Memories of a Bloody Past
Rain, Thunder and Cold, Hard Steel
I was a strange sight to see: a pony, stood upright, eyes closed, bearing the brunt of the weather as it tore at me furiously, demonically, whipping back my soot-black mane. The wind howling past my ears, a banshee of the night. I was black all over, head to tail. Even my hooves appeared to be forged from slabs of obsidian, the way they glinted in the occasional flash of lightning that split the sky as the Gods took up arms and tore the heavens apart in a battle for supremacy. Yet I shone with a brilliant lime light that cut through the dark, almost making me appear ghostly in form. Another surge of rain hit me, breaking against my sodden coat. I was a granite pillar in the midst of a raging sea, the waves crashing against me in a futile attempt to bring me down, to be lost forever more in the depths.
Eyes still closed, I waited, uncomplaining, and utterly, utterly silent. I said not a word as my forelegs separated along the length. Two blades, each a foot and a half long and glinting even through the all-consuming darkness that dutifully concealed my presence there, slid forth with a quiet click. I heard nothing else. Not the rain, nor the thunder. Just that single, quiet, sinister click as the blades locked in place above my forelegs. Five seconds of being exposed to the elements, and they were already slick with rain and reflecting the glowing, lime-green pattern that adorned my body, a pattern I had grown used to and now found comforting in that godforsaken hour of the morning in such atrocious weather.
It was then I shifted my stance: right arm outstretched, bent at the knee, left foot back, providing me with a stable platform on which I could stand, and my left blade held close to my cheek. I exhaled, still my eyes kept tightly closed. A long, expectant sigh, lost on the wind. No-one could hear me. No-one was present to see me. To everyone else, including my dear wife, I was either in bed, sleeping, or still at my desk, fiddling with the Orb. Meadow grass brushed against my ankle, making me twitch slightly. I cursed silently: out here I stood, taking the brute force of the wind and rain, unmoving, and yet a lowly patch of meadow grass disturbs me.
Finally, I opened my eyes. They too, shone with a brilliant lime light, casting their glow onto the wet earth, illuminating the terrain a few metres ahead of me. The golden lines - which I had grown so familiar with over the past ten years - in my vision faded away, leaving just my own eyes to see what I was meant to see: the world as everyone else saw it. Not through graphs and diagrams, nor through data and guides. Just plain, simple meadow grass, lit up in the glow of of my eyes.
I exhaled deeply once more. My first test. One I had passed many times. I spun counter-clockwise, moving at a speed I can only describe as supernatural, my left arm striking out, the blade cleaving through the air. Time seemed to slow around me. I watched as the edge of my cold, hard steel blade cut cleanly through a raindrop, the slivers tracing the diagonal incision I had made in the air, before finally hitting the surface of a puddle, sending tiny ripples across its surface. Had I been more lighthearted, I might have nicknamed my blades. But I was too professional and cold for that: they were tools, nothing more, nothing less. Instruments of death, playing their tune to all whom were unlucky enough to hear.
I assumed my stance once again, focused, but not yet calm. My pulse throbbed in my ears, strong, slow and steady. The adrenaline died away, leaving an undisturbed peace in it's wake. I sighed, misty breath spiralling away in a ghostly cloud, before being torn asunder by the arrows of water that pounded against me ineffectually. I flexed and slackened my muscles, panting slightly from the adrenaline rush that had spiked my body during that single slash only a dozen seconds ago. I forced myself to feel peace, expelling my heightened energy and replacing it with a state of tranquillity. My next test would be more difficult: I had wished it so.
A rustle in the grass, through the storm and thundering rain, alerted me to my attacker's presence. I fought to suppress the hatred that boiled within me, and the urge to charge recklessly and sow my revenge upon that which - so many times before - had brought me nothing but pain and suffering. I caught a glimpse of its eyes: soulless, undying and burning with a desire to extinguish my life like a candle whose use has come to an end. It struck first, clawed hand slashing at my throat, attempting to decapitate me. I brought my right sword arm up and deflected the blow, making a noise not dissimilar to a sword being sharpened on a whetstone. My attacker fled away, retreating back into the cover of the night. The dark was no longer my friend: it was an ally to my enemy. Another attack, this time from behind, gouged a vertical wound in my back, cutting through the spinal armour with little effort. I turned and aimed a slash at the creature, but met with only thin air. This one was a challenge: never before had they managed to wound me.
