It Has a Location

I observe the wreckage, and wonder. It takes so little to destroy. Craters in flames, blackened, burnt ground and life. All only ancillary. Can my powers be used for anything other than death? I focus, it’s all always been intuitive before. My powers simply respond to thoughts, triggering paths of energy in directions. Can I rebuild life, in the same way my powers were once used, like they were within the time trap? I close my eyes and hold my hands out, projecting my power towards the wreckage, forcing it to flow through my fingertips, feeling my hands heating up from the energy of it. I imagine all the flourishing life I want to bring springing up from the ground, eschewing the metal frames, enveloping them among their tall branches and lush canopy, winding around them as though they are trying to suffocate the steel. When I open my eyes, I see a horror of sharp, condensed stone, a dangerously thorny mess of death. The wreckage hangs open, an omen of death. I make the best of it, and reorganize a few of the pieces. This will have to do.

I continue my small existence without space travel, a punishment for having destroyed the only thing my mortal self once held dear. My fault, this was all my fault. I refuse to let the Gravity Surge indulge in the expanses of the cosmos. Irresponsible, stupid. Everyone I’ve ever known is now dead, and I killed them with my rash decisions and idiocy. I tried my best to avenge their deaths with my power, but it was all my fault in the first place. However, since The Network now has my whereabouts under their surveillance, solitude is now a mission of impossibility. I am trapped under the eyes of reality. Every piece of scum in the universe knows where to go to test their powers. Loameria. Once a bastion for science and goodwill, a staple in The Network’s databases of how a human society has the potential to operate, now destroyed, buried and blanketed by the frightening energy of an anomalous time field, and then finally the known location for one sole inhabitant, The Gravity Surge, the most dangerous being thus far known in the database.

The entire galaxy has practically become a dead zone, civilizations wanting no part of such danger, and yet, somehow, within the darkness that envelops it all, some life persists somehow, or perhaps it would be a bastardization of the word, to refer to creatures and beasts and beings as something like life. Most cannot reflect upon existence. Sometimes I wonder why such beings want to persist at all, in a place so desolate; is it because they simply have no other choice? Do I have any other choice in this universe. Do they all have access to some sort of drive I never had in this space continuum where all too often I am a prisoner to the swell of the continual marching onward of time? Contemplation to be saved for another day; in my ruminations I’ve unconsciously ascended beyond the ionosphere.

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