You know what they say. "When life turns into the set of a Michael Bay movie, things have hit the<span style="font-style: italic">fan</span>."<br/><br/>Harbinger disappeared in a blaze of burning energy, as did half the platform inside and the vast majority of the Collectors.<br/><br/>"BOOYAH!," John taunted. "WHAT HAVE YOU GOT FOR FIERY BEAM OF DEATH? YOU GOT NOTHIN' FOR FIERY BEAM OF DEATH! YOU'D BETTER GO BACK TO ATARI, BUG-BOY, 'CAUSE YOU DON'T GOT GAME ENOUGH FOR--"<br/><br/>THIS FORM WAS REDUNDANT. ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL.<br/><br/>"That is<span style="font-style: italic">incredibly</span>unfair." He did the smart thing: to make like a librarian and book it as the frontal portion of the Collector ship began to collapse. CrapcrapcrapcrapcrapWHOA THAT WAS CLOoookay, okay, dodged that and OH SWEET GIBLETS okay, tanked that one.<br/><br/>Metallic chitin and empty, bulbous stasis pods rained down, up, and from sideways as the ship's internal gravity went haywire. John ducked and wove through the debris, rapidly toggling the settings on his mag-boots as he jumped, wall-ran, slid, and slipped past obstacles. Pained metal groans echoed through the dying vessel as it split in two, the errant Solar cursing freely all the while.<br/><br/>The vessel split further, the gap widening between the two halves. Far too wide for a safe jump. Okay, too far. Think fast, think fast--wait a minute. John tapped the side of his helmet. Variable zoom still worked, then. There we go. An opportunity--Collectors, scattered in the void, still living, still firing. He'd forgotten that they were capable of surviving for extended periods in vacuum. Good. He had a bridge. With a grunt of effort, he gathered his biotic energies once more and charged, burning through the last of his Essence reserves to keep the mental strain away as he charged again and again. It felt almost like pinball, strangely enough. And while he was neither deaf, dumb (debatable), nor blind, he still played a mean pinball.<br/><br/>He landed clumsily on a broken rear platform, utterly spent. Taking a moment to catch his breath, John took in the vista before him. It was equal parts horrifying and beautiful, really. Twisted metal and broken plating mingled with corpses floating gracefully in space. Brief flares erupted across both vessels' fuselages as current surged through broken circuits. In the distance, a small white sun glowed coldly in its death throes. He saw that the SSV<span style="font-style: italic">Manila</span>had lost its comm systems. Maybe he could call for backup if he could find where the collectors set up their communications equi--Hold on a second.<br/><br/>John stepped wearily towards a cracked console, which still emitted a weak glow. As he neared it, the glow strengthened, bringing up a hexagonal hologram depicting a list of command programs. He reached back behind his helmet and unclipped the VI chip stored underneath the plating, inserting it into a console port. The VI knew what to do. Meanwhile, John took a seat and reclined, watching bodies tumble past distant stars. And there he waited. For the distress signal. For help. For anyone, really. Maybe the others weren't all dead. Maybe.