Eidolon Atomic
Chapter Two: Nowhere Man

I concentrate on an image that forms in my heart’s eye, an image that is put into the blurred focus of an emotional telescope that knows no distance, even in death. With the help of this odd thing now beside me, concentrating my energy, it ;begins to manifest before me, taking shape from out of the dark of this ever nondescript afterlife of a black curtain of acrid smoke.

Slowly. The image molding against the black screen of the sanguine backdrop in a manner quite unsettling. The Image comes through as if it were made out of liquid and bleeds through the dark fabric of the distance as if some flesh underneath has been deeply cut, and pressed underneath the thick cloth that it soaks into. Drop by drop, the image collects against the ever present blackness and turns into motions and shapes. Then the blackness is stretched apart like skin, as the image becomes exposed, clear, luminous, and descript but bleak.

It has no color, when it comes to fruition, only shaped and hued in black and white, and details in grain.

“Why is there no color?” I ask as I am able to see what now comes, I know what color is, known it to live with me. I am soon given an answer that makes little sense, but somehow rings true.

“This is the way your heart sees things; the way it views the world through your preference mindset. It would otherwise be in color, but for some reason, this is what you preferred, a world of definitions in shade and not tone. Don’t lose concentration on the task however, see what comes before you, watch; he struggles.”

I gain a sense of things as I am immersed in the scene, odd feelings of reality as this scenario plays out before me. There are certain details that would otherwise not be known if it were simply a movie or film to be watched. It is almost as if am there with him as it takes place. A watcher of a memory but something more so as even memories do not hold such detail, what I am able to gather is extensive. As if even though black and white, the world is still there, crisp and touchable, separated only by light.

There is cold winter air that bites into the bronze skin of this fugitive man as he runs through the weave of trees in an untamed forest. His heavy foot placements stir a forest underneath hurried steps made with a sluggish, exhausted, haste.

Arid branches, exclamations once stepped on are unbridled in their volume of breaking. Strained twigs and tree limbs, acting as constant signifiers to the frailty of clear thought that holds the heavy panic under which they are being put. The sound is unwanted by his nerves, as it will alert any who listen for their breaking. It seems even the wooded forests of nature wants to put an end to a plan of escape, so young in its inception, but only if a plan is something this could be called.

The branches are only a part of a steady but sloppily hidden path. But these natural cries’ do not sound out alone in the darkness of a night ridden, evergreen forest, dogs bark in the distance. Lupines echoes of a malformed nature that hit a metal vibration, along with loud sirens in the distance that stir steady in undertone to a symphony made to cause duress. The dogs sound out yards behind the one who runs, yelping their suspicions as they pursue with the intent to maim or capture. Following the subtle trail of hints left behind in the no longer living branches of the forest, these autonomous canines use their unorthodox senses of detection and follow trails that leave little to question in their percision and persistence.

Large puffs of vapor condense and pass in front of the runners face like the billows of a dying steam engine, thick like storm clouds in the cold dry air.

This man, he sees himself as a contraption a machine and not a man, but why? An ever present deep hurt of someone that has been neglected and rusted more than any heartless machine could bear, years of the missus and low maintenance. Tired joints, and un-oiled parts of acid ridden muscle help to eat away at the last stretch of momentum this broken thing can manage. Fatigue gives him more than enough cause to come to a halt as he is now so unfit for the task set before him, in body, and tenacity.

He has been running for hours, and it is only after miles of constant operation, that this steel minded man of sinew and muscle, now no longer has the drive to set itself upon the oblivion. Knowing that if done so would surely see to a quick destruction from within, run so close to catastrophe, and dead from exhaustion before the goal was complete.

He has survived untold cruelty it seems, his inner demons, his thoughts that project him as a monster cold and heartless with only a single goal in mind, like a shield for his real thoughts, a costume for a real monster.

It is worry-some. A man who blurs viewed reality to the effect of his trueth, makes him seem as though he is denying a self known crisis. Slowly becoming more human than machine, his limits soon become real, as the limits become too dire in restraint. The runner is now replaced in his nature of steel and metal, to show a man that is now stopped on his trail, one of muscle choked from blood, treated for so long as something so cold and heartless, no longer able to withstand the lie.

This mind altering nature is a part of his drive to set himself upon the scene like automated bronze. He tries to ignore the physical strain and fatigue that so warns him to rest and stop. But like a man with limits and not a cold thing of logic, he struggles and fights himself, using his all too human rage, and loathing.

