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((Triple Monday -- Page 2 of 3))
‘Hmm,’ said Garovel. ‘It seems to be trying to reassemble itself.’

‘Only “trying?” What’s stopping it?’

‘All the iron in the way, presumably.’

‘Really? I didn’t think it would be that effective.’

‘Ah. Well. It’s not. They’re starting to mass successfully now. I’d suggest getting us out of here.’

Indeed, Hector could feel the growing vibrations through the metal and knew the reaper wasn’t joking. He dematerialized some of the extra iron around his armor in order to free up some space for himself, but even with just that small volume removed, he was already seeing sludge oozing through the cracks, squirming and wriggling angrily.

The Scarf was providing a little more information now, telling him that sludge was creeping throughout the entire network of spikes around him and even above his head. But there was still far too much iron blocking everything for the Scarf to give him a complete picture of the worm’s progress.

He readied his grip on the Moon’s Wrath.

Hector annihilated a huge swath of the iron all at once, freeing both himself and a tidal wave of slime, which was already falling toward him like a dark blanket. He launched himself up to meet it head on and bashed open a hole for himself with the mace. He flew out and over and landed on a sliding platform of iron to help him ease to a stop.

He’d gotten away with less sludge on him than he’d expected, but still more than could be ignored. Rather than trying to fling it off of him, however, he boxed it up, each bit. Four boxes in total, one on his arm, leg, back, and foot. Then he separated the boxes from his armor and set them down on the ground.

He didn’t have time to do much more than that. The hundred other parts of the worm had reconnected, though not into one gigantic beast again. Instead, they’d formed into three, which were certainly smaller but still way too big to deal with directly.

And this was far worse, he soon discovered.

With three of them chasing him, running was harder and more chaotic than ever. They tried to surround him, to cut him off, to lead him into one another, to break apart into little ones again and confuse him while the other two tried to take advantage of the opening.

There was barely time to think.

In fact, there wasn’t time to think, really. Not as a single, coherent train of thought, at least.

Again, he found his thoughts divided into separate tasks, though all of those tasks were now devoted toward the same overall purpose of saving his own ass. He had to think while also sensing openings and reacting to incoming attacks.

It was a mad and clumsy dance. He would get hit, half-covered in slime, and just keep going. For as long as his body would allow him to keep moving. His mind would reassess. He would create more iron. Flip and clean himself off. Smash a way through with the Moon’s Wrath. Get hit again. Knocked on his ass. But never would he stop moving. Back on his feet. Running again. Through a cloud of slime, through the gaps that he could sense in the sludge.