# Head in Pisces

Her cracked lips are leaking. Both eyes still work, but cannot grasp
the damage. The skeletal fingers tip-toe from her shoulder up the neck,
looking for the point of impact. There it is, a screwdriver through
the throat, barely missed the trachea. The hand grabs the handle.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" The shattered blade exclaims through
a flooded speaker in its hilt. She spits into her other hand. Oily
blue mixed with blood reflecting the hot orange light of antique
lightbulbs in the ceiling. "Don't fucking pull it out, stop!"

The mechanical hand pulls out the tool from her neck in one swift
motion. No immediate response. She drops the screwdriver and stands
up, holding the gaping hole. Finally she looks around the room,
scanning for the broken blade. She picks up the hilt and flicks
the volume slider to zero and drops it in her coat's pocket.

She makes her way to the semi-sentient foe, slouched in a corner,
its peripheral limb bus no longer working. The free hand raises
the LCD head. Underneath the two bitmap eyes in the center, 
a message reads: "You're getting old." The mage lets go of the
hole in her throat and drives a mechanical fist through the 
screen.