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Tension

Tension. When you stand at the precipice of safety and danger, debating, begging for the ropes that pull you either way to slack in one direction. Only I felt and heard this conflict, only I knew how easy it would be to choose one or the other, the ease of betrayal or the comfort of obedience; each making their arguments like lawyers before a judge.

In the universe the only constant is fear, the feeling of being unsafe. Power is paranoia; my clenched fist knows that’s truth.

****

Tabatha stood motionless before the holo-screen, which served as doorways to the vastness of space. Her destination was still some hours away but some tick in her brain, her training, told her she should make her decision now. And she did; her face was drained of emotion, the green of her eyes lost their luster, and her features grew taut and starved as if from exposure and starvation. She was still beautiful, but the beauty repelled more than drew. To anyone observing her now, she looked like a silent statue that read “to be left alone” in bold print, and knowing this Tabatha spirit drew dimer.

Withdrawn from her person was a data sheet of the mission ahead. Tabatha often reviewed these things over and over once they have been assigned, her current check and the last one before deployment was a running list of her current situation; recon delivered by the tireless efforts of the Mimics deployed months and sometimes years in advance. She scrolled down for the black list and found a disturbing amount of names: government mostly, ranging from low to mid-level players of interest that the Mimic’s have taken care of themselves. It was unsettling, she decided with a shiver. The nature of so many assassinations were clear, the thought of her arrival preceding the warping in of Earth Prime warships and the Primers that came with them, made the old fears she buried moments before rise up like bile. Acrid taste went hand in hand with the panic rising inside of her. She forced the feelings down, both in body and mind and let her mind hope for other conclusions despite the bad taste that lingered.

And then another thought came to her…was she the only FIST being deployed? The thought made her anxious despite her resolve to push away the fear, the last thing she wanted was some tense standoff between another FIST agent. In those encounters only a split second is allowed to identify yourself before the paranoia of the job moves the trigger faster than either could take back.

Swiftly she closed the data sheet and her concerns shut with the end of holo-light. Mechanically, more possessed than with genuine purpose, she walked down the merchant ship corridors noting the holo-screens that substituted for genuine glass windows found in less practical ships designed for mere tourism than the rigors of interstellar travel and commerce. Though the boundary between luxury and purpose ended there for the PAN-PAC EXPRESS, built for a business oriented clientele, it was a luxury ship of massive bulk facilitating spacious rooms and exotic cargo. It was the meeting place of industry captains both of the legal and illegal type with genuine goods to delivery or luxury to export. And with the amount of wealth inside this merchant ship, hopefully enough clot to bypass border security. It was also under the express jurisdiction of the Earth Prime Unifying Government, and at any given time its civilian passengers could find themselves bumping elbows with various off duty military personal, some of whom were more dangerous than others.

Tabatha was off duty, for as long as she was outside of Ellen Minor solar system.  Now that she wasn’t…well she couldn’t think about that too much. In fact not thinking was her best strategy, as she felt her mental powers flare up as the subconscious triggers in her mind started to click in pace. This sensation was always a moment of terror for Tabatha, knowing the nature of her powers and what the constant buzzing must mean. She could in fact, for a moment of unguarded silence, hear herself think and in those precious moments before her mind drowned out the noise for more pressing concerns, she wondered post-humorously what it would be like to reach into her own head and silence the constant chimes of neurons receiving and firing…if she could, on purpose, commit suicide with her own power. She shuddered at the thought, the possibility, at the mere fact that her own mind produced such a morbid idea. Self-preservation kicked in and her enhanced hearing faded, taking the morbid curiosity with it and set her on a path of continual motion. Toward her room, she understood as she moved with mechanical purpose toward her destination. Toward the last island of safety before—

“Hey babes!”

