Static & Wisp

They're here. They've come, again, as they forever will, the goons, the lackeys, the mooks, they pile at your doors like swarming insects and wait to feast upon the glory in your flesh. You can't let them have it, you can't let them take you, you won't. If they do, they will have to earn it.

There it is. That disgusting ringleader. It comes here, thinking it can offer you diplomacy, as if such a wretched organization were capable of that; the rotten and decaying olive branch extended to you, you will deny it harshly and give them no more room to think such foolishness is possible.

You jump down. You trick him. You are gone. The light envelops you, the energy consumes you, and you feel your body burning as you pass through them like a ghost, their chaotic fire missing your blazing light in their well-earned confusion. You are smarter than the insects. You keep running.

You make it to one of the connective corridors, and he catches up to you. You feel a shot of his graze your arm as you ascend, and you stagger and shout, but he takes another shot, and it cuts through your ankle. You will not let him take you. They have not earned it. You will make him accept the brutality of his position and you will make him spill your blood and still your hearts or you will evade him again. Captivity is not an option for you.

Naturally, you evade him again. He is a coward. You stagger to your feet, and as he hesitates to shoot you, you feel yourself rise off of your feet, and the energy almost commands you rather than the opposite; it directs itself into his comrades, and within moments they are gone, and he is screaming in pain. A fleeting and misguided spark of sympathy collides with you in that moment, but you quickly reassure yourself that they have surely done far worse. You will take advantage of the confusion.

You are gone again, before he can notice, but you know the trail of glowing blood you leave will make him track you like a dog. You glance over your shoulders as you stagger through the halls, panicked energy coursing through your entire body, burning through your veins with a fire you've felt before; you are stronger, you are faster even wounded, you will succeed.

As you make it into the ship bay, he is there again. He fires at you after a pause, but he seems to know that you will deflect it as he does not seem surprised when you do; you strike the bullet out of the air with your metallic arm. Shaking and clutching his little rifle in the doorway, unwilling to fire again for reasons beyond you, he looks so angry. He shouts at you that he will find you again, and that some day you won't get away. You see his finger on the trigger, but it refuses to pull back. Enraged by his cowardice, you shout something with such instinct that it seems to leave your memory the moment you say it, and you slam the cockpit shut.

You hear his pathetic attempt at a final stand, as the bullets ricochet off of the armor of your carrier, knowing that he knew that would happen. You focus as best you can through the pain and panic that burns your nerves and billows out of your eyes and your mouth and your bones, and slam the ship through the doors.

You are gone. For now. The burns are not, though. The burns hurt so badly. You know this energy will char you eventually. Your remaining arm seizes against the control panel, and your head pounds, and your guts feel like they are shifting inside of you.

But you've evaded him, one more time.