09-25-2016, 06:29 PM
Time freezes. It’s that day. That last day before everything changed.
It had been a long one. Starting with the destruction of Samus’s power suit and the creation of a wholly new one, suffused with metroid DNA. The alteration of her very genetic make-up. The revelation that the Galactic Federation had, all along, been breeding metroids for their own purposes.
Those things were chilling, sure enough. But what was worse was that every step she took in that godforsaken space station, she was shadowed. How many parasitic copies of herself had been created in the end? At least six, she’d been told. But they’d all been destroyed when the space station crashed down on SR388, destroying the planet and all life on it. It had been a necessary step to save the universe. So she’d believed.
But had it worked? The hunter before her looked different from any of the clones she’d seen on that station. But the eyes were the same.
“X-Parasite,” whispers Samus.
“RrrAGH!” responds the Stalker, drawing its clawed hand upwards an inch away from Samus’s exposed face. “Not a parasite! SPACE PIRATE!”
“Yeah?” Samus weaved and connected with a kidney punch, before drawing her fist back and driving it again into the same spot. With every connected shot, phazon sparked forth; this one coated her hand in the blue substance. Her fist seemed to absorb it, glowing ever more strongly. “You don’t look like any Zebesian I’ve ever seen.”
Samus drew herself up to her full height. “You look like a human.”
Another crack as she head-butts the monster. But on its way down, the Stalker catches her head. Samus falls with it in order to avoid serious neck damage, but this places her in the grip of her enemy. Tendrils pull out from beneath the Stalker’s armour and wrap themselves around Samus. For a moment, they struggle. The glow of blue between them intensifies. It seems as though Samus has become the prey again.
And then Samus speaks. “Missile Storm. Initiate!”
Everything lights up. Samus can only cross her arms to shield herself from the blast as dozens of tiny missiles shoot from her shoulder-pads and she is carried upwards on the explosion. When she hits the ground, her armour is smoking.
Her HUD is flashing. It says that her armour is dangerously low on energy. With a flash and a spark, the light of her Hyper Mode goes out. As it does so, the pain in her body screams out all at once. She is only human, despite all her enhancements. But what of her opponent?
Samus leans upward. She can see a smoking crater, not deep, but enough to stop her seeing in from her prone position. She struggles upward.
So does the Stalker.
More of its armour has been destroyed now. Beneath, exposed, glowing skin. Its blood is not red, but blue. She recognises parts of herself, but unmistakably, they have been altered. It’s difficult to see when the only parts that are exposed are bloodied. Tendrils of phazon leak out from the wounds and knit themselves together. It’s not a being of pure phazon, like Dark Samus. Neither is it pure matter. It’s something … else. And it’s constantly changing.
As it steps forward, its exposed leg breaks and a beam of phazon juts out from the wound, propping it up. Its head looks upwards and Samus can see herself. Filled with hate.
“I’m putting you down,” she says.
The wings fold outward from her smoking arm cannon. Bits of dislodged metal fall down as it opens up like a tripod. It begins to spin. She raises it up.
Bullets begin to fly and tear into her enemy. At first they ping off the armour, damaging only exposed flesh. The beast steps forward. But as the hail continues, the metal begins to shatter. Bit by bit. It tears away in small chunks. The beast screams against the onslaught and raises its cannon, fighting the storm. One shot. Two. Samus stands firm as they fly past her face. Blood and gore flick out like the errant brushstrokes of a freeform artist. It collapses to one knee.
“Power low”, her suit informs her. Still Samus continues, until finally the blood explodes. She can see her own ribcage. Malformed. Exposed. Within it beats no heart, but a flickering sphere almost as wide as the chest cavity itself. As the flesh peels backwards from its form and the eyes of the Stalker roll backwards into a grotesque death mask, the sphere within is undulating like a trapped animal. It is trying to be free.
Samus disengages her cannon and dives forward. “No you don’t.” She throws her still-smoking gun arm into the nucleus of the sphere. It flashes.
She sees everything. It’s as though the Stalker’s fractured mind is flying into hers. But this can be no one memory. She sees herself in a platoon of space pirates, fighting … herself. She sees the claustrophobic corridors of the BSL space station, the entrance to the escape pod bay. Watching through a window as SR388 and the BSL station collide and explode. Phazon. Torture. Arriving in the Omniverse. Consuming. And the fight that just transpired. Rage. Anger. Helplessness.
All of these memories are now hers.
