He looked that man, his expression warped by rage and hatred. His legs couldn’t move probably. His arms were too weak to hold a weapon.

He trowed a fog grenade at him. He shooted several bullets at him, some nearly hit him, others completely missed. He knew where he was. He grabbed the blaster grenade and trowed it. A small falling rock. An explosion. Silence. Marcus was dead? Maybe. He couldn’t know. He held his breath for some minutes trying to fix his prosthetics in the meantime but there were too severely damaged. He would have to crawl and if not crawl at least use a staff to walk. He glanced over the corner, there was complete darkness. He began to walk towards the exit, knowing full well that an ambush could be waiting for him.

He sensed it before he heard it. Two quick steps from behind him. He looked around, Marcus rifle might still be working...somehow. He tried to jump at the rifle but something pushed him to the ground.

He looked up, at that ghost of a man. Many of his teeth had fallen off. His ribs were broken and his face was immersed in gore. He trowed a kick in his face. Pxan managed to grasp the rifle but Marcus trowed it away. With all strength that he had left in his body, he began to strangle Pxan. Wild coughs of blood and vomit came through his mouth. His senses were becoming weaker, his vision fainter. He lost consciousness.

….

When he woke up he had a trilling headache and felt like death. Both the ceiling and the floor hadn’t changed much but something was giving him nausea. He looked next to him, Marcus body was rooting away. Looking better he wondered how did that man nearly managed to kill him with those injuries. Maybe it was because of its artificial lungs that he survived the encounter. Maybe it was luck. He picked the rifle and used it as a walking staff. He wondered through the corridors. Lucy body was rooting too. His ship was a few minutes walk from there.

Yet something felt wrong with him. He had accomplished one of his goals. One of the cultists of his youth had died...yet he felt a monster for what he did. Something in his soul didn’t felt right.

He turned back and buried the two bodies as best as he could. He wrote a small stone to demarcate each of the graves.

Then he entered the ship and flew away. Wanting to forget those last few days.

When he entered the hangar people gave him strange looks. The doctors were suprised at just how injured he was. Several of his ribs were broken, one lung was malfunctioning, both legs were sore and one hand was to throw away. Yet his injuries were of another type, one much harder to heal. When he turned back to work his missions became different. Sabotage, spying, stealing, never killing. For one of the few times in his lives, he was happy about this working change.