by Nick Gisburne
A soldier with a cyber-grafted face,
Her sleazy imperfections trick the test,
But now, before they vent her into space,
She needs another chip inside her chest.
A second-level pscyho’s luck is out.
Her claws are quick to lacerate the heart,
And, swiftly scorning panic, pain, and doubt,
She tears her own interior apart.
A pinch of what her captain calls it, ‘Snuff’,
Returns her from the edge of certain death.
Two seconds to extinction. Close enough.
She liquifies the corpse and steals a breath.
So far, so perfect: penetrate the ship.
For those she comes to kill, a one-way trip.
