Drip.
Drip.
The oil was never late. For an hour, it fell like macabre raindrops from the pipes stretching miles above Rav’s blood-red hair, a trait common among Skitters. Or those who the Smokes deemed unworthy of crawling to the Surface.
Rav reached her hand out, smearing the incandescent liquid with gleaming fingers. While she’d had flesh on this arm once, skin never lasted this deep Beneath.
Drip.
Drip.
The oil was never late. Only for an hour did Rav have to complete her mission. If she failed, Hannes would know. She only had this chance. Like sewer rats, the hovercrafts swarmed the center of the Cathedral, Beneath’s largest cavern. Their humming grated her nerves like the sharp-clawed monster machines Hannes kept as pets. And the hovers were searching. Searching for her.
The Soulpistol in her metallic palm reflected the blue glow of werelights dotted amongst the jagged walls like fabled stars. Her finger found the trigger and held it in place, a breath away from a new life. With a careful eye, she looked down the barrel at the pale-lipped body sprawled before her, arms bent at the wrong angle. Crackling and popping, the woman’s breath wheezed with death rattles. This was Rav’s chance. She wouldn’t get it again. Her finger hesitated once, twice, before she shut her eyes and squeezed the trigger.
Light like what she imagined the sun might emit burned her eyelids and evaporated the screams shredding the air around her.
Drip.
Drip.
The oil was never late.
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