tl;dr – Blew up a Legion in my Stratios, but pilot self-destructed, so no explosion. Sadface. Poetic, rather than analytic style.
She is tantalizingly beautiful, her solid but graceful silhouette framed by the stars as she fondles a priceless relic perched upon a standing stone monument. Her touch dances lightly over the artifact’s rough surface, pitted by years of exposure. I approach quietly, knowing her tendency to dash away at the slightest provocation. As I draw closer, I have time to allow my eyes to caress the smooth lines of her outstretched arms, and the delicate curves of her gold-clad torso sparkling in the starlight. I admire the smoothness of her gait as she continues her solitary dance.
My approach is interrupted as she darts away unexpectedly, suddenly disinterested in the former object of her affection. Then, her attention captured by another, indistinguishable to my eye from the first, she again settles into a gentle orbit about its pedestal. Her gaze fixes upon this new relic, and she reaches out once more to trace delicate patterns with ethereal fingers.
Incautious now, desperate for her, and fearful I might forever miss this opportunity if I allow second thoughts, I plunge forward, burning for her. I’m approaching fast, too fast, but when our eyes lock, I know she is mine, though, for the moment, at arm’s length. She turns as if to flee, but finds her flight disrupted, and cannot bring herself to leave my gentle grasp. She slows, entangled in a gossamer, but unbreakable spider’s web, then turns towards me, and we embrace. Her glistening gold apparel shines in stark contrast to the dirt and wear on my own white and red uniform, stained by weeks of travel and still bearing the marks of a previous battle.
I press against her golden curves like a pirate ship cutting through the gentle swells of the sea. Pressing, bumping, pressing, caressing. She begins to respond, allowing her gossamer shroud to slip away, then restoring her garments playfully as I gently slide them from her shoulders.
I sense a growing tension within her as my embrace grows more ardent, and a heated haste to her formerly playful efforts to restore her garments. Consumed by my own passion, and distracted by her ruddy skin peeking through exposed under-layers, I fail to notice as she grows cold, and disinterested, suddenly sluggish and passive, no longer responding welcomingly to my attentions. I pause, concerned. Are my intentions now indeed unwelcome? Is she expecting another? Am I to be discarded, relegated to the status of yet another former object of her attentions?
She slumps, lifeless.
I drop her corpse in shock, realizing suddenly that she wrought her own destruction while within my very embrace.
No graceful dance now, no fireworks, no suddenly beautiful explosion as our passionate embrace reaches its desired and justly inevitable conclusion.
Only a cold, still wreck, as her spirit flies.
Her flight leaves us equally unsatisfied, for Legion as she is, her soul is diminished, and I am left alone to mourn her fatally self-inflicted wound, gather her effects, and seek satisfaction elsewhere.