He'd counted on Bailey to put up a fight, certainly. The old man had a thick skull. What he hadn't counted on was that hulking beast of a man - Tom? He vaguely recalled Bailey shouting the name - coming to Bailey's aid. He was huge, and so taken by the clacks that his shoulders jutted out at odd, severe angles, and he had more steel on his body than Alabaster himself did. His weapons worked wonders on flesh, but when it came to steel-to-steel, he was sorely outmatched.
He was bleeding from at least a dozen places, and even for someone of his stamina, he could only take a beating from Tommy's metal fists so many times. They'd backed him into a corner.
This is it, he thought dimly. Outdone by a conspirator and his pet peasant- Tom's fist was coming for his head again with the force of a jackhammer, and he didn't know if he had it in him to duck.
And then he was gone.
It took him a moment to gain his bearings, mechanical arms splayed through his torn coat sleeves like some kind of crazed spider, but it occurred to him quickly that he knew this room. He'd only lived in it for a week, but he knew it all the same. It was Saga's livingroom.
Aware that the immediate threat was gone, his body gave out and he dropped to one knee, coughing, oil seeping from the corners of his mouth. His last thought before he blacked out was only that he was sorry for dripping oil all over Saga's floor.
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He'd counted on Bailey to put up a fight, certainly. The old man had a thick skull. What he hadn't counted on was that hulking beast of a man - Tom? He vaguely recalled Bailey shouting the name - coming to Bailey's aid. He was huge, and so taken by the clacks that his shoulders jutted out at odd, severe angles, and he had more steel on his body than Alabaster himself did. His weapons worked wonders on flesh, but when it came to steel-to-steel, he was sorely outmatched.
He was bleeding from at least a dozen places, and even for someone of his stamina, he could only take a beating from Tommy's metal fists so many times. They'd backed him into a corner.
This is it, he thought dimly. Outdone by a conspirator and his pet peasant- Tom's fist was coming for his head again with the force of a jackhammer, and he didn't know if he had it in him to duck.
And then he was gone.
It took him a moment to gain his bearings, mechanical arms splayed through his torn coat sleeves like some kind of crazed spider, but it occurred to him quickly that he knew this room. He'd only lived in it for a week, but he knew it all the same. It was Saga's livingroom.
Aware that the immediate threat was gone, his body gave out and he dropped to one knee, coughing, oil seeping from the corners of his mouth. His last thought before he blacked out was only that he was sorry for dripping oil all over Saga's floor.