The floor clanks under your feet as you blunder your way deeper into Tourian. At least it's not more shitty space dust that smears itself over your visor; you feel like if you'd had to stop for the umpteenth fucking time to clear your vision, you'd scream.
(There are certain sections of Brinstar you never want to see again, no pun intended.)
You're alone, of course; no buddy at your back, no squadmates at your side, yadda yadda. Partners just slow you down. They always have - it's not like they can keep up with you, anyway. You're one of a kind. One girl in all the world, that's you.
Pshyeah. Like that's so great.
Not like anyone else would have a stake in this, anyway. Revenge is personal by nature, regardless of whatever other factors might come into play. And you are so getting said revenge. You are going to tear this entire base to pieces by hand if necessary, and anyone (or anything) standing in your way is destined to be reduced to a scorched and sizzling smear on the wall.
They devastate your planet? You pay them back with some major interest.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth Lalonde.
(At least, you would say so if there was anyone left to listen.)
So you've made your way here, to the sickly beating heart of Alternian operations on Zebes, through lava and pitfalls and leather-winged dragons with Cheshire Cat grins, through fire and fury and things you don't or can't have names for, and now, finally, you stand before the innermost sanctum.
The only thing standing in your way is a perfectly innocuous, blue-glowing door.
Totally harmless.
Definitely unlocked.
You could just walk right in.
You load up a missile and blow that bitch to high heaven.
As you step over what's left of the threshold, you're wreathed in smoke, and your imagination supplies the accompanying reek of cordite despite the contained and filtered air your suit has you breathing. It dissipates enough after a few seconds for you to note the guns lying oddly dormant in their wall brackets, targeting lasers dark and inactive.
It's like she's waiting for you.
Carefully edging further into the dimly-lit room reveals that yeah, actually, you're right about that.
And there she is: scourge of known space, she of infinitely arrogant mien, the brains of the entire fucking operation, Her Imperious Condescension.
The Batterwitch.
You come to a halt before your nemesis, and behold her.
The tank is massive, a swollen shell of glass enfolding a sleek grey body and a wild mane of dark hair. You know perfectly well that it's just the filters sifting the water within, but stray tendrils of hair seem to move of their own accord, coiling and uncoiling, winding around the curves of her horns and waving away from the contours of her face.
She opens her eyes.
You don't step back, and you don't look away.
You're not going to run. Not now, and never again.
It's very quiet for a minute; just you, the pressing silence of the empty laboratory, and that amused magenta gaze.
Fuck her.
The life-support junk in your helmet doesn’t let you speak intelligibly, but you can get your meaning across.
You level an accusing finger at the ichthyoid menace you were practically born to hate.
[You.]
You drag said finger across your neck.
[You’re -dead,- witch.]
As her security system whirrs to life and a dozen laser sights cluster together on your armored chest, she graces you with a gleeful, predatory smile.
Fill: Team Rose<3Roxy - Metroid (1986)
(There are certain sections of Brinstar you never want to see again, no pun intended.)
You're alone, of course; no buddy at your back, no squadmates at your side, yadda yadda. Partners just slow you down. They always have - it's not like they can keep up with you, anyway. You're one of a kind.
One girl in all the world, that's you.
Pshyeah. Like that's so great.
Not like anyone else would have a stake in this, anyway. Revenge is personal by nature, regardless of whatever other factors might come into play.
And you are so getting said revenge. You are going to tear this entire base to pieces by hand if necessary, and anyone (or anything) standing in your way is destined to be reduced to a scorched and sizzling smear on the wall.
They devastate your planet? You pay them back with some major interest.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth Lalonde.
(At least, you would say so if there was anyone left to listen.)
So you've made your way here, to the sickly beating heart of Alternian operations on Zebes, through lava and pitfalls and leather-winged dragons with Cheshire Cat grins, through fire and fury and things you don't or can't have names for, and now, finally, you stand before the innermost sanctum.
The only thing standing in your way is a perfectly innocuous, blue-glowing door.
Totally harmless.
Definitely unlocked.
You could just walk right in.
You load up a missile and blow that bitch to high heaven.
As you step over what's left of the threshold, you're wreathed in smoke, and your imagination supplies the accompanying reek of cordite despite the contained and filtered air your suit has you breathing. It dissipates enough after a few seconds for you to note the guns lying oddly dormant in their wall brackets, targeting lasers dark and inactive.
It's like she's waiting for you.
Carefully edging further into the dimly-lit room reveals that yeah, actually, you're right about that.
And there she is: scourge of known space, she of infinitely arrogant mien, the brains of the entire fucking operation, Her Imperious Condescension.
The Batterwitch.
You come to a halt before your nemesis, and behold her.
The tank is massive, a swollen shell of glass enfolding a sleek grey body and a wild mane of dark hair.
You know perfectly well that it's just the filters sifting the water within, but stray tendrils of hair seem to move of their own accord, coiling and uncoiling, winding around the curves of her horns and waving away from the contours of her face.
She opens her eyes.
You don't step back, and you don't look away.
You're not going to run. Not now, and never again.
It's very quiet for a minute; just you, the pressing silence of the empty laboratory, and that amused magenta gaze.
Fuck her.
The life-support junk in your helmet doesn’t let you speak intelligibly, but you can get your meaning across.
You level an accusing finger at the ichthyoid menace you were practically born to hate.
[You.]
You drag said finger across your neck.
[You’re -dead,- witch.]
As her security system whirrs to life and a dozen laser sights cluster together on your armored chest, she graces you with a gleeful, predatory smile.