“Ladies and gentlemen, the passengers of flight 1281 - destination Gothica - may now proceed to the boarding gate.”
All passengers rushed to the doors and formed a somewhat orderly queue - all except Zyron. The Cybran remained seated, gazing at the ticket he held in his bionic hands, given to him by… well, by someone the cyborg did not know for sure. But Zyron knew what this ‘someone’ had done - this ‘someone’ had freed him from his torpor at a stasis chamber, in Malridina’s maximum security prison, in Zothe. This mysterious liberator had left the ticket right before the cyborg’s shackled feet, along with a false passport, and he had - somehow - overridden the prison’s electrical systems in order to spur a massive prison break - although Zyron was one of the few able to trespass the prison’s giant walls. Three hours had passed since then, and the Cybran was now at Malridina’s spaceport, meditating on these events before roaming to the independent planet.
A few of the passengers in the boarding line giggled at Zyron’s outdated appearance. He was wearing a khaki suit with a plaid shirt beneath it, as well as plaid socks and leather shoes. They did not see the elusive Cybran lawbreaker and Zothe’s public enemy number one; all they saw was a human in his late fifties, dressed in an obsolete outfit and probably scared of flying off-planet, given that he remained seated, staring at his ticket. That was one of Zyron’s greatest advantages - as a Cybran, he could make others see something different from what he really was. On the outside, he could be anyone he wanted others to reckon, but he always remained the fearsome, cold-blooded cyborg criminal on the inside…
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the last call for boarding flight 1281 - destination Gothica. Last call for flight 1281 - destination Gothica.”
Zyron finally stood up and walked up to the boarding door. He had no luggage whatsoever; all he carried was the ticket and the illegal passport that, in a few moments, would take him away from that planet, where he was reviled and dreaded, and drop him off in Gothica, where he was not even heard of, and where he expected to find the enigmatic soul that freed him. The Cybran presented his documents to the lady at the counter before the boarding gate. She checked them briefly before handing them back to him.
“Thank you. Enjoy your flight, Mr. Shaller-”
Security arrived on the scene. Zyron quickly took his documents from the lady’s hand and darted into the gate.
“Stop him!” The guards started firing on the Cybran escapee, but to no avail. The cyborg had dropped a smoke bomb right at the jetway’s entrance, hindering his pursuers from shooting at him accurately. Nevertheless, a few daring guards passed through the smoke, only to meet Zyron in his ‘war form’ - a brawny android with a maroon painting and a very, very inimical countenance. The Cybran did not even allow them to gasp: his mechanical arms turned into long, shiny blades that sliced them to pieces faster than the blink of an eye. The blades then retracted and assembled themselves as Zyron’s robotic arms, just as quickly as they had extended before. His index’s fingertip gave place to a bright laser beam with which he wrote a sentence on the jetway’s floor. The Cybran then walked past his writing; he stretched forth his arm and drew a handful of small proximity mines from his metallic forearm, dropping them as he walked towards the hallway’s corner. Turning to his left, Zyron walked the rest of the path that led to the spaceship’s entrance. A most polite flight attendant welcomed “Mr. Shaller” aboard - no longer a conservative elder, but now a stalwart, handsome man in his early thirties wearing a navy blue suit, polished leather shoes, and smooth white gloves that matched his shirt.
“Nobody move,” the security chief instructed to his colleagues. Standing between their fellows’ slaughtered corpses and the proximity mines, the team beheld the message left by their wanted man: ZOTHE IS FREE… FOR NOW.
One of the guards approached his superior: “What do we do now, sir?”
“Now we call a medical team to take care of these poor fellows while we go back to our patrolling routine,” replied the security chief. “The Ravager has beaten us… one more time. Hopefully the last.”
“But we could warn the vessel's captain-”
"No one in that spaceship can stop that killing machine,” the security chief answered. “However, he won't do anything dangerous as long as he doesn’t suspect anything; therefore, the trip we’ll be a lot smoother and safer if no one in that ship finds out who he really is. Understood?”
“Good… alright, boys,” said their superior as they left the hazardous jetway , “back to work.”