“Okay, kid.” Caleb pulled an adrenaline needle out of his satchel. “I reckon it’s about time to get started.”
Sparks held out his arm, and Caleb plunged the needle into the skin. Heat exploded inside Sparks’ chest and spread through his body. The familiar, pleasurable pulsing of his second heart begun. It beat an impatient rhythm.
He was alive again.
With his enhanced sensitivity, he grew aware just how much his right arm still hurt, but he felt too good right now to let pain ruin his mood. He pulled his shirt off and threw it away. His skin felt so warm he wanted to feel the cold rain against it. The drops falling around him reflected his blue glow.
“You know,” Caleb said, “I’m not sure you understand the meaning of stealth.”
Sparks laughed. “If you looked as good as me, why would you try hide?”
A barbed wire fence surrounded the station. Two militia were standing just inside it, facing each other. Their angry, raised voices were just audible. Sparks gave them imaginary names: Ugly and Weak.
He retreated ten paces from the edge of the roof, feeling the pulse inside him quicken. In a blinding flash, the sky lit up with lightning. Thunder roared in its wake. Sparks grinned.
“Hey kid,” Caleb called.
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, okay?”
“Whatever.” Sparks took off at a sprint, winking at Caleb as he passed, then leapt into the air.
The wind skimmed across his bare skin and blew through his hair. Rain splattered against his chest. His second heart pounded as he soared over the fence. The guard on the left — the one he named Weak — looked up. His jaw dropped open.
And Sparks landed, feet first, on Weak’s head.
The militia crumbled under the impact. Sparks threw himself forward, transferring his momentum into a forward roll as he hit the ground. The collision jarred every bone in his body. Spikes of pain lanced up his injured arm. He slid to a stop and checked the cut on his bicep — the stitches hadn’t pulled out. Good. He leapt to his feet.
Ugly stood, dumbstruck, staring at Weak’s unconscious form. He hadn’t even raised his axe in defence.
“Hey!” Sparks waved a hand. “Are we going to duel or what?”
Ugly looked down at his axe.
Fuck this. Sparks kicked the weapon out of Ugly’s hand, then stepped forward, lifted Ugly up by the shoulder, and slammed him against the ground. There was a satisfying crunching sound.
Sparks bent over him. “You’re meant to scream.”
Ugly made a pathetic gurgling sound.
Sparks grabbed his nose and twisted until it was upside down. Again, the crunching sound.
Ugly screamed.
“That’s better.” Sparks stood. Panicked shouts came from elsewhere in the compound. He hoped the rest of the militia put up more of a resistance. He took off at a sprint into the maze of giant steel cubes.
“Attack!” Someone was yelling on Sparks left. “We’re under attack!”
“Damn right you are!” Sparks shouted back. He jumped — activated muscles effortlessly propelling him far above his own height — and landed on one of the steel cells. He looked around, searching for the yelling militia. There. Two of them. Ten yards away, running down the alley parallel to the one Sparks had come down. One had a crossbow, the other held twin daggers.
“I’m over here!” Sparks waved his arms.
The crossbow-armed militia fired. The bolt whistled through the air past Sparks as he jumped out of the way and into the alley. The guard with the daggers charged, yelling. Spittle caught in his overgrown beard.
Sparks ducked under a swinging knife. The other blade flashed as it thrust at his chest. Sparks grabbed the guard’s wrist, stopping the blade an inch from his skin. He squeezed tight, and bones shattered in his grip.
Sparks seized the man’s beard with his other hand, yanked down, sending him face-first to the ground.
The other militia dropped his crossbow and ran. Sparks set chase.
Typical archer, Sparks thought as he quickly caught up, always the first to flee. Fucking cowards, the lot of them.
He leapt forward and tackled the militia by the waist, sending them both toppling into a puddle. Sparks caught a mouthful of foul water. The man tried to crawl away, but Sparks climbed on top and punched him in the back of the head. Face down in the puddle, his squirming stopped.
Sparks spat, rinsing his mouth of the bitter taste.
The rain was quickly becoming a heavy torrent. Lightning arced across the sky for the second time. Sparks stopped and looked up, hoping for another display. The sky rewarded him; another flash of light danced through the clouds.
Sparks laughed — honest, joyful laughter. This was how life was meant to be lived. In the rain. Both hearts beating. Enemies trying to kill him. The excitement, the thrill, and the panic all molded together in the untamed pulse beating in his chest.
An arrow flew past his head.
He spun to find its sender facing him, a dozen yards away. The militia hastily retreated backwards, fumbling to load a second bolt. Sparks charged. As he ran, he grabbed one of the knives dropped by the bearded militia.
His new opponent pushed the bolt into place and pointed the crossbow at Sparks’ chest. Mid-step, Sparks threw himself backwards. The bolt passed over him as he hit the ground, momentum propelling him forward. He slid over the wet, slippery concrete and collided with the militia’s legs. The man collapsed on top of him and Sparks thrust the knife into his chest.
The militia spewed metallic-tasting blood onto Sparks’ face.
Sparks pushed the body off. His shoulder throbbed with pain as he scrambled to his feet. He tried to shake the pain out, but that only intensified it.
Footsteps to his left. He twisted to see another militia running at him, holding an axe above his head.
Sparks grinned. “Gorgeous night, isn’t it?”
If the militia heard him, he didn’t react. The axe whistled as it split the air, coming down towards Spark’s head. Sparks reached out, grabbed it by the handle, ripped it out of the militia’s grip and threw it away. The man’s uneven, pockmarked face widened with shock.
Sparks grabbed him by the chest-plate of his armour and hurled him into the sky. He hit the wires above. There was a sudden flash.
Sparks swore the corpse was smoking when it hit the ground.
He gingerly stepped over the body and moved on. He called out, searching for more challengers, but no one responded. Disappointing. He leapt onto the nearest cell and looked for the central building. It was close. He sprinted towards it, leaping from cell to cell. Shouting came from the far side of the compound, but it gradually faded — the cowards were fleeing.
Rain mixed with his opponents’ blood, running down Sparks’ skin in little rivers. By now the veins of light extending from his chest were half-way down his forearms. He knew that if he could see his face, it would be covered in dark blue streaks.
Sparks climbed to the ground when he reached the central building. It looked horribly unstable. Its stone wall had cracks running up its entire height, and Sparks wondered if it would collapse if the rain got any heavier. But where was the door? He moved around to the next wall. Just as fractured, and, just like the last, missing a door.
A gunshot rang out.
Pain flared in Sparks’ side. Hot, searing pain. He staggered forward. A second shot echoed his ears, coming from somewhere behind him. The bullet skimmed the side of his neck.