Fist of Rage

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.

They wait.

The earth shakes as explosions tear the night to shreds.