A pop resounded through the air, followed by a scream. Hope felt a mix of satisfaction and self-loathing as he shoved the boy whose shoulder he had dislocated aside so his elbow could make contact with another boy's nose.
"Fucking l'Cie. You gona' kill us? After all, what's a few more deaths after a massacre of thousands?" the boy slurred as blood gushed from his nostrils. Hope wondered whom he had lost in the fall of Cocoon, and a wave of sympathy surged forth, washing away his adrenaline. He was about to leave the boys with their injuries, maybe even pop the shoulder back into place, when he felt the air behind him move.
Never turn your backs on an enemy. Lightning's voice chided him. Automatically Hope reached behind him and swung the unsuspecting attacker over his head and onto the ground.
If you want to survive, you forget about sympathy. Act on instinct. Hope's hand fell to the hilt of his gunblade, a present from Light the day he had moved out of the refugee camp. Custom made for his small stature, the blade felt perfectly balanced as it transformed. He glanced down at his opponent, who had rolled back onto his feet. A masked face stared back at him, gun at the ready. Hope lunged at him, feigning left and getting under the Psicom solder's guard, he aimed the gunblade at the weak point where the helmet met the neck guard. It was easy, too easy.
Hope! A chorus of voices screamed, echoing in his skull. Suddenly he was staring into frightened eyes set in a face that still held baby fat. There was no Psicom solder, because there was no more Psicom, and the boy in front of him was just another playground bully. Hope stepped back and retracted the gunblade, shoving it into its case. The other boy slid to the ground, leaving a smear of red on the bricks.
"I'm sorry," Hope said to the whimpering puddle of human in front of him. "We all lost family in the fall, but I'm still sorry." Then he turned and ran.
