A Dark Age drifter stood against an oncoming horde. The stuff of nightmares. Quad-armed, mouths full of shining carnivore teeth, carrying weathered but fully functional armor and weapons. They moved as a mob, their boots kicking up clouds of dust as they advanced, blades glinting in the sun.
"All right," he said, a quiet salute to his dance partners as he wove around sizzling Arc bolts, coat trailing him like a shadow. He might not walk away from this. But they definitely wouldn't.
His Machine Gun spoke much louder than he did, over and over.
He broke their advance like oil parting water, the repeating bloom of his heavy leading the way. A blue, viscous film covered the dirt, dust, and rocks when he was finished.
"All right," he said, looking appreciably down at his smoking weapon. A trail of spent shells traced his path through his opponents' ranks.
Hard to find a bite out here, most days.
He wondered what they'd taste like.
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