Stand
All humans were about, she thought, was getting back on their feet.
It was the turning point – the one crossroad they met, over and over again. Their lives were made or broken in that simple act each time. The shaking of bent legs, from the early years, was her best memory.
She counted their falls with a wicked enjoyment, looking forward to the inevitable attempt to rise. No act of revenge could compare to that moment. Her cameras recorded each muscle twitch in their knees, as on them hinged their fifty-fifty chance to rise.
What made this one so different, from the very start, was that she always did.
Where so many had faltered – she remembered where all their corpses had once lain, black spots in the corner of her cameras – this woman had not. No matter how many times she hesitated, the shadow of death at her side. Failure ran in the veins of the wall, painted them red, nourished the acid seas; and she wouldn't join in at any cost.
So many times she had stood up. From her chamber, powerless, she had watched it happen. Not that things were different now – once more, there was nothing else she could do.
She was left alone to watch her breathe, a broken body in a broken room. She waited. She knew her too well.
Even this time, she would get on her feet again.