![]() “I swear,” said Linden, “I’d help you if I could.” But Victor heard him shift. The sensation was unpleasant, but not nearly as unpleasant as what would happen when the current peaked. It was already in his muscles, already threading his bones, already filling his chest cavity. He closed his eyes, measuring the current inside him. Things that worked, or didn’t, that broke down, and were repaired. People were more intricate perhaps, more nuanced, but fundamentally machines. He flexed his fingers around the gun, and the air crackled with energy. “I already told you,” said Linden, jumping nervously as his back came up against a half-built engine. ![]() Jack Linden was forty-three, with a five-o’clock shadow, grease under his nails, and the ability to fix things. Victor followed slowly, steadily, watched as the man backed himself into a corner. ![]() Retreating-as if a few feet would make a difference. “I won’t ask you again,” said Victor Vale as the mechanic scrambled backward across the garage floor. ![]()
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