He pushes him even further, past the brink of collapse.

The pressure on him is very real as I feel it in so many ways, in strain, and thought. He knows he has only one chance at this undertaking he now tips into motion like clockwork, but his dauntless determination can only take him so far as the moment has become so dire.

He can feel his thoughts about the consequences of being captured, knows that to him, to crash and burn is a better option then returning to the heartache and misery that he tries to escape. It seems, that to leave nothing left of himself whole, is the only way he can assure true escape if no other choice becomes apparent, and if he is to die, it will be in a place where no scraps of him can ever be used again.

This decision, to self-destruct so absolutely or continue until he reaches freedom, does not come lightly to the runner. The third option of capture uno better than the second, as those who pursue him have death on their agenda, like every thing ahead. But his is tombstone was already panted in his thoughts, and it would read “A free man.”

The obstacles are many now, and confront him with harder challenges with every second of travel; crushing emotion held steady to his shoulders by guilt. His human limits, ones of feelings and heartbreak try to stop him from being able to see himself through to the other side of a small hill. They drain his initiative like a leak in I fuel line, but still, his determination to live, replaces that not even a leak will divert his path.

I , can, feel that his emotions of rage and sadness, now try to collapse in on themselves as they weigh in on his thoughts. With some time to think, the hollow core of whatever it was that held them up is now gone from their center and lost to fate. It adds to his physical wear, and emotional torment, but only so much that bit by bit, his nerves slowly eat away at their own drive. His sadness is almost too intense to measure, but still, he fights past it like anyone with a real cause should.

He comes to a sharply and cruelly rising hill that is now a very serious and difficult obstacle in his path, as he meets with it almost parallel to his upright face.

Time lies for him in age and looks, a youthful desperation and raw emotion seems kept in his timeless lack of age are the only things allowing him to get as far as he does, the condition he is in, one of such deep sorrow and suffering, it’s amazing that he has gotten as far as has. He fights against the downward pull of gravity at all times, so heavy on his limbs and heart in a literal sense, but to the nature of a lesser gravity pulls at him as well. Tears begin to well inside his eyes, but hold in place only like pieces of molten lead ready to roll away at any second. He fights to keep this moisture, the embodiment of his out of control emotions, held in place. Knowing that they have more value than just simple tears.

This one who runs; cannot bare another thought of sorrow so much as he can bear another hill, and his rage, his sadness, and grief, is the same to that standing.

Even in this immense state of instinct and moxie, hey knows most of all not to let a single tear fall from his eyes, he knows that just one could mean the difference between life and death for someone besides himself, and in these moments of hurried thought and panic, it makes this mistake one that he simply cannot afford.

Instinct is the only sense he has left still in full operation, as it is not a circuit so easily reset in the loss of physical power or awareness. However, even this becomes increasingly difficult to wield, as he is met with a trial he knows may be his undoing.

The young man resists the overwhelming thoughts of defeat as he reaches the top of the hills ridge, thinking it, at first, too simply to be a rise in the landscape. His flaw in quick judgment has turned on him once again. As a five-foot slope turns out to be something he had been hoping to avoid at all costs. As on the other side of the hill, below him now, is a mountain reversed in its climb, diving into the depth of a black fathom, and more dangerous than any adverse landscape.

The empty gaze of a sudden drop now wants to consume him with sharp teeth. A twisted path of pain and torment, it is an implant of fortune that taunts his effort at the peak of his exhaustion. It’s almost as if the earth itself were mocking the fugitive’s dire situation as if to change its misleading upward climb in hateful spite in opening one of its many jagged mouths to laugh at its ill effect on a single man’s fate.

The path ahead of him looks as vacant as the heart of a black hole, a notable blackness as the fugitive’s incandescent eyes, (blurred with condensation;) search about the darkness for hard ground to support his artificially unnatural weight. His piercing vision does not replace anything suitable within his immediate range, but only for reasons his extra expanded sense is unable to make sense of.

The sand in his hourglass is quick to slip away as he can hear his pursuers coming closer. So, with little to leave to chance. The fugitive treats his next action with all the care that an elephant would if it were to try and walk down an unsteady staircase covered in egg shells. Gravity is an odd thing that way, especially his as his superimposed weight would now turn each egg shell mistake into razor blade at gravity’s employ, ready to slice through even the thickest hide.

