Nora popped up, fired her modified combat rifle. Three rounds to the chest. The clone staggered, looked down at the holes, then looked back up with a grin. It pulled a heavy, double-barreled shotgun from its back—except the barrels were rotating, humming with energy.
A single, heavy shotgun shell, etched with a swastika and the words: "For the next one."
But in her inventory, under "Misc," a new item appeared.
He tossed her toward the elevator. She slammed the button with her good arm as the doors closed, his chaingun spinning up. The last thing she saw was his face, contorted with a century of betrayed patriotism, screaming through the shrinking gap.
"Wrong era, little soldier," he whispered, his red eye flickering. "Wrong war."
That's when she heard the thud.