The High Priest
Impressions. Like stepping into footprints left behind in the rust-speckled concrete-plastic sand after someone had paced through. The water washed up, covering their feet, eroding the finer details until only a dent remained. Stalker had, of course, been good at the game she'd made up, comparing stride lengths, depth, and passing judgment on them. Little bits of spite and frustration, seeping out, dissolving into crashing waves of good-natured laughter at the ridiculousness of it all.
They were on the pier. There was no real continuity, they were there, and it was filled with people. The smell of the brine, the salty rotting scent was tinged with metal. She leaned on the railing, watching the rusted wrecks of jumpships in the water. Rose had seen them before. They'd been in the plains, with animals taking shelter in them, overgrown with greenery, the paint stripped by time, sun, and wind.
And now the wrecks spanned the waters, pressed against one another.
She ate at a table, the pyrographed imprint of her hand burned into the wood next to her. It occurred to her she could sand it off. The food was simple fare, liver and mashed potato. The meat had been overcooked to ensure no parasites were present. It was bitter and mealy, and Rose had broken the meat up with a scrap metal spoon, stirring the grey mash into the potatoes. Takanome had called her a child. "Eat it all," she'd said, in a no-nonsense tone.
Rose had shaken her head, but also lifted the spoon to her mouth. Except she'd refused to eat at all. She'd wanted Takanome to eat. To keep her strength up after the attack. There had been onions with the liver, she'd cooked them until they were brown and tender. The whole of the meal had formed a mixture of mistakes, setbacks, and successes.
Ruins. Rose was breaking her way through rooms so closely stacked upon one another because it was the only way to survive. Personality bled from one room to another as she punctured through them, forcing a collage of detritus and attempted ownership. The painstaking layers of human experience, represented in stone and wood and glass, shattered, eroded, dashed aside.
The organs of the City spilled out. She walked through them, looking at it all.
It felt familiar.
Rose jerked as her body came to life, disoriented, snatching her ghost from the air and gasping for breath.
"Rose!" her ghost shouted through the confines of her gauntlet. "Rose, it's me!" Her ghost's voice sounded panicked. Concerned, not for herself, but for Rose. Afraid.
Rose let go. Forced herself to let go, uncurling her fingers and shuddering. "How long?"
"Minute fifty," her ghost said. "I fixed it."
"Should've let me die," Rose said as she lurched to her feet, her revolver snapping into her hand. "We gotta go," she said, "where's Saladin? Did you tell him?"
"Yes. He said 'What's done is done,' and told me to help you," her ghost said, "people are moving and I've been monitoring her. She went with Efrideet, Tarlowe, and Dean."
"Dean? Dean?" Rose said, repeating the name to give herself time to process it. "Why Dean?"
"He was in the room with the Speaker when she went to get him," her ghost said.
"We have to stop her," Rose said. She was hyperaware, and the buzzing in her ears was getting worse. "Gotta go after her. You should have stopped her. Called out-"
"Rose," her ghost said. "I did. Breathe."
"I
can't," Rose snapped, "we don't have time to breathe, we're going to die if we take time, they're out there and I didn't see it coming and she-" Betrayed. The word resounded in her mind, an admission that only filled her with more anger. She'd failed. Again. "What the hell am I supposed to do!?"
"Rose," her ghost said. "People are going to die."
People were always going to die, Rose wanted to snap back, her eyes filling with tears. It wasn't what she really felt, it was just an attempt to reassert control. Her ghost's attempt to redirect her, met with aggression. Pushing back. Control. It fell back into the same pattern. And Rebecca had taken the choice away entirely. "I know," she ground out, through clenched teeth. She could feel her hand prickling, the skin growing hot as Solar fire burned through her veins. Rose turned her attention back to her ghost, quelling the sensation as best she could. "What do we do next?"
"We move," her ghost said. "They're arranging the movement of those who can be moved."
Rose stood, panting, wanting to run her hands through her hair and curl up into herself. Paint curled off her gauntlet, the metal shimmering through oil-slick colors as it heated. "Okay," she said, trying to find something to focus on, sheathing her hand in Void and clasping the grip of her revolver. "Let's go."
