The charge brushed up against the cluster. Tight-knitted, each cell moved as though it were a connected, inseparable part of the greater unit. No cell for itself.
The current ran through the unit, igniting each piece, a small jolt. Like the mother of the bride before a surprise baby shower; too big a smile, eyes that blinked too fast — a perverse tone of suppressed joy that would provide Freud with more questions than answers.
A word that would always be unspoken unless addressed in code; the big C, that C-word. As if speaking the name would spark something bigger than the individual cells, bigger than the cluster. Enough magic to unite opposing cells, packed tightly in darkened, unhealthy groupings.
The power of the current radiating through them, eventually it would kill them, eat them alive, and still, in dramatic verse and hushed tones that C-word would cross their lips. Breeding more magic, feeding it more power. Each of them doing their best to rage against its power. Her power. Something that intoxicating, that powerful had to be female in energy. What was more deadly, more harsh, than a woman?
It threatened them, the existence of the unit as a whole; yet, the charge, the current, the white-hot sear, it brought them to life. Blazing down. Pulling everything in, until it stopped.
Until each cell was empty, void of the rush. Left aching, longing, wanting more. The big C, that C-word. Less of her, less of them, each go around. The enemy of the enemy can only stay friendly for so long. Something so all consuming — rage, power, control, the high of being better than — would continue to prey upon the sinew until it was left bare and exposed, large, gaping holes into the very fabric of their being. Everything each cell was, the unit as whole, left a bloody mess. Painfully shred apart from the inside out.
Individually, each cell would fall under the weight of the dichotomy, under scrutiny. Judging each other; did someone get more juice? more ammo? why not them? Each cell withering away, consumed, turning against what was once called a friend. There would be no looking inward, no cell would realize their own weaknesses.
A dying cluster, a sad excuse for a unit, a group of cells dark and vapid on the inside, banded together by a poison so deadly. With its death, its importance zapped, it would leave behind a body, lighter in its load, but wholly living for itself. Each cell, each cluster, each moment of each day free from such noxious traders trying to take root, take over.
She would reign supreme, her own power radiating light. Fending off the darkness waiting to try to take her down again.