(a/n) Mewtwo's the most interesting pokemon. Do any of the others even compare?
Age of Man
The man's eyes give me pause.
Terror? Yes. Something like terror. I press him to the ruined wall of the apartment complex, cut neatly down to its fifth floor. Floors six through twenty lie toppled over a bright red burger shop, glass and rubble strewn about the pavement like blood.
The man is bleeding too, in the human way. My psychic grip on his unremarkable organs spews his red liquids out of various orifices.
His fragile, narrow mind begs. Pleads. Save me. Help me. Let me go.
It's always me me me with humans. Even in their final moments, their entire universe contracts to the self, like a black hole collapsing under its own gravity.
I tighten my grip. I am causing him needless pain, and I sweep closer through the air to end it.
His mind warps as I approach, a string of incoherencies knotting in tangles of suffering. There is a wailing - mental. His lungs are in no condition.
And then flashes of a woman. Her eyes. Melting chocolate.
Her eyes give me pause.
I pulp the man's brain, and all is dark.
I toss him beside the other human corpses. I raise my three-pronged fingers at the figure stepping from the stacked bodies, eyeing the intruder's grin.
A dark. Or a ghost. Something immune to my powers.
Yet the figure presented is human. Dark haired, dark-eyed and pale, in a black suit and glossy shoes. Male, in appearance. And the voice he chooses is male also.
"I implore you to stop, now," he says. Smiling.
"Why?" I reply vibrating the air because my telepathy cannot reach him.
"You've had your fun," he says. He picks a female child's head off the ground, tossing it between his hands. "If you wipe them all out, there'll be nothing left to play with."
"I'm not playing."
"Well. There's also her to consider."
He jerks a thumb backwards.
The crack of rifle fire threshes the air. A dozen bullets cut uselessly through the dark haired figure before falling dead in the null kinetic space before me.
I have already seen this.
I flick my hand, and a length of iron rail rips from a nearby fence and pierces the gunner's chest.
A woman. Young. Her eyes...like melting chocolate. I need not see her face to know.
I have seen this, also.
The ghost - no dark would have survived the gunfire - glances back at the gunner.
He says, "I see. Can you stop grenades too?" He takes a step toward me - vanishes - and appears inches from my face. "Missiles? Nuclear warheads?"
I narrow my eyes. A human expression, to match the freqeuncy of this one's communication.
I say, "Yes."
He grins wider. "You're more like them then you'll admit," he says, "confusing power with morality."
I sweep my hand, consuming him in a pillar of red fire.
But he is not there.
He is kneeling beside the woman. Watching her chest rise and fall. Watching her streaked face twist with the pain of living.
He puts a hand on her stomach, below where the iron rail juts from the thick fabric of her tactical vest. He says to me, "You missed."
I say, "I'll not miss again."
His proximity to the woman makes direct contact impossible. I wrench more spears of iron from the fence lining Viridian City's central park and, with a downward arc of my hand, send a hail of death streaking for the woman in black.
Of course, the ghost takes her with him. He drags them both into her shadow, just before the black rain reaches them.
I look around at what remains of the city. The crumbling skyscrapers. The burning gym. The bodies like dolls thrown discarded about the asphalt.
But he is not among them.
So I turn to the next city.
And I fly.