[h3][color=efcc00]Archer “Griff” Griffin[/color][/h3][hr]

Thick tar-like substance invaded his lungs, spewing forth visions of fire and force, of volcanic waste blistering his senses. At least, that was how it felt. The chaos, already overwhelming before it began, had spiralled into something worse, something louder, heavier, more alive. And he was drowning in it.

The fire, the noise, the raw presence from his fellow Task Force Obsidians, all forged in sharper flames than he’d ever known. Then came the Zodiac, the arrival of a greater adversary, a new class entirely. It crushed the air from his chest, left him static in place, movement reduced to blurred water-logged cascades of pandemonium.

He swallowed hard. His mouth dry, his throat burned, both clawing at him like a hundred hungry dogs.

The bracers tugged on him, urging him to action, begging him to use them, to activate them once more and become greater than he was, just like before, when he went from useless to becoming danger himself. His mind spiralled, full of options, and the louder absence of them. Letting the gauntlets rise again, allowing himself to use them again after what happened last time, it grated on him like iron in bone. Sooner or later, he’d not likely have a choice, but now, right now, he could choose. But what if he did nothing? What if standing still was just becoming what he had always feared, a waste within. A weight for others to burden. A shadow cast by people doing the real work.

His fists clenched, nails digging into palms, knuckles whitening with tension. 

No. 

All around him, others surged. Their Noble Arms roared to life, some shining, some cracking the air, some bending light and reality. Each one moved forward. Not all cleanly, or heroically, but forward. 

His fingers unfurled, not by conscious thought, but by something else. Metal braced his hands, surging to greet him like a long lost friend. Armour laced itself over skin, not summoned, not commanded. He hadn’t called them, he had needed it, and that was enough. 

His gauntlets returned, born before he willed it. No. [i]because[/i] he willed it. Steel, weight, presence. They didn’t hum, nor shine. But they were there once again when he needed them. Quiet, heavy, and unrelenting. Just like him.

And with them came the noise, the storm inside. The gauntlets didn’t just respond to his body. They surfaced everything else too. Anger, fear, fury, frustration, it all rose to the top like oil on water. The grief didn’t vanish; it sharpened. Became a blade to carry forward.

A breath. A beat. Then…

Griff burst forward, the moment too sharp for hesitation, too loud for thought. The gauntlets didn’t weigh him down, they propelled him forward. Every step slammed against the deck, shockwaves thrumming through his bones.

Gunfire snapped in his direction. Muzzle flashes flared through the smoke like fireflies with teeth. He threw himself behind a broken chunk of bulkhead plating, one gauntlet raised to shield his face as concrete and sparks bit the air around him. He wasn’t just hiding. He was moving.

His hand found a jagged slab of runway concrete, jagged, heavy, scorched, and with a grunt, he hurled it. The makeshift missile cartwheeled through the air and smashed into the ground between two gunmen, shattering and spraying rock and force in every direction. One soldier stumbled. The other flinched.

That was all the invitation he needed.

He broke cover in a blur, low and fast. One was mid-reload, fumbling with a mag but Griff didn’t let him finish. He shoulder-checked a low crate mid-run, angling the impact to shove it into a second gunman while vaulting over it at speed. His gauntlet slammed the first man's rifle sideways, and his other fist hammered directly into the soldier’s ribs. There was a sound like a branch snapping underfoot, and the man went down, screaming.

More shouts. Another volley of shots. Griff dove behind a cargo container and hooked one arm through a cracked mooring chain. Using the leverage, he threw himself upward, just enough to land on top of the container with a clang. He hit hard on one knee, rolling to absorb the jolt, and immediately launched forward again.

Down below, one of the soldiers tracked upward, weapon raised. Griff vaulted off the edge, dropping like a hammer, feet first, but with all his body weight behind a downward punch.

[b][i]CRACK.[/i][/b]

He didn’t just floor the soldier, he cratered the deck beneath them.

Smoke. Screams. Sparks. Still more enemies coming. He couldn’t think about numbers. Couldn’t think about pain. It all blurred into the raw pressure of battle. The roar in his blood.

A crate slammed open behind him, another soldier, shotgun raised.

Griff grabbed a metal barrel from the debris beside him, and hurled it like a javelin. It slammed into the man, sending him reeling just long enough for Griff to surge forward and crush his helmet under one iron fist.

This wasn’t the same boy who flinched at Nil’s power. This wasn’t the kid afraid of the edges of his own strength. This was something else. Something grim and fast and burning. The fear, the doubt, the grief, it all still hurt. But this? This was something he could do.

And he was just getting started.