Again, the claw lashed out. I ducked under it and rolled backwards, my blades unlocking with a click and spinning on their hinges in a deadly arc. I punched upwards, my left blade carving through the air, before making contact. The arm of my attacker was severed at the elbow, showering me with onyx shards and provoking a screech of pain from the creature. I skidded to a halt, before rising and sprinting, full tilt, towards it. It turned to me in time to see the steel on my arms cut thrice into it's chest, before locking back into place. A black liquid oozed from its chest, the flesh and cloth around it slowly hardening into dark glass. I cut off my attacker's shriek of anger with a swift forward jab, skewering it through the head and instantly dousing the fire of those blazing white eyes. The creature slackened on my blade, hanging there for a few seconds, before crumbling into a mound of ebony crystal and fine ebony powder, the latter swiftly lost on the wind and the crystal almost instantly glossed with water. I stared at it, watching the glass burst into flames and slowly disintegrate into a starry fog. I didn't want to leave a mess, after all.
My final test was upon me. The test I had never passed. I took a moment to recover from my wound, before standing upright. Having no further use for the blades, I concealed them back within my forelegs. My blood roared through my temples and neck, before subsiding as I flushed my bloodstream with soothing agents, bringing my heart rate back to normal.
Purposeful and placid, I recalled upon the memories of ten years ago. Memories I had relived countless times. Memories I wished I would never have to remember again after tonight. Anger, hatred, grief. all gathering into a maelstrom of emotion I barely managed to control. I saw red, my hearing deaf to all but the sounds of a distant battle and a piercing, whining screech that nearly shredded my mind apart. I felt energy course through me, the fire that had burnt all that time ago rekindle and take hold. Inwardly, I was excited, like a five year old receiving a new toy.
But it was not to last: slowly but surely, the fire died away. Disappointed, yet vaguely satisfied, I turned away and began to walk back. Back to my home, where I would curl up and sleep for what remained of the night. The golden lines reappeared in my vision, some displaying a message:
Did it work?
I quickly thought up a reply.
No. Not today.
Moments later, another message appeared.
Perhaps it is time to give up.
I sighed reluctantly.
Maybe. But I have something to attend to in the morning.
Which is?
You'll see.
* * *
DigitalCore Presents
Memories of a Bloody Past
Memories of a Bloody Past
Here I am, at my desk, my antique ink pen scribbling furiously, yet neatly, across one of the many pages I plan to fill before my tale is over. Mine is a dark tale, one not to be taken lightly, but as a lesson. A lesson in life: it will test your beliefs, your strength and courage, even how far you are willing to go to save yourself. Life leaves scars. Scars on your body, and on your mind. I have had more than my fair share of them. I have seen things no being should ever have to see. I have committed acts that have made me question my very morality. My scars run so deep, they give me nightmares. Countless nightmares. Dreams of blood. Dreams of death. Dreams of fire. Dreams of war. But no scar runs as deep as the one I carry every day.
It clads my body in cold metal. It burrows deep into my bones. It even invades my skull, beneath the tissue of my cerebrum like a ghastly parasite I must contend with. However, I owe it my life. Several times over, as a matter of fact. Should I not have obtained it, these words you see would never have existed. Instead, I may be lying somewhere in a gutter, throat slashed and perhaps nothing but dust. Neither would I have never been able to write again. How could I have without fingers? I have none, at least none that are made from flesh and blood. Mine are fashioned from black metal and hydraulic oil, more reliable and far sturdier than any organic substitute.
Neither am I fully human. No, those days are long behind me. Now, I am something known as an Equestrian Pony, by what is left of mankind. Not the flashiest, what with my grim visage and all, but one of the most unique. I have retained much of my human DNA structure, but it is now unimportant: I can never be human again. Not in reality, at least. In my dreams, perhaps, but lately those have taken a turn for the worst, and I wish to avoid recalling them. To do so could drive me insane, and I am already on a knife-edge as it is.
Before I continue, there is history that must be shared if you are to understand my tale. These entire works take place 10 years ago, or for those who read this late, 2143 AD, Earth time. I was 23 back then, still human, and with emerald eyes not much different to the ones I have now. I had sharpish features and a slim physique that was better put to use with a gun than fighting hand-to-hand.
