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On Bulwark's shouted orders, the troopers re-organize into a fireteam and Everett sprints for the storage, grabbing for a gun.
Intereting. Such a . . . primitive tool, for they who do not have claws of steel. Imagine one can conquer a world with this - to mimic a mere fraction of the power you hold in the core of your sense of self. You would perhaps think that a beast such as Everett would feel smug superiority to the stumbling tools of fire and iron, laugh at the artifice of men.
And yet.
Many hunters underestimate the wasp, until the swarm of them drowns the larger beasts. Each little sting deadlier than the last.
This is ... when Everett breathes in, feel the gun oil, scent the latent potential, here, he knows this is <span class="mu-s">danger</span>. That he holds in his hands <span class="mu-i">claws</span> too, but forged by predators of such all-encompasing lethality that he feels his hairs raise down his spine.
Could there a way to combine his unerring instincts, speed and capability while wielding such a tool? Might it be there be some bountiful, beautific synergy?
--
Conductor NeoGenesis gives a stow-away warning - and a reminder to watch your hands.
--
>STAND BY TO BE RAILROADED.
