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“Relax now. That’s the beauty of war. Utter subservience to one’s leaders absolves a soldier of the consequences of her actions.”
― Alan Campbell, God of Clocks

“Just as they reached the door to the accommodation section, it opened, and a small boy towing a travel bag along the floor behind him came through. A small dog poked his head out of one end of this bag—the pup had been zipped up inside.

“Out of the way, son,� Harper said.

The child stopped, and gaped up at the battle-archon. Behind him, his trapped pup growled. The rear end of the leather and cloth satchel oscillated wildly. “I wanted to see the angel,� the boy said. “Aunt Edith promised I could watch it kill something.�

Hasp halted, still reeling, and looked down at the boy and his pet. “You want to see me kill?� he muttered. “Then order me to do so. You’re all Menoa’s fucking people on this train.�

The boy brightened. “Do it!� he said. “Kill something now.�

“As you wish.� Hasp kicked the dog with all of the strength he could muster.

Had the animal been made of tougher stuff than flesh and bone, or had its bag been composed of something more substantial than woven thread, it might have made an impact hard enough to shatter the glass wall at the end of the corridor sixty feet away. Instead, the creature and the torn remains of its embroidered travel bag spattered against the opposite end of the passage in a series of wet smacks, more like a shower of red rain than anything resembling the corpse of a dog.

The boy screamed.

Hasp cricked his neck, then shoved the child aside and stomped away, his transparent armour swimming with rainbows.”
― Alan Campbell, Iron Angel