Disclaimer: I do not own Thomas, Minho, the setting or anything except the idea to look from the lightning's P.O.V.
THE BOLT
(A scorch trials alternate P.O.V.)
I come into consciousness, and immediately spot my target. I begin charging, two percent. I learn the targets designation, four percent. They call him Minho, six percent. I think about what it must be like to have a designation, eight percent. Never mind, I am over that thought, ten percent. I notice my target is running, twelve percent. To run, what an odd sensation it must be, fourteen percent. I will go much faster than my target, of course, sixteen percent. I discover my targets destination, an old structure, eighteen percent. I notice someone close behind the target, twenty percent. The cloud tells me his designation, twenty-two percent. They call him Thomas, twenty-four percent. His name is after for someone who used my power on a smaller scale, twenty-six percent. Many others of my kind have hit their target and many more are charging, twenty-eight percent. My target and those around him are in panic, thirty percent. I notice many flaming husks, thirty-two percent. They are the victims of my kind, thirty-four percent. I feel the surge from every one of my kind launching, thirty-six percent. I cannot wait for my turn, thirty-eight percent. I see a strike near my target, forty percent. However, he is still alive, forty-two percent. There is nothing I can do if my target dies, forty-four percent. I will be without purpose, forty-six percent. I will strike a corpse, forty-eight percent. The landscape avoided scorching by fire, because it is all sand, fifty percent. I can feel it; the cloud has charged me halfway now, fifty-two percent. The cloud is not putting out the flaming victims, fifty-four percent. They will suffer more thoroughly, fifty-six percent. I want to attack now, fifty-eight percent. I cannot attack because I need to charge, sixty percent. I am beginning to feel like I might explode before I launch, sixty-two percent. The combination of power and excitement is overwhelming, sixty-four percent. There are craters left by my kind, sixty-six percent. My target does not stop to weep for his kind, sixty-eight percent. He is strong of spirit and will, seventy percent. He would make a great one of us, seventy-two percent. I am beginning to wonder if I will ever launch, seventy-four percent. I am getting very close now; time seems to slow, seventy-six percent. I feel kike the most powerful of my kind ever, seventy-eight percent. …I…, eighty percent. …feel…, eighty-two percent. …so…, eighty-four percent. …powerful…, eighty-six percent. Its almost time, eighty-eight percent. I begin to count down, ninety percent. five, ninety-two percent. four, ninety-four percent. three, ninety-six percent. I begin to wonder how my target will feel about being killed, ninety-eight percent. It is too late to think about that now, one-hundred percent. I begin to race toward the ground. In less than a second, I hit my target. I begin to dissipate being absorbed by the earth. Before I am gone, I see my target on fire. He puts himself out. He survives. I have failed, yet I am…happy.