Saladin was waiting for her, axe in hand. There was a tension to how he stood, his hand too tight around his axe, his jaw firmly set. "Are you going to be a liability?" he asked.
"No," Rose said.
"You're with the rearguard," Saladin said, pointing. His voice was the same, measured, gravelly baritone as always, but it came through his teeth, and he wasn't looking at her.
"I'm sorry about Efrideet," Rose said.
Saladin stopped. His thumb rubbed the side of his axe. There was a spot there, a silver gleam caused by the repetitive motion of leather buffing the metal. "She's not dead yet," he finally said, and walked away.
Rose watched him go before turning to go assist her assigned unit. Saladin was watching the wanton, piecemeal destruction of his family. First Radegast, the founder of the Iron Lords, and now Efrideet. He saw hope failing, falling, and was determined to cling to it, to pull it up beside him. He was a survivor, fighting to help others survive, and he clung to it in the only way he knew how. Hope felt like an anchor, and yet he persisted.
And whether through luck, skill, or providence, he survived.
Rose reached out with her wraiths. She found the one secreted away on Rebecca immediately, wrapped around something. The regular vibrations of impacts implied it was a limb, likely a leg, but it was also possible it was strapped to an arm, or if she was currently fighting, clasped in a fist. Rose set her teeth into an unpleasant grimace, her lips stretching out wide under her helmet. Saladin was right, at least for now. Rebecca wasn't dead yet.
Her wraiths spiraled out around her, her gun heavy in the palm of her hand. Even walking toward the group she was supposed to be a part of, she was already assessing, trying to figure out how she could take control, maybe create some impact to give her friends a better fighting chance. Her thoughts were clouded, and she stumbled forward, her leg catching on a piece of strewn broken wood.
A man caught her shoulder, and she righted herself.
She wanted to blame him, to find some manner she wasn't responsible for her own error.
"Rose?" he asked. "We're all tired. You good?"
Rose didn't answer, staring him down. The pity only made her want to lash out. "I'm good," she said. "What are we working with?"
He ignored her question. "You're a Void user, right?" he looked her over, glancing at her wraiths with an expression of distaste, then at her shields with more interest. "You're with me. Name's Kei-Ying. I run with a shotgun and rifle." He hefted his shotgun casually, a pump action with a perforated metal layer over the barrel and a bayonet affixed to the end. There was nothing particularly special about the gun, besides its well-maintained state.
"Shield and revolver," Rose said, hefting her buckler and gun for a moment before lowering them.
"Good. We're going to be taking the heavy fire and picking off whatever we can while others take on priority targets," he said. "We're not here to be heroes, we're here to get as many people as we can out, do you understand?"
"I understand," Rose said.
Kei-Ying put a hand over her shoulder, then seemed to think better of it, drawing back. "We've all lost people. Don't add yourself to the pile. We have to survive to have a chance later."
"Don't patronize me," Rose snapped. She almost wished he had set his hand on her shoulder, so she could have knocked it off. On some level, she recognized what she was doing. She was instigating conflict. She was looking for flaws, and so she found them, until there was nothing but. The anger she felt continued to seethe, simmering, waiting, right below the surface. Her skin felt hot with embarrassment and Solar destruction. Control. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Sorry. Let's get to work."
"Right," he said.
The group she would be fighting with was motley at best, their outfits and uniforms ill-matching, only sharing one quality: their faces displayed exhaustion openly, their postures slouched, leaning on their weapons. Scattered. It was the best word to describe them and herself, lost and striving to hold together for one last push. There was no outcropping of hope to clutch to, only the suffocating inevitability of death they'd seen in others and now saw the possibility of in their near future. Void felt slippery to latch onto, unreliable, and she hated herself for it. This group would die if the man in the mask came for them. He would pick them off one by one, and she was a liability to them.
