02-14-2019, 07:10 PM
To Ryker's disappointment, the destruction of the lock did not elicit an emergence. Whomever was inside was either unaware of the disturbance or elected to hide like a coward. Daybreak will not save you, Ryker thought as the power drained away. His arm no longer throbbed. A dull ache, perhaps. A thumb to the line of the cut would surge a fresh bolus of power through his limbs. He did not make such a move. Darkness descended; an absence of light but also the murky world obscuring his damaged eye. The power heightened his senses to the point to somewhat accommodate the disability. He would require a fresh injury to summon its presence again.
His arms were covered in scars: superficial, faint lines of hundreds of cuts. The forearm was the easiest, most accessible place for self-inflicted pain. His hands were required to operate fully. The shoulder usually covered with sleeves. Legs were trapped in the utilitarian clothing of an operator. He learned early on that pain was required to bring the power to control. In prison he picked fights just to let someone land a solid enough blow so he could practice the forms. It became something of an art: allowing enough of a hit to bring the power, but not result in so much damage that he was too disoriented to use it. Self-infliction was under his control. His time. His depth. His intensity.
He was about to draw the knife again when an alert flagged the display of his HUD. One of the hover-drones identified the same vehicle passing twice down the street. Unusual for this time of night, but Ryker did not believe in coincidence. Command ran an analysis on the plates and registration returned CCDPD.
Ryker's smile went unseen in the dark. He moved quickly. This advantage would only present itself once.
The rifle was disassembled in one swift motion and slung to his back. He pulled his sidearm, made by a special issue armory shop contracted with the highest government agencies. A .45ACP, the custom carry was completely tuned to his hand and otherwise illegal for anyone outside special forces to possess. Not that Ryker's job was concerned with triviality of the law.
Thumb movements controlled the drone's actions across tech-sensored, second-skin gloves. The HUD alerted motion in the active radius around the house. A male figure approached. Front lights flared bright, but the video adjusted appropriately. A uniformed policeman knocked on the door.
Ryker hurried, stealthily as the shadows creeping from hell, and took a position along the house. The security sysem would already sense motion, and alert the interior of the pending door knock. Ryker's presence would likely go unflagged... for now.
He readied himself at the back door, prepared to slip in the moment the front opened. It was then that he drew the knife, plunged its point into his left forearm, and the power flared hot. Weapon readied, he waited for the right moment.
His arms were covered in scars: superficial, faint lines of hundreds of cuts. The forearm was the easiest, most accessible place for self-inflicted pain. His hands were required to operate fully. The shoulder usually covered with sleeves. Legs were trapped in the utilitarian clothing of an operator. He learned early on that pain was required to bring the power to control. In prison he picked fights just to let someone land a solid enough blow so he could practice the forms. It became something of an art: allowing enough of a hit to bring the power, but not result in so much damage that he was too disoriented to use it. Self-infliction was under his control. His time. His depth. His intensity.
He was about to draw the knife again when an alert flagged the display of his HUD. One of the hover-drones identified the same vehicle passing twice down the street. Unusual for this time of night, but Ryker did not believe in coincidence. Command ran an analysis on the plates and registration returned CCDPD.
Ryker's smile went unseen in the dark. He moved quickly. This advantage would only present itself once.
The rifle was disassembled in one swift motion and slung to his back. He pulled his sidearm, made by a special issue armory shop contracted with the highest government agencies. A .45ACP, the custom carry was completely tuned to his hand and otherwise illegal for anyone outside special forces to possess. Not that Ryker's job was concerned with triviality of the law.
Thumb movements controlled the drone's actions across tech-sensored, second-skin gloves. The HUD alerted motion in the active radius around the house. A male figure approached. Front lights flared bright, but the video adjusted appropriately. A uniformed policeman knocked on the door.
Ryker hurried, stealthily as the shadows creeping from hell, and took a position along the house. The security sysem would already sense motion, and alert the interior of the pending door knock. Ryker's presence would likely go unflagged... for now.
He readied himself at the back door, prepared to slip in the moment the front opened. It was then that he drew the knife, plunged its point into his left forearm, and the power flared hot. Weapon readied, he waited for the right moment.