prosaparte

Their eyes manage to meet through the downpour's noisy confusion. "Do you finally understand it?" asks the woman, raising her voice over the heavy shower. The gynoid doesn't even blink, undaunted by the drops drenching it. After a few seconds, it answers with perfectly modulated words.

They demand him, there are strangers at the gates. He goes out by the old and thick camouflaged door at the wall. You can never be too careful against the mutants. From the wall, watchful eyes see how their most veteran guardian gets closer to the worn out buses. Suited up in tough leather clothing, and with a long machete hung at his back, the man reaches at a slow pace the first vehicle. He knows the deal, too many years of atrocious experiences have sharpened his instict.

The headlamps' light stretches their sihouettes on the ground. The guns throw metallic glints toward their opponents, teasing them to end it once and for all. Just one of them doubts. The woman and the other guy, not at all.

There are people who don't believe me when I say that I always find something good in everyone. They tell me that since I'm cute then I'm treated nice, and more by guys obviously. That by being like this I can see anything positive even in the bastards who fleeced those bank's clients, or in those wretched politicians who only sign laws at their own convenience. You know, the things said in your typical bar-and-beers country-saving chat.

In this strange planet, the light of the hundred moons baths you with an uneven fortune. With luck, maybe only the clarity of the heavenly predator bodies will reach you and, on those nights, you'll always become a sharpened terror. That way you'll never be prey, but the devourer of the ill-fated ones you shred with your fury and your hunger.

Another flash, another capital ship down. A cloud of debris and a light –like a small nova– was all that was left from it, mute bystander of a battle as hard as unbelievable. The Great Navigator, fleet's commander in chief, watched, in the strategy holo, the accurate wake of destruction that was coming, relentlessly, towards his ship.

He needed a moment to adapt his eyes to that absolute whiteness. Then he could tell apart the floor from the ceiling, the left wall from the right. The front from his back. But it didn't matter where he looked at: everything was pale, immaculate and smooth. Not a single reference, no sign about what or which place it was.

As mount a lightning and its thunder, forceful neigh. A man appeared, alone, donning a black suit. One sober and without tie. The astonished agents managed to react, but in vain. Some right-handed gestures cleared his way of humans and projectiles.

He went into the hall. Brand-new, neat, and with the typical security of an office building. Ah! Not so usual. He felt the magical control over the agents, which could zombify them in minutes. Right when they saw him, they began to transform. He went through the access control and ran on the stairs, managing to go up several floors till running into some completely changed ones. The itching poison in his semi-auto's bullets left them howling on the ground. Pain was the fastest way to break the spell. “Thirteen floor... Things sure'll get exciting here.”