The rest of the facility was cleared. The men branched away to perform their mission tasks. One downloaded data, another took pictures. Lyssa found an office chair to plant herself in, trying to not to think of the metal bits inside of her grinding against her flesh.

Adrenaline was a strange substance. She felt pain but didn’t mind. Her body was slow to report all the different ways she ailed. Headaches from the excessive power use, the hot metal beneath her skin, the burn from overworked muscles. Her fingers trembled. Bits of black scale repeatedly formed and unformed around her digits, out of her control. Small touches of flame danced around those fingertips. She could hear the walls whisper.

“Drink,” Sokolov said, thrusting a container in her face.

She grabbed it with her non-twitching hand.

“A guy we nabbed a while back remembered being here,” Sokolov said. “Even he had forgot until Whitworth remembered for him. We’re beginning to think this whole plan of theirs has nothing to do with anti-gift movements.”

Lyssa couldn’t find it in her to respond, but she listened. She could feel that the commander felt bad about the whole thing.

“You uh, got a gift for healing?” Sokolov asked.

“You would have to shoot me in the head, I think,” Lyssa said.

Sokolov laughed at the gallows humor. Lyssa had not been joking.

She wondered if this was only the beginning. She would be sent on more missions and likely get hit harder than this. Her diverse array of abilities were useful on a ground level. Though a well-trained hero with one gift was still more powerful than her. At least she wouldn’t have to wear tights. Still, she couldn’t understand why the Director would want to thrust someone so new so quickly in this work.

No matter. Her part was done. Her whole body felt like an open wound, but it was up to the rest of the team to get what they need. Meanwhile, she closed her eyes and tried to spread her awareness away from her body.

The forest around them rustled. Owls searched the ground for movement. Rodents dug through dirt. In a pond, a tadpole flexed stubby legs. Then it swam away, panicked. A small snake swerved leisurely through the underbrush. It changed direction rapidly.

Lyssa opened her eyes.

“Guys,” she said. Papers stopped shuffling. Operators stopped mid command on computers.

“What?” Sokolov asked.

A mouse dropped a morsel it had found back on the forest floor, fleeing from absolutely nothing.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Something’s coming closer,” she said. “I can’t see them.”

Safeties clicked off and barrels were raised.

“Alright, let’s get out,” Sokolov said. He clicked his communicator. “Sir, we need overwatch. Sir?

“Gear check!”

Experimental clicks sounded for a few seconds.

“Sir,” an operator called. The workstations had gone dark.

“They fried the electronics,” Sokolov said. “Secure what we have. Let’s hope the EM shielding on our drives are enough.”

They switched gears faster than Lyssa could react. Next thing she knew she was being hurried through the halls again. She struggled to keep up. Every stride brought flares of heat throughout her body. Men watched the windows as they moved.

“No visual.” A report. “Our goggles aren’t working.”

“How?” Sokolov whispered. He fiddled with his. Their equipment was military grade. That did not mean advanced. It meant the gear could be rolled in mud and tossed into a fat fryer and still keep functioning. Nothing of theirs had a transistor if it could be helped.

The goggles would not be necessary. Night became day for one ephemeral moment, as bright as staring into the sun. A side of the building disappeared in the same instant as a tremendous wave of sound and heat slammed into them. Lyssa could not summon her armor, even if her reflexes were quick enough. Half their team was gone. A crumbling gap in the facility replaced their place in the hall.

She was paralyzed, but the floor was moving. She was being dragged away from the exposed hall back into the facility. In a daze, she saw Sokolov pulling her. His skull was visible in some areas. Smoke rose from his body. Parts of his equipment looked like slag.

“What the hell was that?” An operator shouted.

Again came the light and fury. This time the ceiling parted. Great arcing lines of pure white leapt from the exposed superstructure of the facility, drawing black, smoking scribbles on the walls. A single strand of light tossed another operator several feet away. They did not move afterward.

In the opened roof, a shining figure hovered, sheathed in arcing energy. They raised a hand. Sparks danced around their palm. Lyssa’s pupils shrunk painfully.

She knew she was going to die.

She had forgotten how old she was when she sat under that tree. All she knew was that this was one of the handful of moments her father acted like a father. A fallen bicycle had been left by the trail. Its front wheel slowed to a stop. She was sniffling and her father brought her in the only shade in the field, where the grasses waved and the winds were cool.

“You’re going to get hurt again,” he said. “But nothing lasts forever.”

“Why bother trying then?” She said, angry, petulant, hurt.

“Because you can choose which moments to try to keep,” he said. “Even if you do nothing at all, pain will pass. But try, even just a little, and good things will last that much longer.”

Something in those words clicked, and she felt better, healed, serene. Like she could take on the world.

Sokolov felt nothing but death coming straight for him, having long outgrown dainty notions about the afterlife. When that light gathered he simply let his weapon fall to the ground. Its internals had melted a bit anyway, jamming the mechanisms. The only thing he regretted in that moment was not pushing harder against Whitworth allowing a kid to come on an op.

The bolt of lightning struck. He saw the light. But he did not fall. The arcs of energy converged towards one spot beside him. Lyssa stood to her feet. Her skin had become a rich, warm gold color, brimming with energy. She shook in place, like she was overlapping with a hologram of herself. Then, as one would let a butterfly go, she raised her right hand and flowered her palm. The bolt of energy returned to sender, louder than their screams, throwing them far, far away.

“It’s alright,” she said in a silky, even tone. She smiled in a way she had never done before. “All will be well.”