But that's what Tom says. What I saw was a giant human woman in power armor that made her look more like something out of a schizophrenic fisherman's creepiest sex dream, dripping a disconcerting concoction of fluids and carrying a dazed and broken Tom. Whose neck actuators were looping out, so he just sat there in her arms shaking his head slowly like he disagreed with the universe. Kath and I rushed to their side to see to Tom while Phaa showed our nano-armored salvation to the washroom to shunt all the viscera. I almost felt bad for the Promoters, Fleetkillers don't take trophies or leave calling cards. Instead they're trained to develop "evocative combat techniques". Some Consortium brainstorm had decided that elites where happier and more effective if they treated their massacres as art projects, using specific combat techniques and kills to express what they feel at the time. Not really practical for normal grunts, who are typically too busy trying to stay alive to really get into an artistic place, but it's disconcertingly effective for the Elites. Between the training and the S.A.I.N.T.S. armor they just get scarier when they're "expressing themselves". Fi was angry, Tom was a friend and bad people had hurt him. So she had hurt the bad people. I'm sure there was more nuance to it when she was no doubt harpooning folks to walls by their reproductive organs, but it takes a pretty keen fucking eye to notice. 

The End

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