It's over in an instant yet seems to take an eon. In one instant Jet is laughing and playing pretend and in the next the interior of his skull is splattered on a long knife and the hand wielding it. Brain matter squeezes around the edges of the wound like toothpaste from its tube and it's not blood that accompanies it, but the viscous, darker colored fluid that's replaced it in his cybernetic body, something that send an acrid machine-shop sort of scent into the air, still metallic but more crude.

And it all happened right in front of Albert's face, leaving him flat-footed, slack-jawed, and unable to prevent the attack.

There's no scream of anguish, though it's clear in his eyes it's there, simply not voiced. Instead Albert's expression drops into sub-zero, all emotion drained from his expression and a frigid and eerie calm left in its wake as he surges forward, a long knife snapping out of his hand to be brandished at Tom as he goes.