There’s something about babies that brings out the best in us. Maybe it’s the wide, guileless eyes. Or the scent of talcum. Or the razor edge of their weapons. Whatever it is, it compels us to hone our skills in the deadly arts so that we may resist the infant scourge and someday, gods willing, slay every one of those creepy monsters. Please enjoy Chapter 8 of Magnificent Bastards of the Apocalypse.
The Bolshevik did not like babies. This was not unusual, of course: no one liked babies, especially when they congregated in highly organized, bloodthirsty gangs. A regular baby gang was bad, thought the Bolshevik, but at least they were limited in their effectiveness by the fact that they couldn’t walk or communicate or feed themselves. Those colicky mobs were easily evaded, and if it came down to combat, the Bolshevik was confident that she had a decided advantage.
On the other hand, Perpetubaby gangs posed very real dangers.
Perpetubabies were the vicious, adorable freaks who lived their entire, uncanny lives in the bodies of infants. They were violent, unpredictable, greedy, vengeful, and very, very cute. It was generally accepted that the Perpetubaby cartels were an especially terrible scourge in a world chock full of terrible scourges. The Bolshevik typically went out of her way to avoid contact with those waddling terrors.
But here she was, standing in middle of a large, luxurious hall, staring down about three hundred miniature mafiosi. They lined the walls of the space in rows four deep, and they stood in utter silence, which somehow made this situation even creepier.
The Bolshevik held a hardshell case in her left hand, a solid-looking affair made of some military-grade composite. Her right hand rested on her hip, making it clear to all that this—her gun hand—was free to do what it needed to should the occasion arise. The gaggle of infantile cutthroats stared at her with their limpid, murderers’ eyes, and she felt torn between competing urges to cuddle and/or bludgeon them all.