Worm: Interlude 20, Imago 21.6, Butcher's Bill: 1.1

The costume, it was asymmetrical, lacking harmony, trying to do too many things at once.  The samurai, the headhunter, the bloodletter.  None of it fit the title she wore: Butcher.

Images flickered through Accord’s mind.  Ways to obliterate both costume and wearer. More difficult than it seemed, given just who she was.

As if to punctuate Accord’s line of thinking, she effortlessly lifted a gatling gun and set it down on the end of the table.  The sheer mass of the weapon was imposing enough that Accord momentarily wondered if the other end of the long wooden table would lift off the ground.

—Worm: Interlude 20



I had lines of silk prepared, did what I could to bind Butcher. She struggled briefly, then teleported free of them.

—Worm: Imago 21.6



Butcher charged forwards, holding her gatling gun like an oversized club, and for a second I saw my own inevitable death, my skull about to be crushed by a thousand-pound hunk of metal swung with superhuman strength.

—Butcher's Bill: 1.1