Merrin fell backwards, the white of his dress shirt soaked with red. He fell backwards, his shoes finding no traction on the floor, crashing to the floor of the stage. Silhouette drew her gun as one of the lighting technicians abruptly whipped his spotlight around to where the shots had run rang out.
On the other side of the throng, she could see Toriares, gun in the air, firing off warning shots, trying to get the people out. Silhouette turned--she wanted to run -- her instincts told her to run, but she couldn't. She felt like she was ripped out of time and put in that spot.
He looked at the stage. Merrins wife, whose face was red from screaming and streaked with tears, was cradling his body. Her voice was raw, and it almost felt like she was screaming higher than the human ear could hear, but Silhouette could hear her just fine.
"The job?" Toriares asked.
Toriares found it contemptuously difficult. Red had vigor, but no finesse and less precision. The stinging pain of Toriares strikes only seemed to make her angrier and more reckless.
They were pushed from the cruiser onto the grounds of Dragos' base.
Dragos looked almost entirely mechanical and was as wide as a tank. Bright as the suns were, the metal of his armor never caught a glimmer of reflected light and he seemed to be permanently in shadow, as if even the sun rejected him.
After a quarter hour of making his way towards the ziggurat, he noticed the jungle clearing and dense tree lines shot through with footpaths.
Kienan looked around for any other signs of life and tore his tattered vest off his body as he reached into one of the pouches on his belt. He pulled out a long cylinder and quickly snapped off the end, revealing a sterile needle.