The young fugitive takes well into account the condition of the earth, at least, all of it that he can feel out with any other sense he can. The balance of loose dirt covered with decayed branches and rocks sharp enough to split wood speak loudly to his sense of self-preservation, and he can tell the way forward is how it always seems, one to resemble how a man would pass through a meat grinder, in a journey that often leaves no one unscathed.

It would seem, that to challenge death to an unfair game of chicken, is his only option he has to freedom, but to him, the cost is worth challenging even his own mortality.

I look upon the features of young man as he struggles to think of his next action, now becoming sharp like crystal in the description. He is a younger looking man; five o’clock shadow thin is on his face; a curly dark hair over the worry of a constant look of intense concern on his brow, especially now as he is so wracked with indecision in concentration. However, in his young features and strong frame of well-defined and studded strong muscles. I can tell that something is amiss in the truthfulness of his age, as it seems that time lies for him when his feature of youth are put in question, and scrutinized by onlookers. I do not know how old he is really, but his outright appearance is a man of only nineteen years of age. Barely old enough to face an untimely demise, but older than he looks in spirit.

I can’t help but notice a resemblance to someone close to me, someone I knew or knows now, but it escapes my grasp of full realization. His soul has a familiar sense that seems; common. However, this manner in which he takes path before him is admirable and cloaks something hidden deep within him.

Now forced to take to take a path that seems intertwined with my own being, one that he has found himself going down in the earlier years of his life. The determination is reflected in his gaze, is something that makes his features go from being just simply handsome, to that of a truly beautiful man, if such a thing could ever be said.

I watch this man closely, my sight affixed to the alluring nature of his presence as he struggles so hard against everything in his path, as even now, he has become his own enemy. He is fighting nerve with nerve as the sight of a dark void filled with infinite uncertainty and jagged reward adds to the struggle within him. I feel that in any other circumstance he would jump head first and foolishly into the pit and he knows this, but it is only now that he questions his ability to survive such an ordeal as his strength fades with every passing second, and hiss fight for life includes more than that of his own.

‘Who is he, what is his name?’ I wonder to myself but the answers escape me still; even as I search for the questions. I know him, the way he is and the type of person he was, but yet, in this place, everything comes to me out of order, and in the shapes of puzzle pieces with no end result to guide where I place them. My worry now becomes almost overwhelming. I love him, I think. I replace myself wanting to help him past this death trap, knowing that he needs my touch, longs for my skin against his and my whisper in his ear. I can feel, that this is one of the only things that he wants, and to satisfy his hunger for love, is what drives him to take such drastic steps.

He is almost too familiar with the way this path looks, how dangerous it actually is, the loose ground that reacts once put under pressure is only an indication to what awaits him in the darkness. Unpredictable earth it looks sturdy at first glance; it then only fails once weight or pressure has been applied. A trap set in the earth by a beast much worse than the dogs who follow. Each in nature is both made poised to reclaim heavy elephants found unaware of their surroundings. Somehow undiscovered by the facility only a few miles away, it is a pitfall of an unnatural crafting; dark and sinister like the gates of an unnamed graveyard.

He knows he will have to be prepared for what lies ahead if he hopes to survive, as places like this and the things inside them claim countless lives, and often ones he has cared for. I can’t help but wonder if I fell to death in such a way if my fate was found at the bottom of some chasm in the dark. The thing beside me assures me that this was not so, but still, I cannot tell if she is lying.

I watch as the runner steadily breathing in as much as his overworked lungs as he can take, trying to calm his thoughts and naturally quickened functions as fast as he can in an effort to regain control of his discombobulated motor functions. He takes in a deep breath through his nostrils, then releasing it from his mouth slowly and silently as to not alert the over sensitive dogs that track him from so close behind. The men that drive them quickly approach, but in the time of his mental state they all slowdown, going with the change of his metabolisms perception. Time is seemingly bent to his wills and changed his understanding of its passing.

In this state of slowed metabolic rhythm, he can think more clearly gain more energy and fight further into the dark. I know this, but only because I can feel that he showed me his secrets once upon a time and would otherwise not even understand what I sense. The few seconds he is able to stretch out seem now like entire minutes. But with time still moving it is all that he can manage to squeeze from the ripe fruit of the universe, as time truly stands still for no one.

