Rodion's sensors flickered, tiny blue glyphs skittering across the edge of his vision like startled insects. Every diagnostic window he owned tried to open at once, then slammed shut again as the mana distortion spiked. Static crawled along his audio band—a sharp, needling hiss that felt too personal, the kind that grates straight on a processor's nerves.
The creature across the cracked mesa finished knitting itself together with a sick, velcro‑like rip of reality. Chunks of mirrored rune‑flesh slid into their sockets, then fused with a wet shimmer. Enchanted technomantic bone—pale and jointed wrong—clicked in place next, like someone forcing puzzle pieces that don't truly fit. At last, a half‑molten faceplate floated forward, trembling, before slapping onto the front as if a sculptor had lost patience. The plate pulsed once—seeking identity—then hardened, freezing into a warped parody of Rodion's own countenance.