54 years ago, in 2089, humans had created something known only as the Prototype. The structure itself was incredible. Thousands and thousands of tonnes of titanium, silicon and even synthetic metals were used in its construction. Most of it wasn’t even interconnected: the central three-clawed spire levitated above the ground, leviathan-sized antigravity links holding it in place. The spire was surrounded by a series of rings, acting as focusing lenses for the massive amounts of energy it channeled. Underneath it lay a smooth metal concave in the earth, six more spires built on the edge at regular intervals. Each of those was powered by the largest fusion reactors ever conceived, along with an AI control Core that could only be operated by six genetically key-coded humans. These humans had weekly genetic alterations formulated by the collective AI of the six Cores, continuously updating their DNA, which made it impossible for clones to infiltrate the facility without being torn into atoms by the defences first.
Though originally intended to solve the world’s energy and resource crisis by synthesising the required material, it was later found it had the potential to do much, much more. It could analyse the processes inside a self-created, stable black hole through monitoring wireless probes. It could rip fusion fuel and even energy from stars thousands of light years away. And if it was needed, it could also become a weapon of mass destruction, tearing holes in space and time and channelling the full fury of a star upon an asteroid that very nearly hit Earth in 2092.
But, like all good things, it was not to last. Using the Prototype to experiment with separate dimensions was... Dangerous, to say the least. But attempting to bring something from that dimension back to Earth? Something was bound to go wrong, which it did, of course. Yet the magnitude of the backlash was completely unexpected. The entire facility disappeared into oblivion in 2096.
The portal collapsed with such violence it released a shockwave of cosmic radiation across the globe with catastrophic results. Devices shorted out, the circuits fried and digital data scrambled by the electromagnetic forces, plunging the planet into darkness. The whole atmosphere was chemically recombined, becoming a mix of toxic gases as atoms changed their structure and becoming other elements. The change was so sudden the air higher up reached temperatures of over 5000°C due to intense friction.
The blast itself was even more deadly: people who got lucky were disintegrated on the spot by the shockwave. Others were not so fortunate, slowly torn apart as the radiation ravaged their bodies, twisting them into all sorts of horrific forms, before finally killing them in a grisly explosion that sent gore flying through the air. Plants fared no better: they just died, simply shrivelling away, becoming nothing more than tufts of dead matter here and there, with any trees still standing blackened and stunted. The cataclysm changed everything. Humanity was unable to recover: approximately 97% of all life on the planet died in a matter of minutes. Not days, not hours, minutes. More died in the aftermath, the entire Earth going haywire, spewing magma from under our feet and tearing the ground apart from brutal earthquakes that demolished almost anything left standing. Even our atmosphere turned upon us: molten metal rained from the sky as oxygen became iron and nitrogen became lead in a merciless torrent of death.
After all that, were the Gods done with their punishment? Were we finally to be left to dwindle away in peace? No. They weren’t done with us yet; for soon after we received some unwelcome guests.
At first, we only caught glimpses of them: fuzzy, cloaked beings, almost like living shadows. Their eyes were white and blank, able to paralyse you at a glance. The rest of their face, assuming they even had one, was kept hidden. Their screams struck fear into even the most courageous of people, an unearthly, wailing shriek which nearly deafened you it was so loud. Their touch was the most unnerving thing about them, though: they aged nearly everything they came into contact with by thousands of years in mere seconds. Some people were found dead in their homes, only the skeletons remaining, and even those were beginning to crumble into dust. People were terrified of them, and soon enough their fearsome reputation earned a name for themselves: the Flow.
Eventually, as it was, there were only a few hundred million of us left. By that time, we had resigned ourselves to our fate, except a select few who still fought on believing we could rise again if we fought for that chance. A bright, beckoning light in the darkness of reality. I was one such person. Me and a band of fellow comrades left our families, gathered our arms and set off to make things right.
Too long have I carried this burden. Too long has it ravaged my dreams, waking me in the dark hours of the morning, my body weak and feverish from the nightmares that plague me. Now there shall be no more stalling, no more reluctance: this is my tale, and to be free to live my life once more, I must write it down, for me and for all who wish to read this.
But be warned, reader: this is no mere autobiography. It is a tale of fear, courage and death. And it starts with the day I was running for my life.
Memories of a Bloody Past
The Earth as humanity knew it was long dead. Whether night or day, rain or shine, any and all of the light from above was blotted out by thick, grey clouds, casting a permanent darkness across the surface of our beloved planet. The atmosphere was choked on dust and ash, thick with pollution. Weather was unpredictable, and when it wasn't a faint breeze that filled your nostrils with the scent of smoke and the past, it was savage: lightning would often dance across the sky, the wind would be whipped into a howling gale that tore at your face like a demon and there was rain in such quantities you often drowned in the surge of acidic water. You couldn't stay out long in that weather: if you did, the most likely scenario is that someone, sooner or later, would find your body as a half-dissolved pile of mush or ash.
