Kit took a single step forward. The men tensed.
"My makers should have learned by now," Kit began, "that I am no longer theirs to order."
Kit crashed into both men, wrenching both guns up, as a barrage of shots tore into the ceiling. Dust rained down.
He shoved the men backward until they stumbled out into the narrow streets. It was quiet, but he saw eyes above from one of the balconies, a young face with gaunt, dirty cheeks.
Lunar City was used to crime and violence. No one came. But they all watched.
A strange feeling welled inside Kit as he fought, kicking out with his boot until his heel crashed into a chest. He felt something break beneath his foot and heard a scream.
More bullets. Kit slid to the ground. The spray caught a row of potted plants above, sending clay and soil down on them all.
Away.
He had to get them away from here.
Kit fought with expert precision, herding the men into an alley, far from the line of balconies and peering eyes. The alley ended in a tall concrete wall.
Kit shoved one of the men away, finally getting a good hold on his gun as he ripped it from him. With an anguished cry, the man fell back into a dumpster with a loud clang.
A wet warmth bled through Kit’s gloves. He looked down, finding a few fingers still attached to the grip. Kit threw them to the ground and saw the man clutching his fingerless hand, blood spurting from the missing digits.
The other man spoke into a headset. Kit heard the sudden sound of thumping footsteps. Light swept over the alley. He turned to see a group of men storming in, guns trained on him.
Kit could not see past the light. He covered his face with his forearm and released a sound bordering on a frightened hiss.
"Kiton Blackfall, we are here to get you to comply with your orders—return to the base. Come peacefully." Guns cocked. "Or we will shoot."
Kit didn’t waste time. He sprinted for the wall, using momentum to gain height, and then pushed himself off of it until he was at the back of the group of men, trapping them all inside the alley.
Curses rang out as they spun and turned their aim on him.
Kit advanced. A gun barrel pressed to his chest.
Kit stared right into the leader’s eyes. "I will not return, return—return to the base." He echoed the words imprinted over his vision.
Return to the base. Return to the base. Re?—
"He’s fucking crazy. He’s gone rogue," someone whispered.
"Rogue," Kit mused, reaching for the barrel of the gun and forcing it down.
The leader groaned, trying to keep aim, but Kit’s strength was unparalleled. He forced down on the grip until the steel muzzle was bent nearly in half.
Kit’s breaths were even as snow fell around them all. He jerked the gun out of the leader’s hands, crushing the ammo cartridge in his fist until the metal liquefied. Bullets clinked uselessly to the ground.
"Soldiers! Fire—" The leader’s voice turned to a broken rasp as Kit reached forward and shoved his right hand straight through his chest. He ripped his hand away, a gaping hole in the leader’s chest. The body collapsed.
Bullets lit up the night air. Unsuppressed, the gunfire rang brutally through his heightened senses.
The Phoenix saw red.
He ripped, he tore, he punched, he growled like a feral animal. But he was no animal. He was a machine.
He had been made this way.
When the alley fell silent, Kit found himself kneeling on the ground, surrounded by broken body parts and the cracked, crushed metal of guns. Snow melted against the pools of warm blood. He stood and surveyed the wreckage.