Rose tried to account for their weaponry, their Light, but it was becoming a blur. Arc, Solar, Void, bullets, pellets, slugs, explosives. Helmets went on, and there was no further time for pleasantries, just the final push. Holographic information scrolled across, a steady feed provided by her ghost, but she couldn't focus. Her ghost said words, and Rose responded with dull acknowledgment, her efforts of attempting to push down her inchoate rage.
They left the building, Rose taking the rear, revolver in one hand, buckler in the other. The vanguard was carving the way forward, taking the path of least resistance while the distraction of the Speaker was still in play. But the danger lay in the Devil forces collapsing upon them, picking at the fringes until it wasn't enough to hold off the encroaching tides. Kei-Ying roared orders, and lithe Risen raced across rooftops, meting out swift death to snipers and mechanical drones, others taking their places, insurmountable walls to defend those who couldn't or could no longer afford to take another shot.
On the ground, Rose fought with an unbridled fury. The Devils and Warlords came in packs, drones first, filtering in from windows and alleyways, red-orange sensors glowing in the dust clouds, diffused light growing in intensity as they neared.
Rose was the first into the fray, feet slamming into the ground as she bulled forward, not giving them the opportunity to fire. There was no rhythm, no calculated movement to her actions. Her shield swatted one to the ground, her heel grinding it into the stonework floor. The revolver in her hand roared, missing more than it hit, but hitting enough to knock three more into the ground.
Shots struck her armor as enemy reinforcements entered combat. They called out and pointed, firing at her and the others.
Rose responded with a scream, kicking off the ground and sprinting, head down, buckler up, firing her revolver until it clicked empty. She dropped the gun as she neared her foes. The first one in her way was a Devil marauder, shock blades whirling in an overhead swing, two handed, while the lower blades stabbed for her sides. Rose was too quick, pushing in. They were taller than her, so she headbutted, grabbing their lower arms and planting her knee into their chest.
They reeled, but there was a moment of panic in their eyes, realizing what was about to happen before she twisted her body to the side, kicking outward, ripping their arms from their body. Rose followed through on the motion, dropping the arms and hurling her buckler into their throat, rushing forward and snatching it back out.
A salvo of Solar knives crashed down, wreaking explosive havoc, and Rose responded with Void, attempting to hold firm. It shattered, and she cursed, frustrated. Her left arm was gone, chunks of armor plating slagged or destroyed. Others were worse off. She looked for the perpetrator, limping forward.
There. He was flicking knives into explosive existence, hurling them in deadly arcs. But then he was gone, vanishing from view, only to appear again with another quick salvo. He harried and kept to the shadows, building up strength for another barrage. Rose let herself fall, feigning weakness. Her limb and body emanated nauseating pain, and she struggled to keep herself from curling in on herself. She let her buckler fall from her good hand.
He took the bait, appearing in front of her with a knife driving into her neck.
"Stupid," Rose hissed through teeth cracking with heat, surging forward, her blazing gauntlet wrapped like a vise around his throat. She drew him into her as he hacked at her body, a one-armed death grip, making them both into a pyre.
Her ghost rezzed her under cover. Someone had dragged her there, their face sweaty and caked with dust. "You good?" they asked, tossing Rose her buckler.
"Good," Rose said.
"We're moving again," they said, and pointed.
Rose nodded.
"I'm using the wraiths," her ghost said. "Directing safe routes and giving callouts. The one you had watching the man in the mask was shot down. We haven't been able to target their ghosts effectively. They just delay their rez, and we have to keep moving. No choice. So the number of Risen targeting us has increased over time, even if the Devils aren't chasing us as much." Her ghost paused, flaps rotating before she stilled. "Rose. Are you okay?"
Rose opened her mouth to lie, then shook her head.
"We'll figure things out after this," her ghost said. "Okay? Find Stalker. Talk with the Iron lords? We can come back from this. Whatever you need. Stay with me. Please."
Rose gave a noncommittal murmur.
"We're making good headway," her ghost said. "Rebecca, and the others, I assume, are still alive."