It was Henry. Though the old Tabatha of five minutes ago would have long detected and responded to his presence, a “Henry!”  Exclaimed with all the mirth of a burgeoning couple who spent months together… the new Tabatha merely acknowledged his presence with a glass eyed stare that looked not at him but through him, a vision that didn’t stop until she saw the locked container inside her private suit. With practice and affection Henry wrapped his arms around her slender waist, bringing her body close to his in one practiced swoop that was effortless and nibble. With excitement in his eyes he spoke rapidly and with a certain jolly expected of a less serious man. However true to training his noise and warmth but of footnotes of irrelevant white noise, even without the full application of her power she barely knew he was there, only seeing his mouth moving and feeling his hands pressing and swirling about her back going higher or lower as he spoke in rapid succession. Even her own facial features were beyond her consideration as Henry occasional concerns looks, periods that punctuated his excitement, were assuaged by her by her reflective control of her facial muscles, allowing her to appear listening when not really there. By her estimation Henry would have chatted her up for days, discussing plans and past pleasures and present intention with undiluted gusto. Only with a sudden snap back to the reality, by Tabatha herself, would this conversation close and that’s what she did as her eyes snapped back from her imagined x-ray vision to the reality of Henry’s brown eyes.

“I have to go.” She spoke with flatness Henry never knew in the 3 months of space travel together.

“I know you do, that’s why I’m saying-“

“The package will be delivered in the next 16 hours.”

And with that she walked out of his grasp like sand through an open palm, his eyes and expression fixated on where she just stood, his mind uncomprehending, conflicting and ultimately restricting to the inner silence that will glue him to that same spot for the next 30 minutes. Reflecting she could have simple let her old self, the safety induced dream of a woman who wanted Henry for warmth and simple pleasures like a meaningless conversations and drinks not consumed alone, break it off with Henry. To explain to him that their time together was nice but unfairly short and the real reason she is here was due. Henry would have understood, Tabatha reasoned, he would have protested and declared his love, but understanding and the heart-break that followed would have donned on him naturally.

“If only he saw me five minutes earlier…” Tabatha reasoned but she knew there was no case in that. She wasn’t safe and thus she wasn’t the woman Henry fell in love with. Even her features have changed, all so subtly, to reflect the loss of careless youth and imagination. She could have never given him the closure he’d wanted, or needed, but worsen her own temptation?

Nights with Henry were blissful. He was both a gentle soul and a ravaging wolf, capable of losing himself and her into passions only long periods of enclosed spaces could produce. To Tabatha he was the complete pie of normalcy that she devoured eagerly and without pause. Only the data sheet reminded her of her looming mission in the days since Henry gamed for her attention, and even that ominous report of some distant hell on the other side of the Milky Way wouldn’t sour her enjoyment of this man. But to Henry… it is not right to blame him for his feelings. To love a telepathy of latent ability is to court vibrations so subtly your mind barely knows it’s been moved. A gentle push in the right direction, pleasure increased to a level only replicated by practice and knowledge of your partner’s body. But in Tabatha, those vibrations are large currents of visible emotions, pushing and pulling in a constant ebb and flow of pleasure and senses never understood but felt all the same. For Tabatha it was merely an assumption that to climax was to experience an ecstasy found in few legal drugs. But to Henry such bliss was the start of a connection that couldn’t be replicated by any other woman in the galaxy. His love for Tabatha and the feelings, the new dimension, conjured by her touch and intimacy, will undoubtfully ruin any chance of him being satisfied by anyone else.

“He knew what I was. It’s not my fault I have to go.” And with those thought, Tabatha’s last regard for Henry was felt.

***

Why she felt her room was safer than the entirety of the PAN PAC EXPRESS, she had no rational idea. Her luxury airliner was usually fitted with a Class 2 Steel Frame, and a civilian crew of gunners that manned the smallest pair of pee-shooters a space ferrying vessel can have before being classified as a potential warship and being restricted from getting inside Ellen Minors solar system. Out here the only thing that could bother the EXPRESS was the pirates that often circled the solar system of systems like these. Whether they’ll see that type of action didn’t get Tabatha sweating, for one the PAN was had a class 2 hull, sturdy enough for any pirate raid short of using real military hardware, which was unlikely but if it did happen the Express would have a fighting chance. Second the government of Earth Prime tends to cover its basis. Pirates are often warned beforehand that some ships have cargo they don’t want or threaten outright, which works just as well for the less organized broods.

