I am suffocating.
Frantic instincts scramble for air. But there is nothing to breathe in, and nothing to take the breath.
Every thought, more fleeting than the previous. This nothingness consumes all. Until nothing is left. Until I think no longer.
Dying.
I had awaited death before. But it was different then. There was more than this nothingness.
It was cold, but not because of death. The storm brought the winds. The winds brought color. The white of snow and ice. Pristine and undiscerning of what it buries.
There is no cold now. Yet in my memories, there is still color.
A flowing crimson. Of blood spilled from countless hunts. Lives meeting the same fate. All but one.
The unique verdant of each forest leaf. Standing among them, a lone figure. A stranger, the first to offer me her aid. And not the last.
Convulsing shades of darkness and scarlet. A world engulfed in smoke and fire. But amidst the destruction, a shape. A Zoroark. Her black and red coat, consistent among the flames. A life spared, if nothing else.
Every passing memory, every unforgotten choice. Too many other colors to distinguish. And too little time before they all return to the same nothingness. Fading, along with my existence.
Will I still remember?
But I did not die in the blizzard's white. Scales of orange and indigo. My saviors from the cold.
I must remember.
My choice has been made. My choice cannot be undone. Its weight is unfelt so far. Now I must live to feel it.
I do not know what I will become. But I will not forget who I was.
The pull of nothingness ebbs. A balance settles. Nothing moves further. An impasse between consciousness and mortality.
I will not lose this existence.
As long as I remember.
A view of the world is the first to return. But it is too clear, and too precise. My natural vision no longer sees, replaced by synthetic arrays of photoreceptors. This new sight feeds directly into my mind, and I control it as easily as thought. With a series of blinks, each further adjusting some visual spectrum, the world finally settles into a closer approximation of how I last remember it.
My head moves next as I glance around, the convincing illusion of sight following with the motion. The sunlight falls into the room, though at a different angle than before. I realize I am not standing on my own, but rather held upright by locked joints. It only takes another thought, and everything immediately releases. One leg reflexively extends outward, barely keeping a balance as the step meets the floor in a resounding impact.
I hear the consecutive echoes too many times even as they diminish, and the sound only disappears when I force the synthetic sense to ignore it. My next few paces are effortless, and they effortlessly again break the stillness and silence of the atmosphere. The instinct to breathe seems satisfied as well. Though I suspect it is not the air outside that sustains me, just as I know it is not my own strength that easily bears this weight for me.
You almost didn't make it.
The voice is unchanged in my mind. Its suddenness does not surprise me this time, although I halt my pace regardless. I had already pinpointed Mewtwo's presence behind me some time ago, watching me as I emerged from a certain oblivion. I had fought against that nothingness of mortality, and I must have lasted just long enough for this new mechanized existence to take over. Whatever was left of my natural body is now nothing more than a skeleton, a foundation for the weaponized technologies of ambition, power, and conquest.
Mewtwo slowly hovers around me, meticulously studying me without another word. Cued by the observation, an equivalent diagram detailing my new body projects itself onto my vision. It only lingers momentarily, for I dismiss as quickly as it had summoned itself. I do not need to see what I have become. I already know it all too much.
Look here.
My senses snap to the psychic vortex that swirls about Mewtwo's upraised hand. An intentionally telegraphed attack.
Nothing to worry about. This shouldn't even scratch you.
The beam travels towards me quicker than I anticipated, but my systems track it as easily as anything else. No threat, just as promised. The energy wraps around a translucent sphere that materializes around me at the last moment, harmlessly deflected by the passive defenses. As the barrier fades, I notice Mewtwo's tense figure floating further back, arms hesitantly lowering from a defensive posture.
I expected some counter response. Interesting
There is a distinct marking imposed onto my perspective, reflecting the aggression and location of my attacker, but I feel no other instinct to retaliate. Yet I have no doubt that striking back would take little more than my concordance for some mechanized reflex to take over.
Well don't keep me waiting then.
I barely process the invitation to attack, and the rest follows in a measured procedure. Artificial grids sweep outward, analyzing each physical contour of the world as they all converge on a single target. I somehow track every individual component that shifts in response, from the initial outward deployment of the hardpoints to the final adjustments of twin cannons acquiring the same mark.
Then, nothing more. A sudden cessation of mechanical motion, as stagnant as the locked crosshairs imposed on my vision.
It is my own hesitation, I realize long after the onset of the standstill. This intangible connection bridges consciousness and circuitry, translating will into action. In the choice that brought me this new existence, I have already placed all my trust in the assurance that I alone am in control. I gather my thoughts in anticipation. This power was never meant to be contained. All that is left is to witness it unleashed.
