It comes, an avalanche of rotten flesh and oily, viscous metal.
Witch stands her ground, Lizard’s rifle at her shoulder. She holds the trigger, feeling the weapon vibrate as power builds inside it.
It comes, forcing its bloated body through the gloom with the deceptive speed of a lava flow.
Unseen capacitors charge. Overcharge. Overload.
It comes, poised to crush her with the implacable rage of a tsunami.
She releases the trigger.
Force of nature. Abhorrence to nature. It comes.
A blinding beam of light cuts through the Fury’s chest like butter.
But still it comes.