It had been a long one. Starting with the destruction of Samus’s power suit and the creation of a wholly new one, suffused with metroid DNA. The alteration of her very genetic make-up. The revelation that the Galactic Federation had, all along, been breeding metroids for their own purposes.
Those things were chilling, sure enough. But what was worse was that every step she took in that godforsaken space station, she was shadowed. How many parasitic copies of herself had been created in the end? At least six, she’d been told. But they’d all been destroyed when the space station crashed down on SR388, destroying the planet and all life on it. It had been a necessary step to save the universe. So she’d believed.
But had it worked? The hunter before her looked different from any of the clones she’d seen on that station. But the eyes were the same.
“X-Parasite,” whispers Samus.
“RrrAGH!” responds the Stalker, drawing its clawed hand upwards an inch away from Samus’s exposed face. “Not a parasite! SPACE PIRATE!”
“Yeah?” Samus weaved and connected with a kidney punch, before drawing her fist back and driving it again into the same spot. With every connected shot, phazon sparked forth; this one coated her hand in the blue substance. Her fist seemed to absorb it, glowing ever more strongly. “You don’t look like any Zebesian I’ve ever seen.”
Samus drew herself up to her full height. “You look like a human.”
Another crack as she head-butts the monster. But on its way down, the Stalker catches her head. Samus falls with it in order to avoid serious neck damage, but this places her in the grip of her enemy. Tendrils pull out from beneath the Stalker’s armour and wrap themselves around Samus. For a moment, they struggle. The glow of blue between them intensifies. It seems as though Samus has become the prey again.
And then Samus speaks. “Missile Storm. Initiate!”
Everything lights up. Samus can only cross her arms to shield herself from the blast as dozens of tiny missiles shoot from her shoulder-pads and she is carried upwards on the explosion. When she hits the ground, her armour is smoking.
Her HUD is flashing. It says that her armour is dangerously low on energy. With a flash and a spark, the light of her Hyper Mode goes out. As it does so, the pain in her body screams out all at once. She is only human, despite all her enhancements. But what of her opponent?
Samus leans upward. She can see a smoking crater, not deep, but enough to stop her seeing in from her prone position. She struggles upward.
So does the Stalker.
More of its armour has been destroyed now. Beneath, exposed, glowing skin. Its blood is not red, but blue. She recognises parts of herself, but unmistakably, they have been altered. It’s difficult to see when the only parts that are exposed are bloodied. Tendrils of phazon leak out from the wounds and knit themselves together. It’s not a being of pure phazon, like Dark Samus. Neither is it pure matter. It’s something … else. And it’s constantly changing.
As it steps forward, its exposed leg breaks and a beam of phazon juts out from the wound, propping it up. Its head looks upwards and Samus can see herself. Filled with hate.
“I’m putting you down,” she says.
The wings fold outward from her smoking arm cannon. Bits of dislodged metal fall down as it opens up like a tripod. It begins to spin. She raises it up.
Bullets begin to fly and tear into her enemy. At first they ping off the armour, damaging only exposed flesh. The beast steps forward. But as the hail continues, the metal begins to shatter. Bit by bit. It tears away in small chunks. The beast screams against the onslaught and raises its cannon, fighting the storm. One shot. Two. Samus stands firm as they fly past her face. Blood and gore flick out like the errant brushstrokes of a freeform artist. It collapses to one knee.
“Power low”, her suit informs her. Still Samus continues, until finally the blood explodes. She can see her own ribcage. Malformed. Exposed. Within it beats no heart, but a flickering sphere almost as wide as the chest cavity itself. As the flesh peels backwards from its form and the eyes of the Stalker roll backwards into a grotesque death mask, the sphere within is undulating like a trapped animal. It is trying to be free.
Samus disengages her cannon and dives forward. “No you don’t.” She throws her still-smoking gun arm into the nucleus of the sphere. It flashes.
She sees everything. It’s as though the Stalker’s fractured mind is flying into hers. But this can be no one memory. She sees herself in a platoon of space pirates, fighting … herself. She sees the claustrophobic corridors of the BSL space station, the entrance to the escape pod bay. Watching through a window as SR388 and the BSL station collide and explode. Phazon. Torture. Arriving in the Omniverse. Consuming. And the fight that just transpired. Rage. Anger. Helplessness.
All of these memories are now hers.
![[Image: 0bwAI3j.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/0bwAI3j.jpg)