I let it happen. Every detail embeds in my awareness. The prefire sequence lasts barely a fraction of a moment, far too rapid to be discerned by any other observer. Two simultaneous actions for each step, mirrored across two linked mechanisms. The clicks of physical switches, readying for the trigger signal. The diversion of allocated resources, priming for a surge in expenditure.
A blinding and deafening sensation, as my senses reactively filter out the blast. But I still can feel the foremost components of the right-side cannon reciprocate rearward, dampening the recoil impulse. And I can still envision the energy signature of the single shot, tracing its distinct frequency as it continues forward in its unarcing trajectory.
It is not much longer before my sight readjusts, finally revealing a crimson bolt of monolithic flame in its unyielding flight to the target. But just mere moments before contact the projectile forcibly halts, convulsing in the sudden grasp of psychic forces. Even then it seemingly threatens to escape its containment. The conflicting energies waver there only briefly before one redirects the other upwards, narrowly clearing a gap between missing ceiling plates.
It does not make it much further than that. The visible fragments of the sky first illuminate with the flash of detonation, and after a modest delay the sweeping forces of its shockwave finally return to impact against everything below.
Impressive.
I try not to acknowledge the routine system scan that follows by procedure, but its results catch my attention. Temperature readings had only marginally increased, with exposed vents already circulating away the remaining residual heat. The firing cycle had already reset, ready for another shot. Despite its uncompromising precision, this weaponry was not designed to sling mere individual blasts, but rather consecutive volleys of consistent destruction.
I break the lock. Everything resets some dormancy. I do not know if it could ever be considered dormant, knowing the hair trigger of thought that will always await the command to redeploy.
And I'm sure you know you're not limited to that.
Something tells me to look down. Raising my arms, I can almost remember the old shape of my claws beneath the layered components that now enclose them. But they are not the only thing that the external platings conceal. The hunter cannot be separated from the blade. The blades I once carried will never see use again, for they must have already been replaced.
I let one arm fall, and shift my focus onto the other. Its exterior is as bulky and robust as everything else, yet unimposing with no sign of anything that could be mistaken for a claw. What must be shared principle between all this weaponry. Smaller individual panels shift aside, revealing a gap along the entire length of my outer forearm. But it is not machinery that emerges this time. Unmistakable fluctuations of heat beneath the deepest end, and a flickering blade of the same crimson energies begins to manifest lengthwise along the division.
The partially-incorporeal material finalizes into three subtle angles, like a crescent without its curvature. Its furthest-out section noticeably extends past the end of my arm, but everything else maintains a relatively low profile against the armor. The entire structure seems to readily react to my will, attenuating and strengthening accordingly. A tentative swing through the air, aimed at nothing in particular. The blade weightlessly shares the motion with rest of limb as if it had always been attached there, extruding outward just enough to ensure reliable contact without affecting close-quarters mobility.
The edge dissipates. Everything shifts with the same thought, sealing the now-empty rift back into hiding. Familiar, as if had been executed exactly as such countless times past. No different than anything else.
Done with that already?
I detect the shared motion of Mewtwo's hand and the physical object correspondingly manipulated from the distance. A sizable segment of a pipe, long detached and deteriorating with the passage of time, only to be just another target. I do not need to read thoughts to know that it is not my own curiosity that motivates this. I am already assured by the passing result of the automatic system verifications, a mundane fragment of data among many others. The demonstration is only a redundant proof that this power is enough to fulfill the task presented to me.
The blade never materializes, and metal clatters to the floor. Both our concentrations broken by the same rumbling. The epicenter of the noise rapidly closes in, increasing with intensity until even the ground deep below the man-made foundation shakes with recognizable energy.
Impossible… After so long an absence…
The sentence trails off uncharacteristically, its hesitation conveying unmistakable emotion. Fear. And along with fear, the universal instinct to flee. I turn to visually confirm, despite the immediate certainty of my other sensors. Mewtwo is gone. Some tangible psychic traces are only evidence of any presence there at all, and even they soon fade into the same nothingness.
I am not alone in my consciousness just yet. More words waver indistinctly, struggling to manifest.
this power was stolen
A diluted message delivered from the safety of distance. The connection strains with interference, barely managing to continue.
its reclaimer has returned for it
A final warning.
It is not just the earth that trembles next. I briefly distinguish the winged outline of a towering figure, soaring over in a streak of white and familiar crimson.
It is the same crimson that illuminates the skies next, and the same crimson engulfing the rest of the world as it explodes.
Author's Note: I hope I didn't make things too obvious at the end, but ideally it would be a surprise nonetheless. I didn't spend the time I thought I would to get this chapter out quickly, but I do essentially have the rest of the story outlined out from here. It's the final stretch, but I'm also hoping to go back to some previous chapters and change their direction a bit; a lot sure changes over five years.