torsdag den 13. januar 2011


    Jonathan Phrase was many things, but he was not a fool. He knew when to fight, when to run and when to hide. Now, he knew that none of those were possible. The dark suited men, eight of them, had him surrounded. At first, he had fought. The first man had gone down under a flurry of vicious blows, metal bones broken and shattered. Jonathan Phrase had been lucky, and he knew it. The second man had thrown a small, white sphere at him, and if he hadn't brought his arm up to deflect it, he would most certainly have died.


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