The spray of bullets rakes up Locus's back, pinging off the gears and chains Felix has already wound himself into, and some bounce off the armor. Some? Tear into the undersuit and ooze a brownish-black fluid, sluggish as molasses. And a second later he tugs again, whipping Locus around to plant him firmly between the two.

And again, that breathy laughter escapes the broken helmet. Sorry to disappoint, manic pixie psycho. But you can't kill what's already dead.

Again, the chains tug, and Locus presses the distance between them. Felix's grip twists, and a choked gurgle from the back of his throat as that split mouth widens, raggedly sucking in hair as he staggers towards her.