Though how Earth Prime negotiated today’s smooth traveling she’ll never know or care; to her safety was inside that special container, four feet wide, seven feet tall, and all bad intentions. Henry knowing who she was never bothered to ask what was inside the locked container made of metals that could survive this ship exploding in the dead of space or survive re-entry. The same type of metalwork used for Prime drop pods. Not entirely indestructible but close enough. For a moment she touched the cool metal that seemed to absorb and reflect heat at the same time. Sliding one finger down the crevice between sliding doors, and noting her quickening heartbeat as she came closer and closer to the numerical lock. In a second, something mechanical inside of her took over and with blank expression she keyed in her combination in rapid succession. Which a click and a slink, the doors slid open and clicked outward, allowing cool refrigerated air to sleep into the room lazily, coiling around Tabatha’s feet and chilling her breath. She smiled. A weary wiry smile but a smile nevertheless. Inside the container were the tools of her trade; four black disks, a utility belt, and a rifle that was taller than she was. With a nod of approval she made three steps away from the container and to her bed. There she stripped, her clothes neatly piled on her bed as she ignored the rooms chill on her bare skin. Totally naked she went before the container again, picking at the four disks and placing them on her body; one for each shoulder, one on her chest just below collarbone, and finally one for the small of her back. With a thought the black disks unraveled in a typhoon of black thread, in mere moments Tabatha’s body was covered in the nano-fibers of her cat suit. She steadied her breath and prepared herself for the body horror that’ll come next. And on the third shallow repetition she forced her eyes not to blink as her contact lenses bubbled into place over her iris. The process burned and confused her eyes; a white blindness overtook her senses as the nerves in her eyes relayed the wrongness of liquid boiling at the surface. For Tabatha it was two seconds of mild discomfort, practice had driven away any real sense of fear, where the temporary loss of a single sense would have given rise to hysteria is less seasoned minds.

Luckily that was only the least of her changes. The psy-engines inside of a frontal lobe churned widely as the incisions made behind her ear widened without drawing blood. Machinery pressed outward against exposed gap, unfolding and stretching along the back of her ear, settling and piercing her skin to establish a foothold that no amount of jostling could disgorge. Short of removing her skull, the dual-core pys-processors will remain steadfast against her skin jutting out slightly into the back of her head like flatten antenna associate with vintage 20th century radios. To Tabatha this too was merely a disquieting sensation whose effects were long numbed with practice. That changed with a click.

Somewhere along the ships many corridors, efficiency-lights will burst spilling their milky contents into the stainless steel below. Somewhere along the ships many back up engines, a third and force generator will come to life and whine a death rattle as the sudden surge of electricity meets the pull back of the grid. Somewhere along the ship, someone who is psy-sensitive will scream as an aneurysm comes suddenly against their unguarded and defenseless mind. Hallucinations will haunt those directly touching any electronics; some will claim to see visions of angels others will see less nice things… The ship itself will shudder like as if given a cold shower, and many will race to the gunner decks in anticipation of an attack that will never come.

And at the epicenter will stand Tabatha, cloaked in power! Surging from her being like a volcano. Only the special shielding encasing her reserved room prevented the totality of her strength from bearing down on the PAN PAC EXPRESS, the very fact of her existence threatening to do what only dreadnought class warships can do with passing easy.  It was the months of pent of power and the enormity of her talent that caused the storm.