For him, things would now become more clear and vibrant, the faint scent of pine trees becomes stronger in the cold night air. This state brings the Fugitive into a trance of calm that seems to glide aloft the passing and worry of time itself. As if he is sitting in a boat, drifting above the current of a calm lakes surface as he passes over the strong current and tall stones that it is held up a bye. Affected only slightly by the true passing of the liquid of reality.

Small lights begin to float about the atmosphere emanating from everything to exist within the electron field of the planet as his mind becomes more open, particles of things lost to the world of scent and even more so to one’s ability to sense life within them. The world looks like it is made out of electrified neon ash, producing light that only his vision can see in a state of slowed mind. Each particle holds a different color as to signify its place of origin. Everything is in color now but him, and oddly, the hole he stands before. The energy decay of everything made visible in his mind.

His breaths in the light, the smells caught, the fugitive’s breath now focused on the energy he intakes. This begins to recharge his nerves, aiding the moment that he needs them the most to be quelled and stable. It is this brief glimpse of relaxation that allowed him to slide in-between seconds like fine oil, causing his muscles to go into a super state of relaxation as they are aided by the energy that allows his so very tired tissue to regain a good portion of its lost stamina. This state also allows him to regain the clarity in his eyes, as his tears recede, back into their respective ducts pulled in by a recharged will to fight.

I can see this moment come into full color, as few would be unable to witness such a thing. I think I have always wondered what it was that he saw when he entered his states of meditation, the way he seemed too often cheer up after and become more lucid seems like a strong but misplaced memory. The world to him can truly be a beautiful place in a meditation-induced wonderland. And I feel joy as he does, but can’t help but come to the conclusion, that it would take something very energetically ugly, to effect his emotions.

It is now that I wonder what he saw of me in times like that, what he would witness when I was caught in such a sense. Especially when viewed by eyes such as his. I am only left to wonder as I continue to watch the ongoing moment. Knowing now of a mystery that surrounds what everyone always sees in me. I remember only this in general, his name escapes me still, a shame I hope to undo soon but only as fate will allow.

I watch him more closely than ever as his sense come back to standard reality, the moment when his efforts will be undoubtedly tested. Unable to see any clues of danger coming out of the darkness, with great care and tedious recalculation, the caucus traveler; now coming out of his micro rest state is able to once again prop himself to his legs, an instant of regained will, along with an inkling of strength.

He wearily drags himself just far enough to step his foot into the masking dark of the pit before him. Every fiber of his being begging for more rest, and every cry being choked with the nights cold, troublesome tremors of the complaint are ignored by the pitiless constitution of never giving in when one still has the energy to burn.

This was not the first time he had pushed himself past his limits, no stranger to the idea of pain and effort of exhaustion. He would again push himself further like he has done to my times before. But something inside me begs for him to get more rest. A, sense of attachment, a feeling of knowing that if unable to do so, death will soon replace him.

He is aware that the pain he replaces himself in, commonplace as always. For him, death was always lurking nearby somewhere, hiding behind some corner in the night, always close be . A threat in any forms, none will stop him as it seems a large piece of the monotony of his life is this danger, a natural tedium in its ongoing repetition of his days. Something he could no longer stand, his need would mock the very serious implication of his morbidity, and to die, if for the cause of moving forward away from this inclination of life, would only mean to replace answers as to why.

I could not help but wonder, who he is, where he came from, what his story is as even an attachment to his emotions is only a single page of a thickly bound man. Did he need to become stronger, or does he just want to. This emptyness, in him is enough for a reason, but is it simply for love, or to simply die trying?

Men are so confusing in this nature seeking gratitude in the repetition of exertion to learn something new about their limitations, how far they could push to surpassed before destruction, exhaustion would set in upon them, and bring sorrow to those who watch them smashed and crushed like toy soldiers as they chase shooting stars. Los dreams.

But he knows he has never been this exhausted before, has never been this uncertain as to how much more he can take, and adding to his distraction and worry for some time he has never been this alone in a struggle. But, like a base jumper getting back to his trade after a long respite. The thought of being alone in this plunge is something that tugs at the loose strings of this mesh of hard chain link armor that so holds him aloft in his inner turmoil, it is a string which now unravels a tapestry woven in the timeline of men, to reveal the ugly truth behind it. The loneliness for him is almost too much to bare as the armor falls away, and it’s protecting resolve with it.