Flow stalked the barren and scarred wilderness between the few pockets of civilisation left. Thousands, and thousands, upon uncountable thousands of Flow. Where they came from, nobody knew, and nobody cared. We all just hoped that we weren't the ones that crossed their path. Earth was no longer a verdant paradise; it was a small slice of Hell.
And so it was on this ruined world that I - on a small, cobbled and forgotten road - ran as if the devil himself was on my very heels. Brown leather boots, thick soled and worn beyond any hope of repair, slapped against the stone. Hot crimson blood, surging through my ears and pulsing in my temples, fed me with what oxygen was left in the air my gasping lungs desperately tried to inhale. I was in the seventh circle of hell, Flow only a hundred metres behind me, the rain attempting to melt the flesh from my bones and no sign of the sanctuary I needed so greatly. With only a humble energy pistol in a holster on my right hip and a tattered plastifibre bag strapped to my back, my chances were slim. As slim as the knife in my boot.
I stumbled on a cobble, my feet knocked out from under me as I was sent sprawling across the ground. A sharp flint cut a gash above my left eye, causing blood to trickle down my face and congeal in my lashes. I scrabbled back to my feet and continued running, wiping the blood from my eye as I did so. A chorus of shrieks behind me warned me they were getting closer, so I redoubled my efforts and pushed my body even harder than before. My legs screamed for relief. They received none. I ignored their pleas and kept sprinting.
I was alone out there. Very alone, besides the Flow behind me, but as they were baying for my blood and were absolutely adamant on getting it, I couldn't exactly count them as company. No one was there to encourage me onwards, no one was there to cover my back. Even my inner voice that I trusted with all my heart and soul had gone quiet. Perhaps it knew my time was up. Perhaps there was no further use in running...
I pushed the thoughts away. My top priority was survival, and I always achieved my top priority, no matter what the cost was to me. My lungs felt as if they were burning up, my brow so slick with sweat that not even the hooked legs of a spider could hold on, but I pushed on, over the stones and pebbles, on through the murky grey that left the world colourless and dull. I stumbled again, rolling over the cobbles, unable to get up as my body was so run-down. I truly did think it was the end for me. I lay there, waiting for the cold embrace of death.
But that day was not to be my last: a bolt of light, bright blue and hissing with energy flew over my head and hit the mass of shifting bodies behind me. I heard something shatter behind me, before another volley was unleashed, tearing another gap in the wall of Flow. I looked up to see another young man of my age, one I knew well.
"Mark, I need you to get up," Dias said. He held out a hand, which I gladly took, letting him heft me to my feet.
"Thanks. I really thought that was it for me for a moment there," I choked out, still gasping for air, no matter how clean it was. Dias slung his rifle over his back, an AT4-D2, or more commonly known by the roving bands of men like us as a Hellshot. It was a common sight amongst military personnel in the second half of the 21st century, square and solid, and packing enough firepower to give lightly armoured vehicles a run for their money. The barrel was stubby and wide, which I guessed was to allow the shot - a blue bolt of plasma - a bit of width.
"Now let's get our asses out of here before they get their hands on us." he said, before taking off. I groaned in protest, then began to run after him through the dead forest.
The twisted and greyed branches forced us to duck and weave through a maze of vampiric wood - not quite living, not quite dead - that stuck out at all angles, sharp and unforgiving. I slit my cheek on one almost lavishly decorated with thorns. I glanced back and saw the crimson stain on the mace-like wood, spurring me onwards, but as I spun round, I could have sworn the branch waved at me, as if bidding me a warm goodbye...
I kept my pace, never looking back again, even when I thought I could feel the knifelike fingers of a Flow scratching at the bare skin of my neck. We took more care in our escape, never breaking stride, never once colliding with the walls of wood around us. The Flow were not so careful. Many shattered into shards of black glass on the merciless boughs, the remains swept away by the gentle breeze. Dias kept in line with me, never more than a few metres ahead, acknowledging my exhausted state as we ran onwards.
