She wants me to know how hopeless this is.
Finally, standing right in front of the elevator is the Piken-Mog. The other three Augments I’ve noticed at least still mostly look like Mogadorians. This one is freakish, with a normal-sized lower body attached to a torso that is completely disproportioned. He stands about eight feet tall despite a hunched back, his skin is the leathery gray of a piken and he’s got the steroidal muscles to match. His fingers are long, thick and tipped with razor-sharp claws. His head, buried as it is in a throbbing mass of neck muscles, is regular-sized except for his jaw, which has grown out from his face, creating a fanged under bite. Most disgusting of all is that it’s possible to see the seams where his pale Mog skin stretched and ripped across this new body.
He looks like he’s in pain, and he looks like he’s furious about it. He grunts and shifts from foot to foot, waiting for an order.
I watch as Phiri makes note of one of the security cameras. She doesn’t seem concerned. “Surely they know we’re here by now,” she says, then turns to the Piken-Mog. “Go down there and say hello.”
The Piken-Mog replies with a moan, then pries open the elevator door and hops down the shaft.
Soon, through the floor, I hear gunfire and screaming.
With a smile, Phiri Dun-Ra looks at me.
“How many Garde are here, hmm?” she asks me. “How many of your friends do I get to eradicate today?”
“I’m not . . . I’m not telling you shit.”
Phiri rolls her eyes and pulls a blaster off her hip. She points it at the back of Mark’s head.
“Want to tell me now?” she asks me, jabbing the base of Mark’s skull with her gun.
When he feels the muzzle against his head, Mark manages to jerk away. Something inside him, a survival instinct, lets him fight the Thin Mog’s control. He drops the noose, fingers flexing like he’s finally got feeling back in his hands, and turns on Phiri Dun-Ra. He takes a halting step towards the woman. That’s all he can manage. Saliva flecks from his lips as he growls, the strain of battling against the Mogadorian mind control evident. Phiri doesn’t even flinch.
She glances at the Thin Mog. “He’s fighting you.”
“He will give his fragile brain an aneurysm before he overcomes my will,” the Thin Mog replies simply.
The Thin Mog’s eyes narrow, and Mark’s every muscle goes rigid, like he’s been electrocuted. He stands up on his tiptoes, unnaturally taut, joints popping and teeth clenched. He lets out a strangled cry.
“See?” the Thin Mog says.
Phiri Dun-Ra holsters her blaster and crouches over me. “Truth is, it doesn’t matter how many of your friends are down there. We’re going to kill them regardless. I just enjoy watching you squirm.”
Up close, the mass of ooze that’s replaced Phiri’s arm smells like rotten meat. If she’d only move a little closer, get a little more in my face . . .
“You know, John, our paths intersected once before,” she continues. “I was in charge of operations in West Virginia when you helped Number Nine escape. Did you know that? That . . . unfortunate incident got me sent down to Mexico as punishment. Forced to work on the impossible problem of the Sanctuary. Turns out, all I had to do was wait for you idiot Loric to show up.”
She stands back up and holds out her arms, the tentacles burrowed into me twisting and pulling. I’m glad for the pain; it makes it easy to hide my disappointment. I almost had a shot at her.
I’ve got one desperate play. One trick literally hidden up my sleeve. The Mogs were too confident in their control to check me for weapons. I’ve still got Five’s blade sheathed against my forearm.
I just need an opportune time to strike.
“What is it the humans love to say? Everything happens for a reason.” Phiri chuckles, going on. “Look at how far I’ve come, John. In a way, it’s all thanks to you.”
I grit my teeth and meet her eyes. “You won’t . . . you won’t win.”
“Mm-hmm, Mr. Big Hero. You’re going to find a way to save them all, right?” Phiri glances over at Mark, still frozen in that awkward position, still shaking lightly as he fights against the Thin Mog’s control. “Let’s see.”
The tentacle buried in my armpit yanks loose. It’s a momentary relief from the pain. I watch as Phiri’s writhing limb snaps through the air, its end sharpened like a dagger.
There’s nothing I can do. It happens too fast.
Phiri drives the tentacle into the underside of Mark’s jaw and through the top of his head. He spasms once, his eyes wide but unseeing. She holds him up there for a moment, pierced by her tentacle, so that I can get a look at him. Then she pulls free and lets Mark’s body drop to the floor next to me.