jimber00

Pareto brings it on himself, see. He comes home from work early with a grin on his mug and romance on his mind. He doesn’t question why his beloved Delilah isn’t downstairs ready to receive her sweet amore.

"You have done well," she laughs, her tone mocking. "None before have reached my inner sanctum." Torgo, muscular limbs gleaming with sweat and blood, grips his axe in shaking fists.

[empty]

[empty]

[empty]

[empty]

Roy pushed the welding mask off his face. Despite the winter chill, rivulets of sweat streamed down his bald head. Wiping a filthy, gloved hand across his face, he stepped away from the bunker door. He

Quick fingers adjusting the nozzle on his hose, Roy took a backward leap. The weapons on his back stole his balance, making his heel barely clip a concrete stair. His weight dropped, leg flinging out before

A single bulb flickered in the tunnel's ceiling. Its twitching, dirty light painted the walls yellow. Cold air wafted in from outside, lessening the bleached-out stink of altered genetics. Crossbow thrust

Brakes shrieked. The van rolled to a halt. Beside Roy, Dave lurched forward, smacking his face into the dash with a loud thump. He moaned from the impact. In his peripheral vision, Roy watched the tuft

"He's waking up!" The voice stammered somewhere at the uinverse's edge. Roy's mind locked onto the sound, used it as a rope to drag himself back to consciousness. Other noises filtered through,

Not a short man by any definition, Roy guessed the mutant had a clear four feet on him. Corded muscles strained the creature's tanned skin, twisting like ropes in forearms almost as wide around as the

Roy's boots skidded on frost and gravel. Loose pebbles skittered down the verge and left craters in the snow bank. Pulling the crossbow into his chest, he leapt the twisted steel carcass of a crashed

Roy Tucker lay in the morning snow. Clouds of breath curled from his thick, iron-grey beard. A flurry of white whispered down from black-bellied clouds, coating already over-laden branches. Melt-water

A guess and a prayer saw him charging into the right-hand tunnel. With the sounds of booted feet and grunted orders echoing in the torch-lit darkness, Sark reached into the pouch slung over his shoulder.

Pouch slung over his shoulders, the contents muffled by a wad of dried fungi, Sark tucked the scourge into his belt. Boot steps ringing in his ears, he turned back to the wooden frame. Thick iron chains

The left side of her face was a mass of scar tissue. Jagged ridges stood proud where Rix had sawed through her cheek. Time had robbed her hair of its blue tint, matching its colour to the cool silver of

Sark Ore strolled through Central Dunnholme. A tune on his lips, he reached for the leather purse at his belt. Its weight and the feeling of hard currency straining the skink skin put a spring in his step.

Even without the gore dripping from her chin, Sark could see the madness in Brig's grin. A clotted lump of his life's blood congealed on her lower lip. Gravity tugged at the coagulated mess. Blue eyes

He came around slowly. Hammers pounded the inside of his skull. Every breath replayed the dull click in his chest. A second, more sonourous, note snapped in his throat. His jaw ached. Probing a molar with