A glimpse of colour flashed momentarily amongst the monochrome forest. A lush green, one I had only ever seen before in tattered books - many of the pages nothing but dust - scrounged out of decrepit libraries. My limbs found a new energy, the searing pain that bit at my legs dying away, the trunks and branches flying past me faster than before. My very soul burnt with a renewed desire to survive, to continue onwards through whatever dangers Fate may have dared throw at me. Arrogance? Perhaps a little.
The pair of us burst through the tree line, and onto the grass. Real grass. I heard it rustle as it should, the scent of early morning dew even better than I had imagined. A lone tree stood next to a crystal clear pool of water, its boughs thick with leaves and the shape... natural. At that moment, Dias sprinted ahead, running for a rusted circle of iron embedded into the ground. A hatch. A door to safety. A door to freedom. A door to redemption. Dias wrenched it open, the corroded metal screeching in protest, grinding on its ancient hinges, and jumped. I skidded to a halt in front of the hatch seconds later and looked down. An ominous, foreboding darkness stared back out of the depths. I took my chances with the dark, and clambered in - slamming the hatch down behind me and sliding the bolts on its underside closed - before grabbing hold of the worn metal rails in front of me and descending into the darkness.
* * *
I slid down those rails for God knows how long, fearful the Flow would tear the hatch away and fall on me in a ravenous horde, before my boots hit solid rock with a muffled thud. I turned to see Dias waiting patiently in the cramped tunnel that led away from the main access shaft, a glowing orb hovering above his palm. It cast a pale yellow light onto the rock walls, illuminating the many crevices and protrusions that would have otherwise been shrouded in a murky darkness. The muffled screeching of shearing metal echoed down from above, and we took off running.
Only minutes later, the chorus of horrific shrieks pierced my ears once again. The chill that permeated the dark corridors grew stronger, making me shiver. I reached down to my holster and removed my weapon, releasing the catch. The barrel swung down, and I quickly inserted a glowing cyan cartridge into the small hole found within. I flicked the barrel back up, the catch locking with a snap, and turned to face the darkness behind us. I held the grip with both hands, forcing myself to breathe in a more measured pace to help improve my aim. Even with the pistol’s glowing frame illuminating a few metres in front of me, I had no margin for error: only a quick shot to the head could save us if we were attacked.
The shrieking grew to fever pitch, the sheer volume rending my ears in a cacophony of noise. Then all was silent. Not a whisper could be heard, aside from our rapid breathing and the echo of our footsteps as we continued our retreat down the labyrinthine tunnels.
My only warning was the eyes. White, soulless and burning with hatred. I squeezed the trigger. A blue bolt of light soared through the air, momentarily lighting up the tunnel before disappearing into a cyan mist as it disintegrated the Flow’s head. The passage went dark again... except for the dozens and dozens of eyes that stared at me...
“Dias! Swap on three!” I whispered over my shoulder. A momentary whine as another source of cyan light joined the dim glow of my pistols notified me to his acknowledgement.
“One,” a few Flow edged towards me, recovering from their comrade’s death.
“Two,” more surged forward, and sweat began to bead on my forehead.
“Three!” we span, and the sound of death tore through the eerie quiet of the passage. Dias’ rifle illuminated the corridor in a fusillade of ionized gas, ripping apart the spectral forms lit up in the deadly glow. I sprinted off, following a thick black cable bound in cyan rings down the maze of tunnels. I could still hear Dias’ Hellshot whining and hissing behind me as he rounded the corner, taking potshots at the horde of Flow following us.
“Passcode?” I yelled back to him.
“Alpha-four-five-oscar-nine-seven!” he shouted back. I quickly memorised it, before heading right along another corridor, this time surrounded by cabling on all sides that spat and crackled with power, and with a grated iron walkway beneath me.
I skidded to a halt in front of an access panel. I punched in the code, each tap eliciting a dim pulse of light from the many digital keys that shone a bright gold which lay across the panel. The door to my left spiralled open, revealing a grand room, at least fifty meters tall and full of platforms and walkways, some of which levitated freely in the air, violet anti-gravity repulsors strapped to their undersides.
“Dias! Run! RUN!” I screamed at him. He slung his Hellshot over his back, turned and ran. I had never seen anyone but myself run faster than he did then. A mass of dark bodies, writhing, twisting, eager for his flesh and howling at such a pitch it nearly made my ears bleed chased him down that tunnel like bats out of hell. It was nightmarish: everything seemed to move as if time had slowed to a crawl. I waited just a second more, then threw myself through the open door and slammed my fist on the control panel, Dias following just a moment later before it slammed shut with a clang. Thuds shortly followed as the fragile mass of black behind him impacted on the firm steel. We took a moment to catch our breath.
