz laughed in a melodic voice, producing a series of different vocal ranges, all intertwined to form a pleasant melody. Eight regretted not having a terminal in hand to record the sound. “Impressive for a mud-dwelling land-grabber. Don't lump me in with the rest of the undersea dolts. Unlike them, I had no knack for worshipping outdated dogma and belief in a dead god; always preferred to be a freer soul instead. Passing here and there, tasting whatever and whomever I please.”
It was enough for Eight. A renegade and the one who isn’t even aware that the Sleeper was very much alive. Humans really are the same everywhere. Eight sprang from the spot, jumped to a wall and landed behind Roz. She deflected his first piercing grab at her spine without even looking, turned and struck at his hand at the exact moment to avoid the bladed fingers. The woman ducked under his blows, avoiding them with almost unnatural precision. Eight's elbows, shoves, slashes, and punches missed their mark; the Deepborn knew about the incoming attacks even when they came outside of her field of vision. Even feints didn’t work; Roz never faltered to evade a true strike, keeping her eyes on his hands.
Her battle style was weird; she firmly planted both legs on the floor and leaned back and forth with the upper body, reminding him more of an attacking snake than a human with arms and legs. Her jaws snapped, biting off pieces of Eight’s clothes, and the Number found himself to be the one retreating. Roz wasn’t using her power, but the sheer ferocity and danger coming off her fangs, paired with perfect awareness, put him at a disadvantage.
Eight understood the answer to Roz’s precision after the woman moved toward him in a burst of action, almost aimlessly flailing her arms. But they passed past the web of cuts woven by Eight without receiving a single cut. Her gloved hand closed around his wrist, and a fist landed at his neck, beating his head back and drawing blood on his lips. He thought he’d caught her, and the spikes started growing out of his wrist to bisect the Deepborn hand. The blades speared the empty air, and Roz laughed, already releasing him and touching the walls. The walls shattered, becoming flying darts of rubble, and Eight lunged past her, rolling back to the entrance.
He saw it. Unusual patches of skin on her neck and chin. Some scales had black pores in them. A lateral line. It was a set of organs used by fish in deep water, where it had evolved to deal with darkness. They could detect a nearby predator or prey by reading the vibrations and gradients in the surrounding water. When used outside the ocean, where vibrations could travel without the interference of water, it gave the Deepborn a perfect tracking tool. Feint would’ve never worked; the vibrations caught by the lateral line alerted Roz when a hit went forward and when it suddenly went back, letting even someone with an amateurish style combat with him on equal footing. And the reason she pretended to keep her attention on his hands was to confuse him.
“Cute,” Eight said, facing Roz’s advance with a snap of his fingers. Sparks flew, and the woman grimaced, shutting her eyes in pain. White eyes. Gentle and soft, evolved for a life in a lightless place; that was why she wore the biker helmet, not to hide her ugly mutt. A single spark caused the bitch pain, overloading her sensory intake of information and throwing her off.
The claws sliced through the air, leaving a long and deep gash in Roz's face, tearing away part of her lateral line and the entirety of her helmet. She dodged. At the last possible moment, the Deepborn sensed his approach, and Eight had to raise his own hand to shield himself from the rubble smashing into him. The Number felt his blood boiling, the irritated grin, the absolutely farcical battle style that relied heavily on awareness rather than skills… Eight was about to unseal Gryphon in full when a crimson whip flew through the corridor.
It wrapped around Roz’s wrist, causing the woman to open her eyes in shock at the sudden pain and at a complete failure to notice it. She kicked the surprised Eight away, and the whip jerked her back, biting deeper into the wrist and making her turn around, gurgling and baring the fangs. Straight into a flashbang grenade.
“Catch this, bitch,” Ten laughed.
