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The cogs in your head are turning, and the illumination of reality strikes like lightning in your mind. The wench, you understand now, is an imposter; a traitor; an enemy of the King! Your blood boils with your realisation, and you steel yourself against the shrieking banshee before you. The left foot falls first, then the right, and then the left again. Your steps are slow and purposeful, your conscience is clear, and the hunt is on.
Like a blind creature of the night, you use your ears to locate your victim. The prey moves about, seemingly scared and terrified, and you chuckle to yourself. Eventually, however, the smoke clears from the massive command tent, and your keen eagle-eyes can make out the faint silhouette of not the wench you had come to know (and inside), but an all-together more alarming being:
A Wrench.
Truly, an affront to all of God's creation, this mechanical monstrosity bares an appearance that momentarily forces you stop in your tracks and study it. It has two giant speakers on its torso, contraptions that you had once assumed were very firm, if not overtly perky and insensitive breasts. These speakers are intricately linked to its jaw through twisting cables that engulf its upper body, and it is obvious that a great deal of power is being drawn there. In auxiliary to this bizarre display, a great mess of copper wires and rubber cables form the shoulder length of what you had assumed to be her hair. The Wrench's human disguise is still draped down her lower body, and you clue in to the fact that she must've torn her upper-disguise in order to prevent muffling of her speaker system.
Your admiration is cut short, however, as the optics of the Wrench quickly focus and slant towards you, acquiring its target, and you hear the registry beeps and boops as it affirms its victim. A slow ticking emanates from either of its arms, quickly closing the distance between each tick. Suddenly, from its mechanical arms, the Wrench unsheathes two sinister blades mounted on its wrists, the delicate machinery of the fists now safely retracted into its forearms.
It is a fight of Man vs. Not-Man, and it is to the death or the not-death.
Suddenly unleashing a battering cacophony, the Wrench darts towards you, catching you by surprise. Your warrior-king training kicks in, and without thinking, you dash away from the impact of the charge and the impending slash of the Wrench's wrists. Regaining your composure, you glance quickly at your armoire, reassuring you of the hammer placed upon the top of it. Before you can reach it, however, the Wrench has whirled around and is lunging towards you. Caught by your rear, even the best training in the world cannot prevent you from contact, and your flank is cut deeply while you spin out of the automaton's range. The pain quick and blinding, but you have long since learned to suppress it.
You are now a few feet from the armoire, and the perfect weapon to dispatch your enemy is far out of your reach. You glance at your assailant, and see the subtleties of a smile across its complexly crafted muscle-simulating-face-machinery. As it advances to you en-garde, you see the flash of the Union Jack across its forehead, and can hardly be surprised.
Backing away, one foot behind the other, you slowly create a distance between you and the Wrench. Your tactical mind knows that it plans to stall you out, and considering the bleeding wound under your ribs, you doubt you can stall for long. No doubt it also knows it could only catch you with a similarly sneaky spine slice, and not the head-on collision it had opted for originally.
As you circle the overly spacious command tent, your feet almost trip on the torn remnants of the disguise of the Wrench. The shattered facade reminds you of when you saw one of your soldiers torn in twain by a stray cannonball. Providence overcomes you as a new idea dawns in your minds like the glorious rising of the sun. Still maintaining eye contact with the Wrench, you punt the remains of its disguise at its face, temporarily discombobulating it before you dart towards the armoire and clutch the hammer in both of you hands- victory is near!
You turn towards the Wrench, and catch it mid-lunge with your hammer. The screeching sound of some unholy demon is accompanied by the satisfying crunch of steel-on-steel as the simple tool drives itself into the delicate central processing until of the Wrench, sending its systems into a mad frenzy of attempting to save itself. Its effort is in vain, however, as it is sent crashing to the ground, its overly delicate machinery ruined beyond repair. As the optics finally fade into oblivion, the Wrench becomes nothing more than another victory over death.
Invigorated by your new-found victory, you hoist the machine corpse with your sweating, naked body, and toss it like a log, sending it careening into your delicate battle-plans. As the contraption's cadaver lays in your objectives, you notice the faint glow of its life-essence: the nigh-unobtainable plutonium fluid. Not hesitating for a moment, you pounce on the once-wench, and, holding its broken body over your gaping maw, drain the plutonium directly into your mouth.
The result is, as expected, mind-addling. You feel your heart pumping like a jackhammer, you feel your blood coursing through your veins, and a sharp pain at your wound. Before your eyes, the wound sews itself up, and without warning your eyes give out entirely, and you collapse to the floor.
When you awake, you observe your mad-ripped body, flexing it here and there for the sake of posterity. Your veins have that faint blue glow of plutonium, and you feel you could crush the world between your immense palms.
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