Rose rejoined the forces proper. She pushed new bullets into the cylinder of her revolver. A few bullets fell from her clumsy, trembling fingers, littering the ground. She let out a quiet string of curses holstering her weapon and holding her hand, willing it to be still. The worst parts were the lulls in combat, the times where everything was about to go wrong, and the only question was how long it would take before it did.
Her ghost was right. There were more Warlords. The lack of punishment had emboldened them. All the Warlords were required to do was to pick off one of Rose's allies, and the response necessary to save them was far greater than the Warlords needed.
Rose's hackles raised. She could hear laughter, yelled invectives, mocking words alongside bullets, and even rocks thrown with preternatural strength.
"Rose," her ghost said.
"I know," Rose said, through clenched teeth. She took her place on the backlines, raising her tower shield and defending her allies as best she could. The enemy wasn't taking them seriously, because they couldn't kill the enemy. Potshots, skirmishes, and the slow collapse of their ranks was enough.
Three heavily armored people, bigger than the others, were taking turns projecting walls of Void, fonts of Light and might. They struggled under the burden, backing up, their arms held high, fists clenched as they held a shield between themselves and the onslaught of their foes. Sniper shots plinked off, even high explosives broke against the shimmering violet ward.
And when one thinned, their Light waning, another stepped into their place, holding up their arms and doing the same. It was a crude technique, unrefined, perhaps only even learned in the last few hours from the cruelty of necessity. But it worked. There was just enough time, just enough strength gained between each shielding to form a rotation. Those who weren't being protected could in turn pick off enemies.
But the Warlords would get bored. Rose knew it. This was just a stay of execution.
"Here," she said, pulling her tower shield off her back and handing it to one. He was breathing heavily, as he stumbled backward, unsuited for the role he'd been forced into. "Use this."
"Who?" he asked, not taking it. "What?"
"Focus your Light," she said, pressing it insistently into his hands as they moved. "Push it along the shield. Use the image of the shield."
"What?" he said again.
"When you reach for the Void," Rose said.
"You can take my place," he said. "Ain't the best at it anyhow."
Rose hesitated. It was tempting, to slip back in and be the hero, to make up for her recent failures, but she couldn't afford another break. Her shield had to hold. And protecting others was paramount. "No. I've had…" she paused, her lips thinning in distaste. "I can't. Listen to me."
"Ahh," the man said. His face fell, and he looked abashed, ashamed of himself. "Sorry. Should've guessed."
Rose realized he thought she'd lost her ghost. She didn't correct him, the situation was too difficult to explain in the moment. "Take the shield, and use it. Use it to center the shield, as an image for the shield. Feel the weight."
"You've used this shield a lot," he said.
Rose nodded. "As best you can, within the limits of your Light."
He hefted the shield, giving her a nod, and turned away, readying himself to take the next shift.
Rose didn't wait to see the results of her brief lecture. She moved on, pulling up those who had fallen, carrying bodies, blocking out sightlines with her buckler and armor, and taking potshots at the enemy. It was one big joke to them. There were even derogatory calls when she managed to land a hit, uproarious laughter and barely aimed shots back.
She had to stay focused, because even if their disinterest was beneficial, it infuriated her further. Their casual disregard for one another, their lack of respect, their callous condescension. They stepped over the bodies of their Devil allies, kicking them to the side.
Rose ripped her visor open, pushing her head against the cool metal of a wall. Her breath kept coming in rippling heaves, the air distorted with heat. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw from burns and emotion. Always more to focus on, always more to do.
They fought, they fell back, again and again, through the broken husks of the last safe city, buildings cracked open, belongings strewn across the ground and trampled. Craters from mortars, missiles, and destructive Light. They made their way through, keeping as many alive as they could. But even Risen weren't immune to fatigue.
Warlords wielding Arc Light burst through the ranks, opening up the sides with an explosion. Bodies went flying, muscles pulled taut, sinew ripping away from bone even as the corpses dissolved into sparks of azure electricity. Others wielding Arc knives charged in through the gap, swiping through the air, ducking and dodging through bullets when they weren't slipping through spaces in reality, closing distance in the blink of an eye.