“I’m ready,” Tabatha grimaced, her mind slowly drawing in control over her higher processes. With strength, talent, and focus will she survive the coming storm. This she knew. Tabatha walked toward her chair, pulling it to the center of the room. She turned to give her special cabinet, holding her gun and other supplies in hidden recesses lamp shaded by shadows, another look. She reached for her knife, a long blunt instrument of clear purpose, full of weight and size lacking in delicate features or ominous jags along the edge. Only the handle and grip was given a finesse, as a side arm only one hand or her mouth if necessarily needed extra accommodations. Tabatha placed it on the chair, grabbing a utility belt to strap to her hips before snapping the knife into place along her side. Satisfied with the familiar weight to her right side, she reached for her signature weapon, the P105-2nd Generation HellDROP Rifle. Two generations behind and still unwilling to trade up, this weapon has been her friend, lover, and protective mother for the better part of 11 years.

“I need sleep.” And Tabatha did, the FIST way; sitting slightly crouched over the bulk of her weapon, cradling her HD rifle against her lap with the trigger being fingered idly, her mind splitting into two halves, one alert to stimuli and danger constantly searching probing for hostility, while the other force the physical sleep the body needed. She was wide-eyed and rocking slightly in a rhythm really slow drawn out breathing. Anything to enter her room would have been shot unceremoniously and the crew sensed the sudden shift in the atmosphere like fog only the mind can perceive. No one will bother her, or wish to bother her; the required security clearance just to sweep the floor ensured that. Being this close to Ellen Prime, the importance of delivering the cargo pressed heavy on their minds. Tabatha will sleep undisturbed, even peacefully… as far as a FIST could, for about 16 hours.

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Pink Bomber

I still remember the argument me and Sammy had before I left for this job. I asked him a simple question, I expected a heartwarming response, and instead he got snide.

“What keeps you human?” I asked earnestly we were only 10 feet apart but I consciously took a step forward so when I leaned into him it would be more intimate and natural. Before he says anything profound he kisses me on the forehead as if I was the daughter he always wanted but never had. He was always big and tall and old spice musty, comfortable and what I needed considering what I was about to do, so I looked forward to him showing a moment of tenderness. But his impassive eyes told a different story. I backed away from him; I wasn’t his anything right now. The one thing about Sammy that irritates me this much is that he doesn’t mind telling the truth. He just considers the truth too adult for me to hear. As if I was really just a child to him. So when his lips starting moving I already started to get anger.

“Nothing.” He says as dryly as possible. No room for argument he was saying without saying.

Stunned but not deterred, I started to speak but Sammy was already speaking over me before I could get a coherent sentence in.

“Sure we may look the same, but just watching the nature channel will tell you that having your nose and eyes in the same place don’t mean you belong to the same species. Do you know that we can’t even give blood transfusions to regular humans? One rumor slash speculation is that our blood is radioactive and will cause cancer in significant amounts. Fact is normal people can’t turn cars into soda cans or have tap dancing lessons in people’s heads. ”

“But we have the same feelings as they do!” I protest with significant use of flailing arms to show how annoyed I am at his matter of fact tone.

“Yeah so do dogs, cats, mice, etc, etc.” I started to say something in exasperated protest, but he raised his hand to cut me off, let me finish he was communicating while sighing to apologize for the sarcasm in his tone earlier. He didn’t mean to be like that it just came out that way.

“I know you want to say something about love. Dogs love too Tabatha, by the standard definition of love espoused and acknowledged by most people, a dogs devotion is just the same as love. “

I fumed, even now remembering it I’m fuming! No argument with Sammy Tabatha, he just beats you over the head with his “facts” until your blue in the face and ready to clock him. He even makes things worse by giving me total access to his brain while he picks me apart. He is literally just churning the logic wheel, no emotion in it at all, maybe a vague sense of regret like I’m being told there is no Santa Clause. Well I wasn’t going to be out think by you Sammy.

“So we’re better than normal people?” I say in an, “I can play your game too!” kind of tone.  Now I just wanted him to admit I was right.

