Collision; Angels on Chariots

The saints are drunk, howling at the moon; the chariots of angels are colliding.

Mot was never one for guns. She disliked the anonymity that it emanated. She much preferred her twin blades, but her Master had requested it.

And so it shall be.

Regardless, though, she enjoyed the crosshair of her scope.

The pair of lyrics used in this belong to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Written from a prompt table on InsaneJournal. Virus and everything to do with it belongs to me. Drabble. Set during the war stage of the first installation. Mot-centric.