Cygnus

Don't play me. Don't pity me. Don't predict me.

"He's dying."




Miles. Miles and miles and Miles and miles.

A nasty crack of ribs signaled the beginning of the end.

There were a lot of tough thugs in this group, but the second Miles stepped into the room, a collective shiver worked its way up their spines and froze them in place. He looked around at the guys assembled with their weapons ready, his wide eyes glassy and excited, like he was flipping through a joke book. And oh, he found this hilarious.

Miles grinned. He was probably younger than a lot of the guys there. He wasn't a tall guy. He wasn't muscular. He was thin, almost skeletal, wrists and ribs jutting out of his pale skin in a way that, when coupled with his expression, thrust him into the edges of uncanny valley. His baseball bat drug on the ground as he walked, throwing up tiny sparks behind it. They started collecting their wits as he approached, readying themselves for a fight. They didn't ready themselves fast enough. Miles swung his bat hard into the side of the nearest thug and savored the wet crunch while all hell broke loose.