Wolverton

Chen Baochai barely opens her mouth when a shot thunders behind them.  They turn and freeze, unable to take in the sight, as a hardboy dangles above the floor in the grip of a waking nightmare.

It is a rough thing: an artist’s early work.  All bulges, deformations and lashing tentacles; twisted by the intelligence that created it.  For a horrible instant, Wolverton catches a face somewhere at its centre, locked in a soundless scream.  The tentacles coil tighter, and with a sickening crunch, the man goes still.

It’s still holding the corpse when an eruption of gunfire rips it apart.

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~ by Electro-mechanical Man on May 18, 2011.

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