Never Poke A Sleeping Human

Never Poke A Sleeping Human

Disclaimer: I OWN EVERYTHING

The Zealot calmly stabbed the Marine through the chest with its psi blades. The Marine crumpled and fell. Lifeless. Dead.

Matt yelled something incomprehensible and swung his Gauss Rifle around, spike after spike landing on the god damned Zealot’s shields. Matt held his gun inhumanly straight, firing until he was out of ammo. He ripped out the empty clip and slammed a fresh one into the rifle. Firing again until he was out of ammo. Without any more spare clips he drew his Needler sidearm and fire off seven more HE rounds. The Zealot’s shields withered and died.

Matt was about to shoot the Zealot back into the cold hell in which it had spawned when his sidearm clicked in to the empty zone. Cursing at the top of his voice he pegged it at the Zealot. It bounced harmlessly off the golden breastplate. Screaming with rage he took his Gauss rifle and held it like a club. Charging forward he met the Zealot in hand to hand combat. He never stood a chance. Again and again he was stabbed, legs, arms, crotch. But he fought on, driven by an inhuman rage.

So again and again he brought down his rifle onto the Zealot’s head with brain-spattering force. And he didn’t stop until the Zealot collapsed, battered, broken, and dying on the asphalt.

And then he collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss. As he lay dying on the street he thought of all the things he would never be able to do.

And as the Zealot lay dying he thought of the primitive, dirty, inferior terran that had beaten him. And as he shifted his view he saw the pure, unbridled, feral hatred and anger in the terran eyes die out he finally understood the saying,

Never Poke A Sleeping Human!