Rose was almost happy for the conflict, the opportunity for a target to fight. She felt more like and more like a pyre, an uncontrolled blaze burning any who came near, and Risen nearby jerked back. One of the Warlords lunged for her, knife stabbing. She headbutted him, grabbing his arm and arresting his momentum. The knife stabbed into her sternum, slipping through armor. Her teeth ground against each other, muscles tensing. But his arm was already in her grip, burning, bone crunching under her tightening grip. He lost his concentration, letting go of the knife, attempting to pull away.
She backhanded him, striking him until he went limp, then tossed the body away.
Rebecca wasn't moving.
Rose stopped, focusing on the faraway wraith with Rebecca. It unfurled, cutting away at the bindings placed on it, squirming its way out from where it had been held, a makeshift sash around the dead girl's waist.
What could she do? The wraith glanced around, a momentary snapshot of the landscape while perched on Rebecca's body.
Uncomfortable prickles ran over Rose, goosebumps as she stopped breathing. The man with the mask was there, nudging Dean's body to the side with a foot. The Speaker was there, an arm up in a feeble attempt to shield himself. The ground was scorched, broken rubble and scars from battle everywhere. A ghost spun outward, and a mountain of a man resurrected, letting out a war cry as he charged, guns adding to his fury with each trigger pull. Both man and ghost were killed in a flurry of shots.
Devil drones were sweeping in, turrets focusing on the bodies. Warlords approached, waiting patiently by the masked man's side. He reached down, grasping the Speaker's arm, pulling him up and securing his hands. He motioned toward the surroundings, pointing toward a clearing.
An execution.
What could she do? The last possible potential moment to save someone's life. It would damn them, to survive here in enemy territory, to do whatever it took to survive and escape. In a way, it was the most spiteful, cruel action she could take. The wraith spun to life over Rebecca's body, imitating a ghost, expending what energy it had left in its mimicry. A single shot rang out, and Rose was cut off, unable to see if her attempt had succeeded, or done anything at all.
Perhaps Rebecca would waste this chance.
Someone was hitting her. Rose jerked, reaching for them as they flitted backward, avoiding her grasp by dissolving through it.
"Rose!" It was Missy, who was holding a Void blade, the body of another Warlord nearby. "We have to move."
Rose gave a rough nod of assent, following her. The world itself felt slippery, every action railing against failure as she continued to fall, further and further with each attempt to regain her footing. Two steps forward, one step back. She gasped for air, pulling off her helmet entirely and tossing it to the side. Her face was slick with sweat, her hands shaking as she followed Missy.
The next fights were lumbering struggles, carrying through on built up momentum, the knowledge they had no other choice but to continue. Rose dragged the bodies of those shot until their ghosts could rez them. She coughed ash and licks of flame, her own ghost repairing the damage, expending Light constantly to repair the self-inflicted damage.
"There's a broadcast on multiple channels," Saladin's voice came in through her ghost. "They're executing the Speaker. Shanks and servitors are also playing the footage."
The gunfire slowed, attention turning toward the broadcasted message. Even Rose could hear the calm voice, enhanced by a ghost and played across the city.
"Double time. We have to get out now," rasped Saladin. His words came quickly, faster than what Rose had come to expect from the granite statue of a man. "The moment he's dead, they'll turn on us. This will send them into a frenzy. Move. We have skiffs and ships ready to evacuate. We'll take everyone we can, but you have to move."
Missy tried to support Rose, then jerked back after a few seconds, frantically patting her smouldering furs and armor. "Rose?" Missy said, looking her up and down.
Half-awake. Like stepping through a dream, except twisting anger lacing through it all, so strong she knew it wasn't. Delirious. Delirious with pain and anger, anxiety swirling her ability to move down the drain, even as her own Light burned her from the inside out. "I'm right behind you," Rose said, and her voice sounded floaty even to her, wisps of smoke blowing away.
"How long has this been happening?" Missy asked, Void forming around her palm, grabbing Rose by the wrist.
"I-" Rose paused, even as she stumbled after Missy. "Dean's dead."
