The night hangs heavy over the ruins of the Wall, still and silent as a shroud. The Hole, that seething rip in the fabric of reality, broods over its endless vigil.
The rage machines stand motionless. One mind with a thousand eyes, they wait, their anger stilled.
They don’t expect further attack. The last was so blunt, so futile as to be an aberration, a mere statistical freak. Nonetheless, they stand ready to fight. War is their nature. Instinct shapes them, a thousand hands clenched into one fist.
The earth shakes as explosions tear the night to shreds.
Jonathan Mills over 6 years ago
Never 100% sure of the imagery I use - I tend to write these late at night, any old rubbish might creep in.