He pushed on, his backpack’s readings growing ever more unstable.

Twenty more steps, he tells himself.

The star grows more viscous, plasma arcing to nearby failures.

Seventeen more steps, he tells himself.

He risks a glance back, fearful of following in Orpheus’s footsteps.

The beams are secure, but losing brightness fast.

Fourteen steps left, he tells himself.

He turns his attention back to the pedestal, twin horns sparking in anticipation.

Twelve steps left, he tells himself.

The backpack shudders, he curses, before whacking it’s side. That should buy me just enough time.

Nine steps left, he tells himself.

He trudges on, dust and rock parting before his feet.

Seven steps left, he tells himself.

The pedestal, perhaps sensing the nearing energy source, starts to shudder, as electricity starts to fork off of one horn and strike the other.

Five steps left, he tells himself.

The star shudders, a solar flare breaching containment and scorching the ground to left into oblivion.

Three steps left, he tells himself.

The backpack heaves, the beams holding the star in place barely noticeable over the ambient lights.

One step left, he tells himself.

He kneels and slides the pack off over his shoulders, pushing it into the slot on the pedestal. The star aligns between the twin horns and lightning flies everywhere, somehow missing the kneeling man. His blackened back shows evidence of it happening before, however.

The pedestal starts to hum, until the light show vanishes, a white dome enclosing the horns and star.

The man looks around at the stars still scattered over the blasted plains.

4,247 left to go, he tells himself.