The grenade exploded too far away to impede Eight’s vision. But Roz’s sensitive eyes simply erupted, filling her whole reality with pain. Most of the outer white layer changed to scorched black, and she screamed, going blind. Twenty Eight’s whip disappeared when Eight appeared near Roz and landed a full-on hook straight at her solar plexus, sending the Deepborn through the wall ruined by Magpulong and further across the room, spilling crimson and cartwheeling into the opposite wall. Her body broke through it, and the ceiling cracked, coming down on her.
“What are you two doing here?” Eight demanded to know, listening to the thrashing beneath the rubble. Roz wasn’t dead. Not by a long shot. His attack was too narrow. A metal spike of his fist changed back into a human fist.
“Morning exercises, sir!” Ten saluted. “We have decided to stretch our legs a bit.”
“This sounds very insinuating, considering the place we are in.”
“Your orders have been done to the letter, sir!” Twenty Eight repeated the salute. Both Numbers wore clothes akin to his, along with the weapons they had snatched off the dead guards. “We assumed we had earned some leniency to allow ourselves a little indulgence, sir!”
“Ready to accept any punishment, sir!” Ten bowed.
“How did you find me?” Eight demanded to know.
“Eh…” Twenty Eight and Ten glanced at each other, and Ten bowed. “The entire city is speaking about a madman who attacked the Crabs. I used my power to find out your probable location, and once we saw the Crabs here, we joined in. To hone our skills, of course!”
Eight rolled his eyes. He felt no Creator’s wrath, so Maximilian found the situation amusing, too. “Fine. Mop up the trash and leave the city already.”
“The Walled Palace owner is attempting to escape via sewers,” Twenty Eight informed him. “Should we end the rej… the freak?” Eight held back the urge to slash across the boy’s face. The Double Digit corrected himself in time.
“No, why would we?” Eight arched a brow. “You saw the cameras everywhere?” They nodded. “Drugs, booze, and women make a man run his mouth. And the owner earned himself a lot of favors by blackmailing others with the threat of revealing incriminating evidence to the Crabs. Guess what will happen when they are out of the picture? Let him have his well-earned reward.”
“I will gorge myself on your bones!” Roz roared, breaking through the rubble and suspending it in the air with her power. The Deepborn had a large wound on her chest and had lost most of her clothing. Her skin was a bluish shade, mixed with a bit of green around her chest. Membranes spread between her fingers, covering the areas under Roz's armpits.
She reached out blindly around herself, touching walls, pieces of stone, the floor, some remaining silks, and everything else. Any semblance of a melodic voice vanished; an infernal wail poured from the gills, mixed with the shrill screech of the grinding fangs. “My eyes, my goddamn, precious eyes! You won’t die easily; no, I’ll absolutely not let you die until you experience hours and hours of pain as I knit myself a sweater out of your innards, you worthless, useless, inferior surfacers! And once I’ve done tormenting you, I’ll drown you in the pool of your own blood!”
“Someone is fired up,” Ten remarked, taking a machine gun in her arms.
“Have fun,” Eight told them and left. Double Digits… Children—that’s what they are, and the Triple Digits are even worse with their constant questions and fears. Like an adolescent standing on the brink of puberty but unable to experience it and mature at last. Let the kids play a bit; it’ll help them behave better later.
Twenty Eight and Ten faced Roz head-on, dodging the rain of sharpened stone and metal coming at them. The crimson whip sliced through the rubble in its path, leaving another cut on the Deepborn’s body and throwing her in hysterical screaming. Ten timed this moment and fired her own rifle, blooming crimson dots on the Abnormal's skin. Roz sent a wave of sharp objects across the floor, forcing the Numbers into the air and limiting their speed. Without hesitation, Roz broke through the gunfire, punching Ten into a forearm with enough force to leave a handprint. The skin tore, and Eight heard the sound of bones snapping.
No matter. The writing was on the wall, and his target waited. He walked toward the doors at which Magpulong was looking before his lucky demise. It was time to put an end to the game.
“You wanted me, Doctor Ulli,” said a voice on the other side, and the doors opened, releasing a ray of light into the pitch darkness. “You have my undivided attention. Enter and amuse me.”