Missy let out a noise sounding like a tongue click. "Yes. Unfortunate."
"That's all you have?" Rose asked, her voice breaking. "With so many people?"
"You're not lucid," Missy said. "So I'll ignore that. Follow me. Listen to the people or the broadcast if you have to. Just one foot after another. Okay?"
"I got him killed. I wasn't fast enough to stop her," Rose said.
"Left foot, right foot," said Missy, almost singsong, annoyance seeping through.
Rose lapsed into silence, slipping in and out of reality. It was a cycle of unwelcome emotion, uncontrolled and all swirling into the selfsame rage cocktail medley, comprised of pain, loss, searching for a target to blame, and only finding herself.
"The Last City was a failure in the eyes of the Traveler," said the man in the mask. His voice reverberated through the streets, calm and convincing, even distorted through Rose's delirious irreal state. "It had many contrasting voices. It was a place of refuge, where the weak and lost came to roost. By banding together, they imagined themselves powerful. It was a beautiful idea, but too fragile to deal with what is coming. You were told by a Speaker this would be safe."
There was a pause, and Rose lost her footing, crashing to the ground. She panted, heaving, trying to focus. She spat out bile, and it smoked and sputtered before it touched the ground.
Missy pulled her up again. "Might be better if I just kill you and carry the body," she said.
Rose couldn't speak. It felt like her skin was on fire. Maybe it was.
"Keep moving," Missy said, after Rose took a step, then another. "We're almost there."
"But humanity requires something more," the man in the mask said. "The Traveler gifted us with unimaginable power. We will use it to forge the way to a new tomorrow, as the stewards of humanity, guardians of a new age. This Speaker gave you a false message, one weak in the face of any real threat. This City has been conquered, its walls proven to be fragile in the face of opposition."
"One where he's the new leader," Rose croaked, her lips dry and blistering. Colors were too sharp, cutting into her mind. Closing her eyes only left her head spinning.
"The Traveler gave me a vision of what could be," the man said, his calm voice deepening, solemn and slow. A prepared speech. "If only we were brave enough to take it. To make all of humanity stronger, and prepare for the oncoming storm. We must learn from past lessons. We must take the gifts we are offered and use them to take, in order to perpetuate our own existence.
"Strength is a founding principle in the culture of Devils because in the wake of destruction, there was no other choice. The Traveler has shown us this. In the framework of an altogether new and unforgiving world, those with power, win. We are just because we are the ones who have won. Those who choose peace, have chosen to lose. We are the Traveler's Chosen. We have been chosen and this is the path of history.
"When the Darkness attacked, humanity was obliterated. Helpless in the face of overwhelming death. But the Traveler fought back. It attacked, as we must in turn attack, because passivity is the lesson of a false Speaker, and one who is afraid of his own failings. Look at what passivity has accomplished in the City. It is ruined, destroyed from within because it could not come to terms with what was necessary for strength. Again and again, history has taught us this lesson. Those who are passive, those who do not have the strength to aggress, they will be subjugated.
"We will be different. We choose strength."
"The Traveler weeps," the Speaker said, words breathy and slurred, no doubt carefully formed through a broken jaw. "And you cannot hear, or do not listen."
There was a crack, metal on metal, followed by a thud and a sudden, swift exhalation. Rose could almost picture it. The man in the mask had struck the Speaker in the face, then again in the stomach, sending him toppling to the ground. "This is what your false Speaker is reduced to," the man's voice rang out, almost petulant with spite. "Despite his utter failure. Did the Traveler not warn you? Why did it not? Is it not your fault they are dead?"
There was only a wordless groan.
"I speak for the Traveler," said the man. "And my words are true. Surrender, and be shown mercy."
Rose was on one of the ships, struggling to keep the Solar Light inside her contained. The metal around her creaked and bent as it heated, and she kept as far as she could from anyone else. The ship itself had been one of the last, and, perhaps even more distressingly, there weren't as many refugees as there should have been. Yet another failure on a day of losses.