“Physically superior sure… but so was the dinosaurs. If you’re simply valuing the people around you based on their ability to stand up to you than you’ve missed the point of the past thousand or so years of civilianization.” He paused to examine my souring face and genuine concerned hanged in his expression.

“Look Tabatha” Sammy continues, “You’re never going to read about dinosaur art or literature because the dinos never made any. We’re the same, not saying that we will disappear or anything like that, just saying that I honestly don’t mind driving in cars that move slower than I do or watching bad movies, or doing all the little vain things that people do because if it was up to me…none of this would exist. When in Rome do as the roman’s and we say that because it doesn’t matter if you’re not a roman. Hell that phrase was made specifically for us! We live in this world as ourselves, nothing more. “

I sigh, no arguing with Sammy, never did have an argument with him. I only get mad at him and he never responds to my anger. Which is usually the best response.

Anyway I think of him because the job I’m on was previously his. Should have been his but he ran into a BPP agent a month ago. It was an ambush of sorts; they tracked him down by his bad habits, cigars and strip joints. Sammy blames it on making too much noise; he picks out telekinetic like himself to fight and leaves a big mess behind. But even if you leave the scene of the crime in a timely fashion, BPP has ways to follow the bread crumbs if you leave enough of them. On that note he stopped me from carrying an automatic, just wanted an Uzi really, and a couple of grenades because he felt the noise level will put me on their radar. Out of respect I only took 1 grenade. I feel nervous about fighting someone who can juggle minivans with only two knives, four glock 21’s with my signature pink handle. The hello kitty guns jokes Sammy. I wasn’t even sure I carried enough ammunition; practice fights with Sammy can easily burn through 30 rounds. But I rather not carry more than I have to. I wasn’t a small army. Ok technically I was, but that was due to other factors.

Ok focus on earning your keep Tabatha. This is for Sammy; that fight with that BPP agent was a fight he of course won but barely. He was too badly hurt and needed too much time to recover. An inconvenience for the boss and an opportunity to get even for anyone Sammy belittled. Three people in the first week of his recover felt brave enough to play “practical jokes” on Sammy. I killed two, Sammy killed one, cleaning up the blood for weeks type of kill. Nursing Sammy back to health was myself appointed job till the boss requested that I take on his responsibilities.  I refused of course, but Sammy convinced me to oblige. “We may be the only psychics officially on the payroll, but he has at least three running a protection detail just for him and the occasional internal affairs man.” I took Sammy’s word for it.

The boredom ended with the appearance of a crisp business suit heading down the parking garage. The parking garage was a three level facility, the last level being underground. The suit was my target, I had no doubt about that, he fit the profile, 6’2 caucasian male, black hair and brown eyes. Smooth features and wore a natural tan. Handsome by contemporary standards; looks like he held a good job, nice car, big house.  He had a casual appearance despite the double breasted suit, ivory black shoes, white shirt with sandy grey tie.  A guy like him had one of two jobs, security or management. I didn’t read that deep into the profile, all I wanted was a picture, a time and a place. I didn’t even know his name, which makes this even more awkward because it sounds like a one night stand. Not my thing and the pretty boy Harvard look ain’t my type, though he does look like quite the athlete. Maybe there is some mileage to him…

Oh hell I got a good shot from here maybe I can take him out now? Not likely, he’ll just catch the bullet…

Oh well time to move. Pretending that the parking garage is a jungle makes the sneaking go easier, two hundred paces away and maintaining that distance all-important. Now if the cars are the trees what would the support pillars be? Oak trees….. God he is moving awfully slow, is he by his car yet?  Ok why is he stopping isn’t his car parked a much further down? Maybe he parked in a different space this time? Wait that doesn’t make sense, there’s assigned parking isn’t there?

