This feeling is unreal. Corva has complete control of her body, but she’s moving in ways that she’s never moved before. Technical maneuvers that require years of practice and training. Training that wasn’t available in Fareburne or any town she’s passed through since. But it’s fluid for her; she hardly has to think. She has muscle memory for techniques she’s never done. In three steps, she’s already slipped behind the grunt with the cleanly scooped eye sockets.

From this angle, she can see the other grunt, the one with the skewered eye. It’s being battered by bursts of air as that militia chief rushes down the stairs to them. Jack is still cowered in a squat, covering his head and neck as best as he can. Zeke sits on his shoulder, staring at her.

He nods, as if giving her permission.

Immediately, she steps on the back of the grunt’s leg and launches herself up. She’s eye level with the back of the grunt’s head, and still has plenty of upward momentum. Without thinking, she reaches out and grabs on, one hand on each side of the thing’s head, then lets the inertia swing her body all the way around like she’s the spinning part of one of those noise makers that kids play with. However, only one sound comes from the grunt: Crack!

She’s back on the ground, standing in front of the grunt. But she’s still looking at the back of its head. Its face is pointing completely the wrong way. She releases the head, allowing it to flop uselessly to one side on the grunt’s slumping shoulders. Its body follows suit and crumples to the ground.

Corva takes a moment to look down. The thing is lying on its belly, but its empty eye sockets stare straight up. Her foot nudges the grunt’s head, almost playing with it. Its neck is broken, and the head rolls around like a ball on a string.

She did that.

Well, sort of. Her body did the moves, but she doesn’t feel like she can really take credit for them. She’s not even sure that she’s the one in the driver’s seat. Even now, her foot is still toying with the grunt corpse’s head. And despite her misgivings with this whole situation, she can feel her mouth forming the shape of a smirk. An amused, contemptuous smirk. That’s not exactly her go-to facial expression at a time like this.

There’s a scream behind her. Not Zeke. Not Jack. It’s the militia chief, Harris.

She glances over her shoulder. Even though his air cannon did a lot of damage, he’s apparently still having trouble with the skewer-eyed grunt. Pieces of the air cannon lie scattered at his feet. It was likely smashed by the heavy ball the grunt has for a left hand.

Harris is doing his best to fend off the grunt with a shock baton, but the thing has his leg held down with its bladed pincushion of a right arm. It leans its weight on Harris’s leg. The sound of Harris’s knee bending the wrong way is drowned out by the balding militia chief’s own screaming as he repeatedly stabs at the grunt with his shock baton.

Of course, every time his baton makes contact with the grunt, Harris has a bit of hiccup in his screaming. The jolt from the baton must be traveling through the grunt to where it’s leaning on the man’s knee. However, that doesn’t seem to stop him, or the grunt for that matter. The skewer-eyed creature lifts its other arm, ready to drop its weighted ball of a hand down on Harris.

Corva turns to look away. She can’t help him, and she’d rather be trying to find an escape than see the contents of some stranger’s skull. But her body isn’t responding. It tenses. It wants to engage. No. It’s going to engage. There’s a moment of resistance—fractions of a second—as she fights to regain control of herself. It doesn’t work.

At first she thinks she’s turning away, but its only to reach down and grab the dead grunt’s hand. She twists until there’s a slight mechanical click and she feels the hand come loose. She gives a little tug and the hand pulls free. The chain that’s wrapped around the dead grunt’s forearm connects to the back of the wrist.

Corva doesn’t have time to wonder how she knew that would happen. She spins back to Harris, dragging the hand-connected chain behind her. With a single leap, she launches herself over Jack and Zeke, toward the grunt that’s attacking Harris. She shoots through the narrow space between Harris and the grunt, pulling the chain taut just in time to block the grunt’s weighted arm from smashing Harris’s face into a sticky goo.

The grunt tries to push down against the chain, but Corva’s already on the next phase of her attack. Still holding the chain, she runs to a spot behind the grunt and stomps her foot on the metal links. The chain jerks the grunt’s weighted arm back into its chest, rocking the grunt backward, toward Corva. It’s not a heavy strike, but it’s enough to make the grunt lift its blade-pierced arm and adjust its center of gravity, giving Harris just enough space to drag his mangled leg free and worm himself clear.

Not waiting for the grunt to turn and face her, Corva leaps on its back and wraps the remaining length of chain around the thing’s neck. She can hear it choking, gasping for air behind the steel plate over its mouth. But lack of airflow isn’t enough to take the fight out of this thing. It reaches up at her with its bladed and spiked arm, swinging violently.

She easily dodges the arm each time. The whole while, she keeps the chain tight around the grunt’s neck. Although the grunt seems to be swinging its arm haphazardly, there’s a certain rhythm to it. She can feel herself anticipating it, getting its timing. Getting comfortable. Ready. Set. Go.

She lets go of the chain with both hands and reaches up at the pincushion arm just as it’s beginning its downswing. She snags its thumb in one hand and a few fingers in the other. Letting her weight drop, she adds her momentum to that of the already fast-moving arm. There’s a tearing sound just as it hyperextends and she uses that as a cue. With as much strength as she can muster, she pushes the pierced arm forward. One of the longer spikes is lined up perfectly. It gouges a hole right in the base of the grunt’s neck.

There’s a squealing sound from the grunt, and then it stops moving. Corva, still holding onto the grunt’s hand, pulls herself up and places the base of her palm on the flat side of the spike that’s been buried into the back of the grunt’s head. She gives a single hard push, and it’s enough to cause the whole creature to fall forward. Hand still on the base of the spike, she rides the grunt to the ground. Just as it hits, she drops all of her weight into her hand. The spike jams the rest of the way through the grunt’s arm and burrows the tip further into the back of its head. The scraping of metal on rock beneath the grunt is the final punctuation on the creature’s death.

Corva hops off the grunt’s back and on to firm ground. She lifts her hands and looks at them. Heavy, but there’s no resistance. Her body is listening to her again. The giant smirk she’s been trying to fight has dissolved into a look of shock and confusion that more accurately reflects how she’s feeling. She’s got no words.

Harris sits on the ground a few meters in front of her. Wincing and holding his knee, he gives her an appreciative nod. She stares at him blankly, not quite able to cobble together an adequate response. Suddenly light-headed, she turns to look at Jack and Zeke. Is this what they saw of me in that bar fight?

She doesn’t get a chance to ask them the question. She doesn’t even get to see their faces. Her legs suddenly lose the ability to keep her upright. As her knees buckle and she collapses to the ground, everything goes dark again.