Esther sat outside the Milwaukee Art Museum, perched on a bench along the shore of Lake Michigan. Marigold skies above reflected in unperturbed waters below, and between the two sat Esther, eating her dinner and watching the day die.
You rarely touch your sidearm in firefights, because you possess a far more potent weapon. You can choose to enter the mind of anyone who makes eye contact with you, and once you're inside a mind, you can break it as easily as you can crack your knuckles.
There are three vessels, alone in a black expanse of interplanetary space. The first vessel is maimed and broken; a once-dignified ship whose time has come too soon. The second vessel is dying; a violent, bloody ship whose time should have come sooner. The third vessel is a lifepod, a single tear shed from a failing machine. There is one man aboard the pod, and he will be the only survivor.
Your chest burns, your breath comes in ragged gasps, your feet are bleeding, and your legs are soaked from splashing through puddles of street water. You don't care about any of those things. Your singular purpose is to keep running. You cannot stop, for you are being pursued by death.