Durability 3

	"Do you remember what a claymore looks like?" Anton asked.
	"A great, two-handed broadsword," said Nemain. "Good for the taking of heads."
	"I knew that, I knew that," said Babd. "She's just showing off."
	"Well, in this time, a claymore means something else," Anton said. "You acquire the most interesting things working in the secondhand business for three decades." He closed his eyes and pushed the button. He hoped that his soul would end up in a book, preferably his first edition of Cannery Row, which was safely stored away.
	The curved claymore antipersonnel mines that he had installed in speaker cabinets at the rear of the store exploded, seding twenty-eight hundred ball bearings hurtling toward the steel shutters at just under the speed of sound, shredding Anton and everything else in their path.
	[...]
	"Well, claymores suck, I can tell you that," said Babd. "I used to like the big sword claymore, but now... now they have to make them all splody and full of - what do you call that stuff, Nemain?"
	"Shrapnel."
	"Shrapnel," said Babd. "I was just starting to feel like my old self-"
	"Shut up!" barked Macha.
	"But it hurts," said Babd.
	They were flowing along a storm sewer pipe under Sixteenth Street in the Mission. They were barely two-dimensional again, and they looked like tattered black battle flags, threadbare shadows, oozing black goo as they moved up the pipe. One of Nemain's legs had been completely severed and she had it tucked under her arm while her sisters towed her through the pipe.

	-Chapter 22