Pike hauled himself over the railing, leaving an ugly amount of his hand stuck, flash fried, to the metal. The platform itself had a giant hole punched through it, the edges dripping molten down into empty sky.

Above, the sorcerer floated, robes drifting in the wind and rising smoke. He was one of the petal-headed aliens, his flesh as dark as onyx, wearing a combination of flowing robes and black armored plates made out of what looked like bugshell chitin. Yellow panels of octagonal light flickered into existence and deflected the arrows that flew up from the elven archers, but either the effort of the defense or some natural limit was keeping him from returning the volley with more fireballs.

Instead, he reached into his robes and drew out a metal canister. The elves scattered, diving for the buildings and retreating into alleyways as the metal tube landed among them and opened into an explosive rush of choking, acrid fumes. Something like tear gas.

Caught on the slowly collapsing edge of the platform, Pike had only option - through the cloud. He jumped the hole in the metal floor, flaring his one jet to make it across, and dashed through, flinching as the caustic particulate in the air burned at his face. His eyes, however, were protected by their lenses - and he wasn’t going to take this one sitting down. Using his maimed hand to brace his good one, he fired off a blast of plasma.

A shield leaped into existence, but it couldn’t hope to absorb the superheated fury of modern arms. Instead, it diffracted the focused, magnetically bottled beam into a wild spray that splattered across the sorcerer’s shoulder.

He screamed as his entire arm was caught in pulsing orange heat, and the flesh dissolved, his arm simply falling off in a wet drip of melted flesh.

Pike fired again, but this time the sorcerer was ready. He let whatever magic was holding him up go, dropping under the shot, and reached out his remaining arm with fingers outstretched, shouting a syllable that made the very air ripple with secret power.

A spear of crackling, electric light lunged from his palm, moving like a serpent through the air to dive towards Pike.

Jets flaring their last power, he flung himself behind a metal shack.

The lightning didn’t care. It tore through both walls, piercing the hut like an eggshell, and slammed into him. Only his socket-suit saved him. It was graded for the kind of electricity that a two-hundred ton mech could produce, and spread the shock outwards across dozens of tiny microscale panels, diffusing it across his entire body.

That didn’t make it hurt less.

As Pike rolled in agony, the one-armed sorcerer lifted into the air once more. A massive thunderbolt wreathed itself around him in a spiral. It was a living thing, a dragon, a serpent, its edges rippling in a static fuzz made of thousands of sparks. Through gritted teeth, Pike took his one defensive measure - a damn good offense.

A blast of plasma met the oncoming lightning-serpent. They clashed, spraying jeweled droplets of glittering fire and thousands of snaking threads of electricity, purple fury and controlled orange precision.

He fired again, the barrel glowing hideously as another lance of fire leapt in behind the first.

The lightning collapsed, shattering outwards in a concentric ripple as the second shot ploughed through, exploding into a spray of sparks the size of pennies. One or two landed on the sorcerer, going through him in a split second and a sizzle of superheated fat.

He groaned, tilting in the air, and an arrow caught him through the neck. Then another. And another.

One moment of pain and confusion and the archers below - the ones who’d survived and escaped blinding by the toxic cloud - turned him into a pincushion.

A blue light flickered behind him, pouring out of his wounds like a smoke. It took the form of a spectral copy of the man, a ghost, puppeteering the limp body by threads of light.

Pike had never seen anything like it.

And like most new experiences today, it gave him a bad damn feeling.

The puppet-corpse hovered in the air, stuck full of arrows. The spectre behind it pulled the strings, and it spread out its arms like a macabre kite, swooping down - towards Pike.

There was a glow building, shining out of the numerous holes in the body.

He knew a suicide run when he saw one.

His first shot whipped through the ghost to no effect, scattering its head into a mist that only reformed.

His second shot aimed for the flying corpse, and the effect was spectacular.

The bolt pierced through the dead man’s chest, tearing a fist-sized, ember-lined hole straight through. From within a searing light boiled out, tearing outwards from the impact, covering the body like cracks in porcelain.

There was an eye-searing flash, and it expanded into a white fireball that flared and blazed in the air above, showering down missiles of of phosphorescent flame, pulsing and crackling and raining down sparks. Pike pushed himself flat to the walls, wincing as darts of fire pierced into his back and clung like, angry and hateful. He heard screams.

The civilians they’d gathered up, the ones who’d survived the original blasts, were dying in droves. The ferret-fox was screaming, too big to hide, consumed as fire rained down and caught hold of its fur, turning it into a living bonfire that thrashed.

The elves who’d been blinded were pulled into cover, if they were lucky enough to have living friends. The ones who weren’t rescued - they never saw their death coming. They were burned down in a horrible second.

Pike took every breath through gritted teeth. Dozens of holes had peppered his suit, tearing the back open and scalding the flesh below.

But he’d won.

It was quick, it was ugly, and he’d remember the screams.

But he’d won.

Next time…

Next time he’d finish it cleanly. Next time he’d know better. It wouldn’t cost so many lives.

He’d won, but it didn’t feel good.