I almost out of habit call Sammy’s name out loud when I notice my target talking to himself, like I am but out loud. Crazy much? I couldn’t hear him of course considering the distance and the fact that he seemed to be whispering. Most not be important. Then he turns to face me and with a great jerk of his right arm rips the door of a nearby Lexus Sedan out of its hinges and hurling towards me.

Now a normal person at this time would be too deep in panic to dodge the door, or too concerned with “how he found me?” to react in time. I’m not sure this is unique to telepaths but I personally find anything moving slower than the speed of light moving in slow motion. A feature that only comes to play when I’m in immediate danger, like now, the only bad part is that you’re looking at your death happen in slow motion because normally your body is usually unable to keep up with the speed of whatever is coming at you even though you see it move as slow as snail. However I was special; like a mouse I dashed from behind my cover, a lesson I learned from Sammy who strongly discouraged hiding behind anything once a telekinetic knows your there. I was right the instant my feet cleared the headlights the Volkswagen I was using as cover was nearly split in half.

I regained my balance with ease, hours of cardio, and dash into the swirl of violent intentions that is Mr. Property Damage. Adrenaline on full pump, glocks in both hands, I fire haphazardly at Mr. Property Damage, managing center of mass shots each click. He plants his feat, strains his eyes (maybe he does see the bullets moving in slow mo as well?), and plucks the rounds out of air.  I stop firing for a second, and leap for cover behind a Masada, the glass shatters above as the car nearly tips over in the Mr. Property Damages rage.

I enter his mind at this juncture; my persona, the representative of my mind in his body, an avatar if you will, crosses the distance between us in instant. Entering Mr. Property Damage mind, or anyone’s for that matter, is similar to walking into someone’s front lawn, unremarkably easy. Unnoticeable until you look ahead and see the house. When someone tells you your mind is filled with empty space they are right. Your mind is only a piece of property, the “house” is where all the good stuff is housed and is only the byproduct of our subconscious attempting to compartmentalize an otherwise formless system. The trick is breaking into the house, which in most cases wasn’t a house per say but merely door representing the boundary between the formlessness of the peripheral corners of your mind and the haphazard attempt at organization most people call their brain. And I’m not kidding, most people’s minds are merely front doors that aren’t even locked and most of the time halfway open.

Mr. Property Damages mind however was simple a dome, smooth on all sides and two stories tall. I wanted to be taken aback by this; I usually see steel doors or vaults when it comes to the mind of a telekinetic. This was overly simple. It reminded me of a walnut and at this I smiled.

Than the smile faded, while I was busy being confused, Mr. Property Damage flipped the Masada over. Using more luck than skill, I laid flat and slid underneath the rolling car. Thanking father timing, rolled forward only to be picked up and slammed up against the now turned over vehicle that was just sent sailing over me.  The pain shoots up and down my lower back in a conga line of misery; I raged and slammed my fist against the dome protecting Mr. Property Damage’s mind. He cringed at the sudden loss of focus and his psy hold dropped.  Free I charged at him, the need for a less direct approach never occurring to me, I drew two new pistols and let muscle memory empty rounds. As if catching an air current, he floats back into the air while erecting a multi layered psy wall that stops the bullets cold. No problem, I use my persona’s fist as sledge hammer and swing madly at his mind’s defenses, yet only managing to crack one layer in futility.

No way!

Amateur hour at its finest, I dodge his raw surge of psy by rolling just under it, taking note not to notice the crater that it left behind. I’m using the wrong kind of brute force, I should be in already! I was taught better, I should have broken his defense in seconds not 2 minutes and counting. I relied too much on the element of surprise. Panic mode is over, this is a straight up brawl, and I let my persona assume the form of the first demon of the personal hell I’m going to make out of Mr. Property Damage’s mind. Four horns curled like elephant tusk, four arms with claws big enough to rend spines from men backs. It stood at 20 stories of purple and green demon. The illusion wasn’t finished, to him the sky darkened and the ground opened up to the underworld. He resisted of course, his mind worked feverishly to repair the damage, but that’s the fun part about being a telepath, once I’m in I’m always in, the best you can do as a none-telepath was hold on to your little corner of reality.

