“Oh fuck,” I muttered, as I saw through the darkness to spot what Tattletale’s power had noticed first.
What? Bitch’s bruises from her run-in with Siberian?
Four of the Slaughterhouse Nine were stepping through the entrance of the parking garage.
…
Alright, yeah, that’s also worthy of “Shit.” “Oh fuck.”
Shit. Oh fuck.
The Siberian was in the lead, her waist-length hair blowing in the wind from outside, her eyes practically glowing in the gloom.
Coming to say hi to your nominee, Sibby?
Behind her, Jack Slash held Bonesaw’s hand as the young girl skipped to make it so she only walked on the yellow lines that divided the lanes.
Relatable.
They were accompanied by a young woman who might’ve been eighteen or so years old, who bore a striking resemblance to Alec. Cherish. None of them wore costumes. The Siberian didn’t wear anything. She was as nude as the day she’d been born, her skin patterned with stripes of alabaster white and jet black.
Quite a sight, all of them, aren’t they?
Did Bonesaw bring some of her chimeras too?
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