This wasn't supposed to happen.
Isley had thought they had a chance – four seasoned warriors, three of them single digits, one of them him –but he hadn't counted on an ambush by two yoma that could suppress their energy entirely. He hadn't counted on three of his team promptly awakening, skin splitting open and wings and legs surging out, ungainly, knotted limbs twisting into place.
They ignored him at first, snarling to themselves about their hunger, making a mockery of his comrades' faces and voices – and he, rather than take the obvious openings, rather than cut them down as was his duty, hesitated.
They had hated yoma, all of them. How could they be so willing to become them, so content in their sudden appetites? Didn't they know what they were doing?
And worse, he couldn't kill all of them. There were too many, and even if they collided and snapped at each other as much as they attacked him, he was coming out the worst of it, trailing blood and slowly, inevitably, being whittled down.
It was death by inches, and Isley hated it, just as he hated the yoma, just as he hated, pitied, envied his comrades for giving in so easily. And now he was alone, too weak to fight them all off at once and too slow to have a chance of getting away. There would be no support in this – the Organization was stretched thin already, too many warriors having lost control and awakened, only adding to the problem.
He was already at fifty percent, and the rush of it was almost too much to bear, tingling in his veins and pounding along to every swing of the sword, every desperate move he dodged. His blood sang to let go, give in, didn't it feel good to struggle for every breath, every heartbeat? It would feel even better to sink claws and fangs in, boil over with hatred and let it slide down into heart and marrow –
But he had held on for so long.
And yet his comrades had all surrendered, become the very monsters they had fought against, and he couldn't even blame them, not when the same urge echoed in him. Maybe now, as he sprang aside, cleaving through a branching leg, maybe now as something sharp buried itself in his shoulder.
Maybe now – and why not?
He was the first, after all. The warriors who had followed him here, the Awakened Beings they had become – both were his responsibility. He didn't have the strength to kill them all, not like this.
He had to be stronger, faster. Invulnerable, as honed as the sword in his hand, as sharp, just as lethal.
Yes, all of that.
It would be his final act of lucidity then. He gave in, and reached out.
There was silence as he stood, bracing himself. The ground was further away now, the others much smaller than before. He felt his wounds closing, covered by sinew and flesh and shining, unyielding skin. His wings stretched, each tip a blade made for the slaughter.
He was so hungry.
There had been something important he had been trying to remember, but it slipped away, buried under layers of visceral appetite.
No matter. He would remember it once he had eaten his fill.
The other Awakened Beings had drawn back, watching him, but he could still hear their savage murmurs, a ceaseless creel of how hungry they were. How repulsive. It occurred to him then that they were smaller than him, slower, weak and sluggish in their appetites. There was something not right with them being here, before him like this.
And they were in his way, and the craving for flesh far sweeter than theirs yawned open again, too insistent to bear for any longer.
It was only right for them to perish.
Later, he shook the corpses off of his arms and trampled the pieces. It took longer to remember his own face, but he slid back into a human shell at last, compressing the core of his power as best as he could.
But he left his hair white. For remembrance.