I bucked my head and my horns ripped open the roof. I climbed into the dome, my weight being too great for the structure; it was really just an onion, each layer gave way to more layers. I work feverishly with all six limps, clawing and kicking and pulling and more clawing. His focus was wild now; he punched at the air and sent psy waves into menacing parked cars and support beams. Still dangerous, he aimed for my general direction and when he didn’t hit the explosions he left behind sent glass and rocks everywhere. He was still airborne the parking garage proved surprisingly spacious as he assumed a half crouch as he glided. Mr. Property Damage stopped blocking my bullets, instead he focused on increasing our distance and dodging my gunfire. I wanted him down on the ground, and in my anxiousness he caught me by surprise and rocked me off my feat without me realizing what hit me. I hit the ground with a bounce, realizing that both glocks were empty I discarded one, while unclipping and reloading the second with the free arm in mid bounce. When landed I rolled to my feet to face him, but I was wrong about where he was.

Wait what?  I should know where he is, I’m in his head for god’s sake! The demon was finished with the dome, but found a very conventional iron door underneath. She roared and slammed head first into the thick steel of Mr. Property Damage’s final layer of peripheral defense before I was in. At that moment, as the demon took the door of its hinges, Mr. Property Damage sent a sports car barreling through the air in a free falling tumble. I jumped to my left side, and found it was a mistake, a second car slammed into my mid section knocking the air out of me as I rolled up high into the air nearly hitting the ceiling and crashed hard on flying windshield. I was beyond pain at this moment, I felt the thud of my body hitting three more previously parked vehicles or maybe it was the same vehicle and I hit the ground with a thud followed by a wet roll. I wanted to get up but everything hurt at the same time, I could only stop myself from screaming in pain.

So I moved my head slowly and saw Mr. Property Damage grinning and breathing heavy. He held his hand over me and I knew what that meant, the remaining hairs on my body stood on end because of amassing whirlpool of psy just above me. My little she demon was so far from me now, but I felt it raging on by my direction. Even in this state I was multitasking her assault on his mind, but it was only a battle that I was losing as his defenses and sense of reason held against the little daemon working too far away from her master. Given more wherewithal I would have thousands of little programmed horrors working on every nook and cranny of his mind, forcing him to experience a thousand deaths and warping his perception to the point of insanity. I’d messed up big but I knew theyweren’t enough tears left in my tattered body to cry for failures sake.

No! I need to focus even harder. I reached my right arm for the grenade I kept in my left pocket; I thanked Sammy for suggesting I wear bagging clothing. Still intact surprisingly, I forced my right arm to move further than the pain would allow. Like a puppets arms it merely flung the grenade at Mr. Property Damage, the pain of my right arm being dislocated was so intense that I nearly passed out. But I gritted my teeth; that wasn’t my real focus, no my rampaging demon had one more sin to commit before Mr. Property Damage mind pushes it back into his outer defenses.

I don’t know why but the Catholics never considered being a liar a deadly sin but it is the sin that kills the easiest. The mind is ready to accept all manners of lies, especially the ones the owner wants to believe are true. So when I felt Mr. Property Damage’s enthusiasm, the heavy bass sound of a victory vibrating from every corner of his soul, I rode his high right up to his ear and whispered with the voice a thousand gum drops, “Don’t worry she is already dead.” Of course that wasn’t going to convince him not to smash me flat like a pancake, but it would paint a big enough illusion that my flailing right arm tossing the hand grenade would go unnoticed. However the grenade itself had to be accounted for and I poured all my effort into blocking its flight from Mr. Property Damage’s sight completely. When it finally came to stop at his feet, by than all five of his senses knew something was there, I made him think that it was merely a small slab of loose concrete, which considering the state of the parking garage that lie wasn’t all too unbelievable.