“The elevator banks...” Dias panted out. I looked across at him, leaning on the bleached steel wall for support.
“They’re... They’re on the... far side...” he inhaled deeply. “Now let’s get moving.”
Not a moment had passed since I had hit the call panel before I heard the sound of metal tearing. We turned, and saw a claw, a good foot long and shearing through the steel door as if it was butter.
“FUCK IT, COME ON!” I yelled. The metal behind us groaned in protest from the flurry of scratches and blows.
“NOW! GODDAMNIT!” I slammed a fist into the panel, cracking the glass and sending sparks skittering across the floor. Two pods ascended from the elevator shafts, doors flung open, with only enough room for one each. Neither of us hesitated, taking the best part of two seconds to sit down, buckle up and slam the doors closed.
“Descent speed?” a female voice echoed throughout the pod. The rest of what it said, if anything, was drowned out by the ear-splitting scraping of metal on metal as the entrance to the complex was smashed in with such force it skidded halfway across the room.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“Mach 0.7 selected. Initiating descent...”
“NO!” I bellowed, but my response fell on deaf ears. Electricity sparked along the girders lining the shaft, and the pods, with us in them, fell into the abyss.
If I was to say the descent was rapid, I would probably be lying. The G-force almost made me pass out, and the sheer speed felt like it was tearing my face off. I did my best not to pass out, clinging onto consciousness, desperately trying to stay awake. Floors passed by, mere flashes of blinding white against the grim, unrelenting grey of the mist that swirled throughout the elevator shaft.
“Approaching floor zero. Magnetic brakes applied,” the internal guidance computer warned me. I had only enough time to yell a few choice curses before the blood rushed from my head. I grunted in protest, holding on to the bars on either side of me to stay steady. My knuckles turned white, and I refused to let go even after the glass slide had reopened and the bright light of freedom shone into the enclosed pod. Dias’ face obscured my view for a few seconds, yelling something I couldn’t quite make out through the ringing that pierced my ears and mind. I had lost all sense of time and thought, lost in a sea of oblivion within my own mind.
“Mark! Come on pal, we’re nearly there. Come on,” Dias threw the buckles off me and slung my arm over his shoulder, dragging me from the pod. We got about 3 metres before a crunching noise behind us, followed by a pod flying over our heads alerted us to the fact the Flow may have been a little faster than what we had anticipated. We ducked under the hunk of metal, and Dias continued to drag me along the floor by an arm. Less than a second later, a salvo of Hellshot fire came soaring past us to dissipate into fine mist after blowing several holes in the black wall that had crammed itself into the elevator chute.
“Dias! Get him over here! Phase commences in 30 seconds!” another voice called out from the blurred image of a platform. Brown hair, unkempt, tumbling over a shadow of a face. Arthur, maybe? I wasn’t able to tell at the time. Dias drew his rifle, adding a few more shots to the storm that engulfed the elevator chutes in a cloud of cyan mist. The Flow, if there were any that had survived the first volley, were hidden behind it, obscured to us. 28 seconds to Phase.
Though I may have been without much sight or hearing, I was still able to use a gun. I unholstered my pistol, checked the charge gauge, not finding it lacking, and loosed a few bolts of my own. Another explosion, presumably due to a critical systems failure (the whole place was literally coming down on top of us), knocked Dias off of his feet, leaving me to lie on the floor. I turned over and clawed at the ground, desperately trying to gain some traction on the polished steel floor. 21 seconds. My fingers found purchase in a seam between two plates, and I dragged myself forward, an inch at a time. Screams and gunshots, muffled by my half-functioning ears, filled the air. My heartbeat pulsed in my temples, a steady, but rapid crescendo that indicated I was on the verge of shock.
I felt an arm hook under my shoulder again. Was it Dias? I couldn’t tell. Arthur yelled again. 15 seconds. A Flow jumped out from the mist of ionized gas, lunging for me. I pulled the trigger a few times, not trusting my aim to be accurate. It collapsed a few metres from me, the parts of it I could see torn and ravaged. 10 seconds. Halfway up the stairs. Dias flung me over his shoulder and ran as best he could, over the edge of the platform, just as it was about to be consumed in a haze of white light. 5 seconds.
4.
3.
2.
1...
