Still A Fighter
...
On inkblack waters, upper body hanging by her core like a puppet with cut strings, fuelbood did Moore bleed. In the corners of her eye, off sailed a chunk Strike Commander Jones-flesh, and down drowned Grosse.
Infront of her, breaking the surface, a cell of Hunter-Drowned. Humanoids, their gossamer hair matched the waters below, through trench-dark armor peeked skin as luminous white as the moon, revenant blue eyes shimmered, backlit by fuelblood flames. Against her, by the squelches of shedding armaments, they grew blades.
Shrapnel from the first step of the Hunter-Drowned’s highland charge, the shock barrage, was being pushed out by her regenerative muscle fibers. Her HUD’s mid range targeting switched to a proximity ring. Agitation of it meant the enemy, and every microdegree was spiked. With a brief blurring of her eyes as the gesture-trigger, her shoulder mounted MG spat a beam of tungsten. Every bullet of the 40 round burst was spaced centimeters from each other in a tight arc.
In effect, a mach 4 blade.
She split a Drowned Destroyer from crown to tits, and it softened a degree of her proximity ring. Another fell, when her two legs parted from targeting and tungsten.
Between every burst, Moore’s eyes darted every which way, center and every corner, confirming targets and her route.
Every heartbeat a burst, every burst softened a millimeter, every second an hour, and even then, she must respect the 20 meter rule. Her route confirmed as a blade kissed and parted her cheeks, she flung herself across the waters.
Skipping against a wave, shredding her shoulder to the bone and purging her MG, the shrapnel shot free from her back and control flowed into her upper body.
Righting herself, skating back to the fuellblood pyre of her former clique, Jones-meat was her goal. Jones’ HE 4incher turrets, one of which Moore hydroplaned past and grabbed by the barrel, socket and shoulder coming with, would serve well as a mace.
Temporary nervelattice restored her shredded shoulder, and with a swing she vaporized a Drowned. On the backswing, another’s torso was eviscerated as it spiraled into the lit fuelblood.
She feinted an overhead smash to make one flinch, then lanced the barrel through its maw.
She waited for this day, her mind flooded with shitass-garbage memes, and she couldn’t help but crack a stupid fucking smile at “Master forgive me,” she drew her vibroblade. She watched too much anime and now she is the anime.
As if slicing air the Drowned split by her hand.
Their highland charge stopped by a one woman pike formation, Moore was alone.
Awash in girlblood, stims exhausted, she heaved and choked, unable to purge the void inside her.
The command to retreat fired up from her subconscious, sucking her back, and in a blink the waters were clear. Ahead, the carrier that Moore boarded.
And then Moore was alone.