This doubt of separation only serves to dull him to the task at hand and makes him more unaware of the now ignited and quickly burning string of clues he left behind with every step. A thought in his head that slows him down as it is purposed to do so, but only before fighting the need to turn and run.

This obscured detail is one which lightens his persecution from a place where it needs to sit so heavily, serves to make the seat of his calculated thinking unsafe from the relentless trail it blazed as the back burn seems to be just as much of a problem. The men who follow close behind become even closer as their need to resolve, matches that of the young escapee, if not more. Walking along the trail of a treacherous blaze to replace the nature of its source and turn its own fire and freedoms and resolve against it.

I know these men as they come into perception, able to look upon them now for the first time in my stay of the afterlife, it takes my memory a moment to get past the shock of their attire, it hurts my eyes as it strains my soul to look upon, or understand, but after this discomfort passes I realize how much trouble the fugitive is now in.

These are men, I am certain, but so much the same to that, they are plague, deadly, sickly, strong. They are entity’s clad in a perfect black and spread from a single point of origin; and like grim reapers of a dark age, they have and will kill anything that is in their path. They are a soldier Who take orders only from death incarnate, reapers of things far more dangerous of men monsters and dangerous ideas.

They will stop at nothing in an effort to choke out and make silent any catastrophe, and with grips harder than iron, they will see it snuffed out in a timely manner. Simply called, Black Skulls. They are the fiercest soldiers of a nation’s phantom army; on paper, or digital record, do not exist.

Their movements are precise, quick strong. They move through the forest as if it wasn’t even their, barely an obstacle. I can tell that All of the soldiers are of high standing in physical and mental fortitude, as their very image emits a pressure on my soul. The seem trained, purposes specifically for the art of death and killing things of unfathomable ferocity. These black soldiers are more heartless than any machine, as the do only what they are told in whispers and dark room. They will be stopping at only nothing if told to see reality destroyed, or if told simply to see that all working parts screwed down and in place to see the a government mechanism still works. But it was only now, that they seem off handed. Tasked in tracking down one of their own as he tries to escape. They are distracted, cautious, worried, never before have they had to used their powers and resources against someone they know so well. Someone they knew could take them apart with his bare hands, if given a moment to, using their own tactics against them.

Memories of them rush into my mind, things of terrible acts of violence and bloodshed against the people they say they protect.He remembers this too, these memories that strike like the hammer of a blood-soaked anvil, thoughts painful with sorrow.

The thing beside me is compelled to remind me to stay focused as my emotions distort what we see. It begins telling me that they are only memories and if overcome once can be done so again. But I am forced to let it know why such thoughts are so painful, and even it becomes somewhat unease.

In my hysteria, I go onto explain what their suites are laced with. Describing it as a type of energy that allows them to move faster, and hit harder than any human not held within it seems, as well as project energy themselves the fabric itself is classified as a type of Soul Weave, bound in death energy. One that comes from the death of thousands of human lives and mixed with a fabric made of human souls, gilded in crimes against life.

They do not even speak in words as their voices cannot be heard, communicating with a psychic gesture, most only perceive their words as static, or whispers that echo in the night. They are truly imposing in their existence, but what makes them so dangerous now, is that at one point they were close friends of mine and the runner.

These black armor-clad killers have now been taught never to falter in their charge, never to question in their thoughts, never to fail even at the cost of their own lives. As the last resort antibodies of a sickly organism, they are more things than men now, easily perceived as part of a greater disease. Prokaryotes needed to fight the enemies of a greedy body of government has been so uncomfortably surrounded by. Seeking to re-root itself in a world that seeks to see it perish and be reclaimed by the people that so foolishly spawned it. Assassins, murderers, marauders, and highly skilled motorcycle drivers, everyone who knows them, knows of their lengthy wrap as political silencers for a totalitarian republic.

Needless to say, they are strong and often go over the top in their task, but they never fail when given a demand, and the jobs they cannot finish, are told to simply destroy. The best soldiers in the world, this is the only function, their sworn duty as black ops pawns; antibodies of a clever sickness and problem killers.

The fear I feel now for the runner’s life chills me to my very core. Knowing that it is a fight, he will not win. As if unable to make him submit, death for him is guaranteed in a hail of gunfire and knives.

