I RETURN TO CLAIM WHAT is rightfully mine. In this body, I’m a machine built for war. A machine the Graciles never understood how to harness. I understand all too well.

Rising from the slush, where the weak Demitri fought my right to this corporeal shell, I take in the scope of the war. I’m not interested in the petty squabbles of men. Mine is a calling more primitive, purer than the snow that drifts onto this battleground.

Stretching and testing this biological engine, I move with stealth through the twisting masses. All too easily, I snap the neck of one of the Gracile’s robotic puppets and snatch up its energy rifle. But it won’t fire. Future weapons. Whatever happened to the efficiency of a sturdy bolt-action rifle, or the simplicity and effectiveness of a good hand ax? Those were true means of killing.

Throwing the useless rifle to the ground, I dodge the swipe of a short sword as a Musul attempts to remove my head. Ahh, that’s more like it. I’ll return the favor. I wrench the weapon from his grasp and fling him to the ground, removing his head with a single downward swipe. His eyes gape wide with the shock of my savagery. These are not terrorists. These are impostors, pretending to understand terror—to what end? They will all be slaughtered for their efforts. But it’s not them I search for.

“Activate neuralweb connection.”

My pathetic host did this a few times, and I’ve had plenty of time to watch. I hate this strange technology, but it has its uses. My vision springs to life with images and text, most of it useless.

“Filter all information. Show me only where the savages’ chieftain is.”

The images flicker and flash. The connection is weak down here. A single visual feed shows a large shadow moving heavily in the snow.

“Magnify.”

There you are. You belong to me. I turn and match the image to reference points on the true horizon. There, the south corner of the launchpad.

Outside the perimeter fence, I run. As I come into the open atop a small snow-covered hill, my target comes into view, surrounded by his attendants. I raise my blade and point it directly at him, the way he did to me those few days before.

“You. Face me, coward. Face me if you dare.”

My foe turns and locks his crazed eyes with mine, fury burning in his blood-smeared face.

“Yes. That’s it. I challenge you. Face me—or run away like the dog you are.” I continue to point my blade at him, tracking his movement as he paces back and forth, his face contorted in a snarl.

With a grunt, he shrugs off his animal-skin cloak and motions for his weapon bearer to hand him a spear. Four attendants appear, each holding a long stick with a syringe lashed to the end. They simultaneously stab his muscular back, the strange greenish liquid in the vials draining into his tissues.

“Yes, take your drugs. You will need them.”

The chieftain screams with rage and comes for me, slowly at first, then faster and faster, a train of fury hurtling forward.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, savage.” I rush at him, sword at the ready.

We clash in a ravenous lust for death. The chieftain lunges in an attempt to impale me. Rolling effortlessly to the outside, I spin inward to take his head with a single blow—but it’s not to be. He blocks my strike, my sword notching the hard wood of his weapon. I swing to the rear, harnessing the fury boiling within me and fusing it to my empowered Gracile form. Again and again my blade notches his spear, and I grow careless of his strength. The brute kicks me squarely in the groin and follows with a sharp blow to my head. A cheap but effective play. Doubling over, my knees crash into the snow. My world spins and my stomach convulses. Mortal pain. I have not experienced it in so long.

It feels good.

The chieftain bares his teeth, raising his spear, but I grab it, yank it downward, and strike him in the face with it. He throws me from him. I flop against the snowbank but quickly rise, wiping the dripping cut across my cheek.

“Is that all you’ve got, cave dweller?”

“Stop your crying and find out,” the chieftain taunts, the words barely understandable.

“As you wish.”

Weaponless, I charge him again. He turns his spear on me and screams. Deflecting the iron point, my body slams against the shaft, shattering it at the blade notch. With a fierce blow under his chin, I simultaneously jerk the broken, jagged wood from his calloused hands, then spear him through the thigh, tear it out, and pierce him again through the gut.

The thug shrieks and grabs me by the throat, choking me to the ground. Not today, you mindless dog. I grab a handful of his fingers and break them. He shrieks again and releases me. I thrust him away with a kick, then slowly rise to my feet, hot breath puffing into the frozen air.

My foe appraises his wounds. With a swing of his arm, his Rippers run at me from all directions. An honorless move. He wants to deliver me some playmates. Very well.

Stepping into the center of their attack, I obliterate them with my bare fists. The sheer power of these hands—no, my hands—is astonishing. Nothing can stop me. And yet, my control over this vessel wanes, the muscles no longer as responsive to my will. Something is trying to get through. He is trying to get back in. No. Not yet, fool child.

The chieftain pulls the spear from his stomach with a scream and comes again. I knock the jagged shaft from his grasp and into the bloodstained snow at our feet. He strikes me again and again. There is no pain. No weakness. Nothing but hate, deep and endless, flows in these veins. I torque against him with my whole body and dislocate the brute’s arm at the shoulder, and with a groan, I throw him to the ground. Dropping on top of him, I grab him by the throat and pluck the wooden spear from the crimson snow.

“Beg me for mercy.”

Eyes wide, the chieftain groans.

“Beg!” I cry, centimeters from his blood-smeared face.

“Mercy.”

“Not this time!” I scream with glee, and jam the wooden stake up under his chin and through the top of his head. I find my blade and swing it down, claiming my prize. As I hoist the chieftain’s head into the air, his blood runs down my arm. The Rippers flee in terror. It is beyond glorious.

“I will rule the weakness of this world. It is mine to command.”

A wave of sickness jolts through me. I falter and drop the severed head. Sudden pain racks my skull, pushing at the backs of my eyes. “No.” The effects of the drug are fading fast. My descent will be painful. No, I must find a way to stay in control. I try to make my way forward, stepping over the bodies at my feet.

The cries of the puppet echo inside my skull.

Look at what you’ve done!

Fog creeps over my consciousness. Groaning and grabbing my head, I stumble on, no longer in control. And then, just as quickly as my freedom came to me, it slips away. A cold sleep descends to reclaim me as its own once again. Back to the hateful chains of purgatory that bind my spirit and inhibit my desires. I fade, until nothing remains but the uncompromising, swallowing blackness of my eternal prison.