Trust only the strength of your own arm.
Nazaire slips on rain-slick grass, and his pursuer leaps on him. His right arm goes numb as fishbone-thorns open a gash from wrist to shoulder. The Hive Acolyte grabs him by the throat.
He wasn't supposed to be here. But the Tower forbids the knowledge he seeks, and the City dares not defy them. So he went into the wild looking for answers, and now he is going to die.
Even as his vision darkens, survival instinct drives him to fight. He fumbles for his Sidearm with his good hand and fires wildly. Bone chips and blood spray across his hands, his face, until the Acolyte's laughter gurgles and dies.
He lies on his back, gasping, blinking salty rain from his eyes. Hysteria bubbles in his chest. He wants to go home.
A sudden scintillation. A Ghost appears over the dead Acolyte. It is more monstrous than any other, even the one that took his mother from him, because it bears Hive livery.
He seizes it out of the air. "You," he wheezes, his voice a ruin, "you were—supposed—to protect us."
It has no rebuttal, because it is a Ghost. And like every Ghost, it is not a protector. It is a liar and a thief, a wretched viper, and it wants to take everything from him, just like its kin.
He digs his thumbs into its eye. It thrashes and screams. He squeezes harder, and harder, until something gives way, a nauseating squelch followed by a thrill of sick satisfaction.
It is the first Ghost he kills. Drenched in icy rain, smeared with gore and mud, he clips the Ghost's shell to his belt and vows: it will not be the last.