The fugitive looks up into the dark gray clouds as he steps, creating another slowed state of time. The little light it offers now besets only slight guidance, but gives him cause to look away in distraction. The stars are hidden in the cloak of a moonless night completely unseen as he tries to orient his location by spying out the natural magnetic field of the earth. But this field he notices something odd, something he doesn’t recognize.

“What are you doing?” I whisper out loud, “Move, please move.” But, something in the distance keeps him distracted.

What does he see, what on earth has made him stop now, here? With this timeless man’s eyes, one would be able to sense the ominous star of many things. The clouds perpetuate electrical energy as they churn water, charged by earth ionosphere, tell tail signs of the energies of a coming storm and even approaching disaster, earthquakes and radiation storms, hidden secrets of power wells, it is something that through only his eyes, can be seen; a massive torrent of magnetic borders and collision of dipolar electrons.

But what now has his attention, what now sits in his understanding of a form of a type of binary code that lets him know that something is off. The clouds above him will soon let loss a massive blizzard, a storm born in the wake of January and the wax of an ill-plotted escape. I fell as though I should be able to witness what he sees, but whatever it is that stalls him; is completely invisible to me.

I look up at the monster to my side for answers, but she too seems panicked by our lack of ability to see whatever it is that has the young man frozen in place.

“He knows it’s only a matter of time before the Black Skulls come to replace him. To see that the wound he created in whatever plot he oppresses is sutured so surgically back into a place. He must escape these men and the body of government that they represent. He knows it can’t survive without him, as not many bodies can without a heart. In truth, the same could be said in the opposite view being that organs simply can’t survive without a body. He is a renegade organ now, and this renegade organ is determined to prove otherwise. However, it seems the body he was a part of has little use for him now, and maybe, he is having a second thought on leaving something so strong.”

That’s not possible, I know him, I think, he is someone who goes with his gut instinct and has no second thoughts, he knows what lies ahead of him in a vast wilderness, dangers he has faced a thousand times. Faced with daring, and with confidence.”

“What type of confidence?” it asks a question to reassure its assumptions of confusion.

It is this question that has me now fearful of the nature of what I see in him. “The confidence, of not being alone.”

I think to myself about unanswered questions of how and why. Was it the bodies’ defenses for health; or this stickiness of conformity that now affects him? A heart now missing its body, and looking for what it had so unexpectedly lost. It was in this man’s head that he could no longer tell as it had done so much damage to both already. Now it was that the once warm person, now as cold as the night that he wonders through, had long since lost its place for him.

I can feel panic overtake me, what is happening to this muscle armored organ of a central importance? Has he always been aware of the disease that courses through its veins, and now only resisted until he could no longer stand it? He was aware that for some time the function of his one purpose performs, is only of a superficial importance, and now it is that he is soon to be killed for this.

My state of emotion is becoming too unstable to sustain this image, but I am soon told, that the reason for this is otherwise.

“Something is interfering with our window through the In-between, something, much more powerful than either of us realize.” Is what my Ghoulish companion says as things become more distorted?

I try to think, to concentrate, but this does little good. There are a number of powerful things that exist within the world of the living, almost too many things to count come into mind. But neither I nor my odd companion knows what to make of what we see. She assures me that she might be able to fix or adjust to the problem, the time I hear a hint of fear I her voice.

“It won’t be easy, at this point, all I can do is try, but......”

“Then, at least, do this, I beg you,” I say, my emotions speaking for me.

It looks into my eyes, and for a moment, I am able to bare its gaze. Then it turns its attention towards what happens before us. I can feel it focus for a moment the image clearing in shape, but it is only after a short time taking on this new task, that it tells me. “Something; has gone horribly wrong.”

Laughter echoes out in the blackness of the afterlife, it is chilling and soaked in indescribable evil. So much so, that it makes my soul sick.

As it stops, everything in the image jumps about, and suddenly, a row of black skull soldiers stands above the fugitive as he hangs in place. I can hear them talking now. In their static ghost like voices.

“We’re sorry compadre, this is just the way it has to be. They don’t want you to come back, they simply want you dead.”

The mechanical dogs grow with metal fangs, their muscles become enlarged, and their teeth and claws glow red hot with micro vibrations. Electrons become loosened from this activity of metal, and bolts of lightning begin to arc out from their weaponry.

“You have been charged, and convicted, of the murder, of Vits Pholinvantom; ex- first class officer, female, and national treasure of the Skull and Bones Republic. Your sentence is death by firing squad.”