The words echoed in Johnquis's head like a gunshot. He staggered back, chain slack in his fist, eyes locked on the beast before him. No, not the Tanker. Her. Dancer.
She pivoted.
FWIP!
Her first rotation was smooth as silk, her free foot sweeping up in a perfect arc. The blade glinting like a crescent moon under the carousel's strobing lights. The Tanker swung one massive arm, but she slipped right under, the tip of her blade carving a bright line across its armored chest.
Johnquis's breath hitched. "Holy hell… you can use skills…?"
SWWWIP!
Dancer's second rotation was faster, a whirlwind of muscle and blade, her entire form a perfect predator's pirouette. She was art and weapon fused together, the metal tip of her heel slashing again and again across the Tanker's neck and shoulders. Sparks and gouts of black-violet blood sprayed like confetti across the fake horses and mirrors.
The mall's broken jingle kept playing its off-key cheer:
