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because he covered himself
in oil
by fog where my eyes used to be. Rubbery appendages that were once my arms; bulks rounding
down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. I leave a moist trail when I move. Blotches of
diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within.
Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a
thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague
resemblance.
Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of AM, whom we
created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could
do it better. At least the four of them are safe at last.
AM will be all the madder for that. It makes me a little happier. And yet … AM has won, simply
… he has taken his revenge …
I have no mouth. And I must scream.
--Harlan Ellison
The eight sandviches
Medic
The eight ubers
Soldier
The eight rocket_jumps