"That's not a pretty plasmid," Atlas mutters in dark tones as you pull a syringe of greyish/green fluid from the desk. You drive it into the flesh of your left arm; near instantly the skin of your hand and arm begins to swell into hideous red blisters. To your horror, the blisters burst, releasing not puss, but wasps. Deformed red wasps swarm out of the holes in your skin and scurry over your arm.
The door slides open and a splicer charges at you, screaming and drooling like a mad dog. She vaults the desk with her butcher's knife already swinging down at your head. You fall back, dodging it, automatically raising your left hand to protect yourself.
The wasps fly from your hand in a dark swarm. The woman's screams become choked gasps as the insects flow into her mouth and burrow into her eyes, ears, and nose. She stops screaming. Her arms and legs sag as the muscle beneath is consumed. Her body folds in on itself, as the half-eaten bones snap like brittle twigs. Soon the woman is just a pile of skin. The empty shell undulates grotesquely as the bloated wasps crawl from her openings and dying within seconds upon the floor.
"Told yer it wouldn't be pretty," Atlas remarks. "That plasmid makes skinsuits. Makes 'em out of people. Go ahead, put her on. If yer lucky the other splicers'll leave you alone. If not... well..."
Afterwatching a woman being eaten alive you feel ready to be sick. But the empty skinsuit has been made; nothing will undo that. and it would be a waste not to use it.
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