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-=BIOMATRIX 117=-
Charles’ primitive weapon was very irritating. Its projectiles turned our avatars into useless flesh scraps almost as fast as we could extrude new ones. The gun he was using against us seemed to contain far more bullets than was possible. This weapons suspiciously advanced. The memories of Dillon had brought us the answer - he had purchased some very expensive guns from vending machines for his Dex gang. Guns that printed bullets from liquid nitrogen!
“I FEEL SO ALIVE!” yelled Charles, goggles glittering maniacally in the muzzle flashes as he turned avatar after avatar into bloody pulp.
Despite the hindrance, we encircled Charles and began to edge closer and closer, our fibrous musculature absorbing the damage from the weapon without being fully compromised, thanks to the tough reparative enzymes we had acquired from a sentient mold we’d recently assimilated.
“hOlD StILL yOu sTuBbORn iNgRaTE,” we demanded right before a barrage of the endlessly-seeming projectiles mulched our current vocal apparatus.
Impatience spurted through our consciousness from a node that used to be known as Dillon. This roughhousing was below our station. Enough was enough. We would make our authority known.
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Quickly we extruded several more avatars and lunged towards Charles before he could aim. He stumbled backwards as he came face to face with the avatar, breath hitching in his throat. He barely dodged the next barbed tentacle we stabbed at him. He fired wildly and missed, the projectiles zipping past the avatar’s head.
“mAn Of mISErY,” we addressed Charles before he could shoot again, “CeAsE YoUR fLuTTeRiNG. YoUR pRoJeCTiLE wEaPoN Has fAIlED.”
We said it honestly; we had no need to bluff about our strength. We had successfully infected one hundred and sixteen planets. This pitiful damaged mess of an oddly bloated world represented only the latest challenge. How could one soft and spindly bipedal organism hope to obstruct our legal acumen and hugs?
“I tend to disagree,” said Charles with a certain smugness that made us instantly suspicious.
…Wait, what was that hissing noise?
The pressurized gas canisters, whispered the neurons of Dillon and his Dex minions. Understanding passed through us in a wave. The gas we used to fuel the generators…
Shivers of dismay went through us. Damage to those tanks would be a most inconvenient—
[-= ERROR. NEURAL SYSTEM TEMPORARILY OFFLINE. PLEASE WAIT WHILE NEURAL TISSUES REINTEGRATE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE. =-]