But it wasn’t a perfect lie and I was out of luck if he noticed. But he didn’t! He raised his hand up like a roman senator deciding on the life or death of a disgraced gladiator and then the grenade exploded. At that moment, before even the sound of the explosion could reach Mr. Property Damage’s ears, I caught my second wind and resolved to show him real telepathy. So I pulled his conscious, grabbing the presumption of himself and dragging him out of his own reality.

Suddenly he was in a free fall toward the destination of my choosing, but he resisted never the less, going up stream with all his might kicking and swearing all the way down. It took time to fully create the reality I wanted him to experience but when I was done he found himself in an endless field of pink sunflowers. In Mr. Property Damage’s mind all that could be seen was rolling hills of blue, pink and subtle green. The confusion on his face was priceless. So I gave him something familiar, my demon appeared before him bellowing a challenge. Mr. Property Damage cursed and shouted back “This is MY HEAD!” and charged at me sword in hand. Figured he’d use a gun, oh well, he slashed at the demon as it popped in a shower of rose pedals like a piñata. His confusion was hilarious, he looked around wide eyed attempting to match an unforeseen threat but saw nothing but pink and blue.

I laughed as he kept whirling around to meet a shadow that wasn’t there; he heard my laughter and fumed with anger. Than the ground began to sink and concern returned on his face and he watched as some parts sank faster than others as if the whole landmass was on top of a sinkhole. The sunflowers soon started to burst as pockets of nothingness replaced patches of the  ground. The haze of pink petals floating up into the sky was almost magical until it started to catch fire. And the panic in his face was also priceless; the impossible heat that radiated from each pedal burned boils his flesh and cooked his hair. He took to the air pushing past the fire and the smoke, coughing and crying despite knowing this was all just a bad dream.

As he flew higher he started to feel the air pushing him back down, he looked down, the pink and green disappeared, in its place was a black hole that sucked in all matter. He panicked and tried to fly faster, harder, but the downward spiral of the wind was proving too strong. Than his faced grew white as he realized that at the far ends of the black hole there were rows and after rows of teeth. The demon has grown impossible large, the black hole was merely his mouth. Mr. Property Damage tried even harder he pressed against his fate and for a moment his momentum was greater than the gravity that was pulling him back down. “Free!” was the only thought that echoed throughout his consciousness and for a moment he was, but then I stuck my tongue out like a frog and wrapped it around his mid section instantly crushing ribs and liquefying organs. I retracted my tongue just as fast stuck it out; amazingly he still managed to put up a fight, changing his form three times one of which pierced my tongue. I applauded his effort by closing my mouth shut, leaving him in the dark where his screams were swallowed by the nothingness around him.

He screamed again, an abbreviated cough in comparison to the one his persona made, no this was shear instinctive reaction to nerves being abused beyond comprehension. He was rocked off his feat by the explosion his body disappearing in the flash. I heard the crunch of a wield shield, I saw Mr. Property Damages body crumbled against a generic looking black Sedan. I sigh, he put up a psy field at the very last second but it wasn’t enough for him to take that unscathed. He looked as though he got on the bad side of a bear and was only left in one piece because the bear eventually got bored. I couldn’t be sure that killed him, telekinetics have amazing recuperative abilities, but I couldn’t even get up to finish the job. Then I saw a pink and smiled. I rolled right slowly and gingerly, reached with my left hand for my pink handled glock 21. Not as good of a shot with my left hand, but it’ll have to do. I puppet my arm and fingers to move, too shaky but can’t really do anything about that. Slowly I steady my aim, Mr. Property Damage head is slouched over clearly unconsciousness may or may not be breathing though but it doesn’t matter at this point. Have to make this shot count, not sure my wrist can handle the recoil for a second chance.

Steady…

Steady…

Shoot! Oh god! The kick hurts more than I thought it would and the noise is awfully loud! I black out. No choice everything hurts too much at once.

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