Striker

"Would you please just shoot them?!"

Of course a Hunter would put it that way. As if I didn't have a perfectly viable alternative.

Beams of energy blasted around us as we quarreled from behind our cover.

"Look, I'll have this whole place cleared out in 20 seconds."

"And if you're overwhelmed? I suppose you expect us to simply charge into the fray to save you?"

Leave it to a Warlock to look for the safe way out.

"You just don't get it," I grumble.

"What?" they yell in frustrated unison amid the din of the battlefield.

"Let me guess," the Hunter quips, "your fists don't need reloading."

Chuckles all around. Time to set them straight.

"The space the bullet travels is a chasm of disconnection that can't be bridged by a gun; no amount of firepower has the means to shoulder the responsibility of personal impact." Now everyone rolls their eyes, but I press on.

"There is no distance between my fist and my target, captivated by a gift of sparks. It's very personal—one final chance to connect."

Silence.

"You want to connect with the Hive?"

All right, argument over. My fists can do the talking.