He was way too late. My right arm flashed out with the scalpel, slashing his throat nearly to the spine. He stared at me as his blood sprayed all over my clothes, which I was glad were not my real ones. With an unsavory gurgle, he dropped like a rock. I would have liked to rearrange his internal organs, picturing the dataslaves’ reaction to their neatly mutilated Ice. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time. Stepping over the "meat," I darted into the room.