Seventh Seraph Robes
Bereft of guidance and sanctuary.
Chapter 2: Crashes
The first bolt of lightning sent static up Voronin's arm and filled the atmosphere around him with a pungent chlorine-like smell. His hand went to his chest without thinking, as if to make sure he was fully intact. His gaze shifted as a second bolt hit the ground near him, then another. He had never seen lightning so close before. Stunned, he stood his ground; while part of him knew he should be frightened for his life, he was more perplexed than afraid.
There was no rain. He looked toward the horizon, expecting clouds, expecting something, and only saw a shimmering curtain of blue lightning sifting toward him.
He raced for shelter in the surrounding field, abandoning his munitions container in the dust kicked up by his fevered stride. The strikes razed the ground, sparking wildfires and scorching stone. There was no logic to their timing, with bolts crashing so frequently, the sound of the thunder couldn't catch up.
He'd lost Morozova in the commotion. Already drained from hours spent hauling cargo, his mind recessed into primal instinct. RUN.
So he ran, doing his best to avoid the apocalypse that surrounded him. A call came through his earpiece as the ground quaked beneath him: "… auxiliary evac station…" was all he could make out before a roar of thunder swallowed the transmission.
He knew he needed to head west toward the station. The wind picked up and blew him off his feet, and again he felt a moment of sheer amazement at the storm's sudden ferocity. He hit the ground hard and checked his sensorium. It was scrambled from all the sinuous electricity undulating through the air, but he could just barely make out his compass. West. He ran.