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<span class="mu-i">He repeats those words, again.
The growing pyre of fury inside you explodes into a conflagration.
Your face warps into a bestial snarl.
A metallic scream of a great dying beast roars down the corridor with such force you can see the surrounding walls buckle and tear. Bright blue-white sparks spew out in fountains from the shredded wires exposed by the fresh perforations in the plasteel walls. Sirens, hoarse from repeated warnings of the vicious wounds the ship has sustained, continue to cry out that the death of the ancient vessel is not only inevitable but imminent.
His face is painted a demonic red by the emergency lights. Horror etched along every contour and deep crease. Eyes wild like a rabid viper-hound, scanning, searching for something, anything to escape this collapsing tomb. Fingers pound and dumbly slap at the door controls, the ones that would allow the pair of you to flee the burning hulk, the very one you reached out to, through the force, and crushed.
Words are said. They are directed at you. But you can not hear them; you hear the sound, but the meaning is lost as your rage steals everything but the echo of his last repeated orders. Your eyes do not leave him; they are not yours to control, they are possessed by the fusion core of glowing anger imprisoned inside you.
In his panic and terror, he reaches to his belt, hands fumbling, and draws something. Shouting even louder than before, trying to overpower the death rattle of the disintegrating vessel, he half pleads and half demands. Finally, he manages to momentarily cleanse himself of fear, spitting out an old insult dripping with a new hateful venom. And a bar of bright blue plasma is birthed from his hand.</span>
The growing pyre of fury inside you explodes into a conflagration.
Your face warps into a bestial snarl.
A metallic scream of a great dying beast roars down the corridor with such force you can see the surrounding walls buckle and tear. Bright blue-white sparks spew out in fountains from the shredded wires exposed by the fresh perforations in the plasteel walls. Sirens, hoarse from repeated warnings of the vicious wounds the ship has sustained, continue to cry out that the death of the ancient vessel is not only inevitable but imminent.
His face is painted a demonic red by the emergency lights. Horror etched along every contour and deep crease. Eyes wild like a rabid viper-hound, scanning, searching for something, anything to escape this collapsing tomb. Fingers pound and dumbly slap at the door controls, the ones that would allow the pair of you to flee the burning hulk, the very one you reached out to, through the force, and crushed.
Words are said. They are directed at you. But you can not hear them; you hear the sound, but the meaning is lost as your rage steals everything but the echo of his last repeated orders. Your eyes do not leave him; they are not yours to control, they are possessed by the fusion core of glowing anger imprisoned inside you.
In his panic and terror, he reaches to his belt, hands fumbling, and draws something. Shouting even louder than before, trying to overpower the death rattle of the disintegrating vessel, he half pleads and half demands. Finally, he manages to momentarily cleanse himself of fear, spitting out an old insult dripping with a new hateful venom. And a bar of bright blue plasma is birthed from his hand.</span>
