Sir Gray-a-Lot raced up the gorgeously sloped corridor, sparing a glance over his shoulder.
Gliding closer—hissing, retching, and bubbling—was the Bionic Plague. Black as darkness itself and spewing out hideous claws and tentacles, it devoured the boring gray walls of his beloved castle as it closed in.
He had to escape—had to find some way to outrace it before he was consumed as well. But his legs were losing strength fast. And somewhere in all that hissing, retching, and bubbling he thought he heard two tantalizing words tempting him to give in.
". . . MIXEL . . . JOINTS . . ."
No. He must not give in. No—he couldn't—NOOOOOOOOO
Built for the Big Bionicastle Contest.