‘Fucking shitting fuck god hell fuck piss shit shit fuck,’ she muttered. She moved the tiny white gun as she scanned each wall. ‘Pissing shit thing better work this time.’
An overlay appeared on the inside of Jo’s helmet. She sucked in air (recycled Patrons only know how many times) through her teeth. The suit wasn’t supposed to do that. Bloody Singh. Bloody nanospores.
Still, she followed its direction. What other choice was there? If he wanted her down this corridor and to the left, who was she to—
The thing lurched out just as she turned the corner, unfolding six spindly, pointed legs. It was almost on top of Jo before she pulled the trigger.
There was no recoil, no sound. There was no corpse (wreckage?) or pile of ash. It was simply that the thing was there one moment, and gone the next.
‘Well,’ said Jo. ‘Shit.’