The Sabre streaked across Omicron Alpha towards Malta, quite literally the mode of transport for a ghost. It was an old Sabre, paint peeling, guns scarred from use, and engines pitted. But it flew nonetheless; shields, engines, weapons all powered by a superhuman force. It approached the docking ring, which hesitantly granted it permission to dock. The ship piloted through the atmosphere and set down on a landing pad.
Apparently the dock authority had noticed that the ship was decommissioned and had been used as a grave. This would normally set off alarms. The alarms were, in fact, set off on that day by that ship. The Sabre was quickly surrounded by elite troopers, assuming that some grave-digging bastard had decided to hijack a tomb. Boy were they wrong.
Without opening the hatch, Vincenzo phased through the Sabre, walking because it had always been his habit to walk, like most humans. Suffice to say, this was unnerving for the guards. Guns were hefted with what could best be called trepidation. One was unlucky enough to be the closest to Vincenzo. He reached out and touched him with his hand that appeared to be made of blue mist with the occasional lightning bolt of electricity coursing through. The man spasmed uncontrollably, eyes flickering beneath closed eye lids. Vincenzo hadn't meant for this to happen, but now that it was he couldn't stop it. And he didn't entirely want to.
The other guards started shooting, but the shots went through him. He looked up slowly, eyes beginning to glow red. They each took a collective step back, and years of discipline and training was all that kept them from running. Eventually the poor fool that had been touched fell to the ground, unconscious, and Vincenzo set out to see what he could do. Test his potential. It was good to be alive again. Or at least half alive. Beggars can't be choosers.
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