"I should have killed you then," Missy said, her helmet off, face looking pinched. "And sorted this out later. You're like a ticking time bomb now, backdraft waiting to happen as soon as someone opens the door."
Rose let out a hoarse, hopeless chuckle.
"You're vacillating between burning while making other people burn and trying to suppress every iota of said power," Missy said.
"I'll let you know," Rose said, sucking in air, "when I find a middle ground."
"Well, you're radiating about as much heat as a furnace," said Missy. "It's a wonder you aren't dead."
"Ghost," Rose said. "Helping."
The ship rocked, swaying back and forth. "We're being fired on," Missy said. "Or another of the ships is being fired upon."
Rose swayed as she stood. Of course. The enemy was mopping up, removing enemy combatants from play, and potential future threats. They had skiffs and ships ready to attack. Why wouldn't they?
"Rose," Missy said. "You need to sit down. You're going to break the ship yourself."
Rose laughed. It all felt like it was slipping, a buildup of bile, burning inside her. There was nothing she could control or exert control over, including herself, and it all fell apart when she tried. She stumbled, coming into contact with the side of the ship and it was soft, taking her impact, glowing with heat as she came away from it. It was infuriating to watch, and each bit of trickling seeping anger made it even worse. Others in the area flinched away from each outburst of heat.
"Give me a feed," she said to her ghost. "Or get me one. Please."
"Rose," Missy said. "Sit."
"Get the door open," Rose said.
"No," said Missy.
Rose let her shield fall from her arm. She rubbed her arm, and pieces of her armor sloughed off, pooling on the ground. There was a roar as wind whipped into the craft. The door was slowly opening behind her. "Missy," Rose said. "I'm sorry. Thank you, ghost."
"Jump when I tell you," her ghost said. "There are two ships currently."
"They're relentless," Rose said. "I don't have a choice."
"It's always like this with you," Missy said. "You have to be right."
Rose didn't respond, turning.
"Don't you die too," Missy said.
"Now," Rose's ghost said.
Rose leapt. The wind whistled around her, and pieces of metal cooled and flaked and heated around her as she fell. Her body twisted and turned as she attempted to regain her bearings, then gave up on it altogether.
She screamed. It was raw, and pitiful, and the wind tore the sound from her mouth. Impotent, railing against the impossible. The hate felt familiar, the spite and derision and a medley of rancor all bubbling up until all she wanted to do was lash out. Watching her allies be picked apart all because she didn't have the power to help, watching her own abilities turn against her because she didn't understand what was wrong and how to fix it. Incapable of choosing her own fate, just like so many other Risen who had died.
Helpless, falling, failing, and furious. Rage coalesced, crystalline in how self-destructive it was, how it hurt those around her, how even when it was useful, it was harmful. She couldn't begin to stop herself, and even worse, every time she tried, it worsened.
Rose burned. Her body made contact with the ship. She could feel her ghost repairing her, doing her best to stem the tides of molten rage long enough. Rose lashed out, her armor superheated plasma sloughing off, metal turned into vapor and dripping like rain, punching holes through the ship like buckshot through paper. She slammed her fists into the hull, less tearing through panels than having them give way under her assault.
She fell, unable to grab onto anything without it melting in her hands. Rose screamed again, detonating in a swirl of explosive Light, tearing through the ship, her feet never touching the ground for longer than a second. She turned, lunging through the side of the ship onto the next, lunging, tearing. Explosions in her wake, hurling her body forward, sending her struggling to retain her footing, crawling and falling. It was all molten metal, the screams of metal torn and twisting alongside those of the living and soon to be dying.
Then the ship crashed into the earth, and even her rage was plunged into darkness by the impact.
She kept running until her body gave out, then again and again, until her ghost couldn't rez her anymore, Light weak in her cradled hands. She kept going until her legs gave out one final time, and she was forced to curl up, in an alcove, shivering, her body too hot and too cold all at once. Her teeth chattered, and she searched the sky for skiffs until she lapsed into fitful sleep, her ghost cradled close to her chest.
When she finally opened her eyes, she was somewhere different.
