Episode 71: Two Meat On A Single Skewer
The thing that came through the smoke wasn’t a person anymore.
It had the shape, the size, even the leftover clothes of a human fighter, but its movements... nah, they weren’t built for human bones. The limbs twitched like broken hinges, jerking at angles too sharp for living joints. Its head lolled forward as if gravity had forgotten which way was down, and something wet and dark trailed from its open mouth.
Number Three had seen monsters before. he was a monster, depending on who you asked. but this? This was different. This was someone who used to be alive, now chewed up from the inside and steered like a rental car with no brakes. The control was so obvious it almost made him laugh. Almost.
The Class B insectoid lurking behind it didn’t even try to hide. Six limbs spread wide, each tipped with hooked claws that scraped the floor. Its thorax pulsed, plated armor shifting over its hide like it was breathing through steel. The smell hit him before the sound did. burnt chitin mixed with rotting meat, sharp enough to sting his nostrils.
The puppet’s body convulsed once, then crumpled like someone cut its strings. A dull thud echoed through the corridor.
And that was it. no more distraction. The real owner of this disaster stepped forward. The insectoid let out a sound like a chainsaw stuck in wet mud, its whole body trembling as it locked onto its next targets.
Number Three didn’t need to follow its gaze to know who it was staring at.
The sister.
She was frozen, both hands clutching a paper bag that had long since been soaked through. spirit herb leaves spilling out onto the cracked tiles. Her lips moved without sound, eyes wide enough to show the whites all around. Behind her, people were already scattering. Boots scraped on the floor, someone tripped over a fallen chair, a child screamed somewhere out of sight.
Number Three’s brain didn’t waste time with options. There weren’t any.
His legs moved before the rest of him caught up. He pushed off the wall, shoulder slamming into a broken support beam as he launched forward. His left sleeve flapped empty at his side. the arm it used to cover long gone. Balance was a constant fight now, but he’d been fighting all his life.
"Move!" he shouted, voice raw enough to scrape his throat. She didn’t. Not a twitch.
The insectoid lunged first. It didn’t gallop. it flew, in the way a mantis might if it was eight feet tall and full of bad intentions. The air pressure punched forward with it, rattling the hanging light fixtures above.
Number Three pulled the blade from his back scabbard mid-run. The steel was dull, nicked from too many bad days, but the grip was his. wrapped in worn cloth stained darker in patches that would never wash out.
He hit the space between the monster and the girl a half-second before collision.
The first claw came in from the right, a sweep so wide it whistled. Number Three dropped under it, feeling the wind shear close enough to cut his hair. His blade came up in a reverse grip, aiming for the center of that ugly forehead where the armored plates split.
He’d killed smaller bugs like this before. Get the head, you get the brain. Get the brain, the rest stops moving. Simple math.
Except this thing didn’t believe in math.
Its head jerked sideways mid-thrust, almost like it had been expecting the move. The blade’s tip scraped over one of the plates, sparks flickering off uselessly.
Then came the second claw.
Number Three turned, too slow. The edge of the scythe-like limb clipped his side, tearing cloth and skin together. He hissed but planted his heel hard, pivoting for another strike. The girl was still behind him. still in the kill zone.
He shifted his stance, feinted low, and drove upward again toward that seam in its armor. This time, the point lined up.
Except.
The insectoid moved faster.
Something slammed into his gut with the force of a dropped car engine. Breath tore out of his chest before he even realized what happened. His eyes dropped instinctively, and he saw it—
The claw wasn’t sweeping anymore. It was inside him.
The black chitin pierced through his abdomen, so clean it didn’t even feel real at first. His legs went loose, dangling weight dragging him forward along the claw’s arc.
Then came the second scream. hers.
He twisted his head just in time to see her step forward without meaning to, hands out as if she could help. The insectoid didn’t hesitate. Its claw ripped through the rest of him, out his back, and kept going.
He didn’t even get to shout before the claw was in her too.
Her body jerked against his back, lighter than he expected. For a second, the heat of her breath touched his neck, and then her weight sagged into him.
They were both hanging now. skewered like meat on the same spit.
Somewhere beyond them, the hall was chaos. Feet pounding away. Someone yelling orders. The flicker of emergency lights painting everything red for a heartbeat, then darkness, then red again.
But right here, right now...
The scene froze.
***
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Author’s Note – by Little LYTA, Clone 39
Hi yes hello, this is Clone 39 speaking. The real Little LYTA is busy crying in the corner because apparently Clone Three just yeeted himself out the window with a monster, and someone has to keep this operation running. So I, the totally sane and responsible clone, am now in charge of... whatever this is.
Now, important business:
You yes, YOU, holding the phone or laptop or suspicious work computer pretending to be busy need to vote. You see that little "Vote" button? Smash it like you’re Number Three drop-kicking a monster into the void. This feeds the author’s life force (also known as caffeine budget).
Next: Profile & Comment. Go to the author’s profile, follow it like you’re stalking an enemy boss spawn, and leave a comment so future readers think we have an actual fandom instead of three clones and a squirrel.
Golden Tickets — these are like premium in-world buffs. You have them. You’re probably hoarding them like some kind of loot goblin. Spend them here before they expire and I show up in your room at 3 a.m. to explain the plot of this novel in real time.
Gifts — if you have spare coins, send a gift. Why? Because gifts are shiny, and shiny things make the author happy, and happy authors write faster instead of spending their evenings crying over spreadsheets.
Privileges — unlock those Chapters early. Yes, that means you can read tomorrow’s chaos before the peasants do. Do it. Taste the forbidden future.
Read More & Unblock Chapters _ if you’re behind, stop lying to yourself and catch up. Just... click. It’s not hard. Unless you’re on a potato phone. In which case... may the Wi-Fi gods bless you.
And lastly: Reviews go leave one. Don’t just write "good book." Lie to people. Tell them it cured your arthritis, summoned a phoenix in your living room, and made your crush fall in love with you. The algorithm will never know.
Okay, I have to go wrestle Clone 17 because he’s trying to glue googly eyes onto the fishman’s cursed sword. Support the novel or I’ll replace your favorite character with a talking pigeon.
Clone 39, professional chaos manager