God love a Glock. Keep a stiff wrist, and they never jam.
Misha shoved his last mag home. Snick.
Firm two-handed grip.
Smoke drifted from the robotics clean room. Fully contaminated now, with half a body leaking blood in the doorway. The guy wasn’t going to get any deader, but a carbon-fiber tentacle squeezed the corpse’s neck with all the joy of an elopus fresh from the cryotank.
Misha flicked the juice. The electric charge that shot up both arms never got old.
The creature bounded out of the lab like a ballerina on tentacles; fast, coordinated, strong. He aimed, locked on three centimeters above its elephant trunk, and squeezed.
“Is it always this messy?”
“Your Majesty.” Elopus gore oozed down his left shoulder, but when the Queen walks into a room, you bow, motherfucker.
A participant in GISHWHES asked me to help her in her scavenger hunt. One of the tasks was to get a published Sci-Fi author to write a story with the parameters below. I qualify, it was felt, because my books in the Crimson City series are Sci-Fi romance. So, I said, sure!
To be safe, I counted hyphenated words as two.