THUP-THUP-THUP-THUP.

Even with the silencers, it's a hellish racket as the air is filled with enough lead to poison someone. There's no way we didn't clip him, but I've already lost sight of the prick, and my mag is most definitely empty—

Something hits me square in the back. Hard. Hard enough to throw me a good few feet across the roof. I skid across the gravel, coming to a rest right on the lip of the roof. All the shit that's hit me tonight is starting to figuratively speak up all at once, and I'm feeling a little more than bruised. Shit, that hit might've fractured something. Or the landing. I look up just in time to catch Saba throwing down with the prick.

In the span of me getting knocked over here, it looks like he's managed to partially field strip her AM-77, and they've devolved into brawling. Saba swings high, he ducks low. She throws a knee, he side-steps it. I know for sure that she's trained in hand-to-hand, but McNamara's making it look like she's a toddler trying to hit a championship boxer. I stagger to my feet. Yeah. That was definitely a rib. Not the first time that's happened.

He doesn't even look like he's trying to hit her. She's just swinging and catching air every time. Though, at least he's moving slow enough I can keep a bead on him. Deep breath. I sprint across the roof, getting ready to catch him while his back is turned to me—

An elbow to the jaw for my efforts. I tumble back to the ground again, the world's spinning around me. Prick didn't even turn around. Back to my feet for another go. By the time I'm back up, it looks like Saba's had some luck. She's got him by the right forearm and she's hurling hooks into his jaw and chest. He doesn't seem to slow down one bit, twisting unnaturally to slip from her grasp. Godsdamn.

He thumbs his nose, wiping off a bloody nostril in the process.

“Well. You landed a hit. Congratulations.”

I don't even have time to retort before he's looking to knock me down again. He throws a kick, nearly catching me in the side. A half-hearted block is the most I can manage, but he sends me flying straight into Saba. Not the most comfortable landing for me, but I figure she could care less, given that she doesn't seem to stumble under my weight.

Face flat in the gravel again. This is getting tiring. He's just playing with us at this point. Again. Back to my feet. It's almost repetitive. I get up to intercept, and I'm thrown to the side like a dishrag. Then he turns his attention back to Saba. Throwing a few cautious punches into her ribs, before resuming his intricate dodging dance. He knows that I'm not that much of a threat to him, and fully well knows that if Saba gets a hold of him, he's dead.

The only cards I have in my hand are playing the distraction game. Even if it's getting me bloodied and bruised up. Stand up. Get hit. Thrown to the ground. Rinse. Repeat. Every once and a while, she gets lucky and clips him. Sometimes a grazing hit across his jaw, sometimes a solid hit to the chest. Still, he doesn't stop. He might be getting bruised up, but for a normal person, getting hit by someone that big and that synth muscled up? That’d be a death sentence. Internal bleeding at minimum. Easily broken bones. The guy must have bones of steel. Figuratively.

Unfortunately, despite my efforts, Saba is definitely slowing down. Every time I get back to my feet, I can see it. Strikes going wide well before McNamara even dips. Swings carrying a lot less impact than they should've. Fuck. I wish I could do more. I spit out a mouthful of blood. I'll go for the AM-77. I can get the mag from Saba's partially disassembled one. I'll shoot the prick in the back. I'll end this.

I stumble. There's a non-zero chance I've got a concussion. Feeling like I'm viewing the world at a slight angle. I can't tell if the rifle's getting closer or further. I stumble again. Deep breath. This burns hard. It's just within arms reach.

I hear something hit the ground hard behind me. I turn to look. McNamara's in my face for a second before I feel myself catching air. Right into the storage shed. I feel the corrugated metal bend behind me. At least the temporary shock from the hit numbed the hurt elsewhere. It takes a few seconds for my vision to stop being so blurry, and the first thing I see is Saba on the ground. She's bloodied up, but still breathing. The prick must've seen me going for one of the guns.

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I look up. McNamara's got my AM-77. Beaded right on my skull.

“Any last words, Chambers? Not that anyone besides me will know them.” He cracks a toothy grin, his nose freely dripping blood into the smile that nearly takes up the bottom half of his face.

“You're a dumbass.”

Not my best line. I definitely could've done better. The only reason I know that he pulled the trigger is a heavy metallic click that fills the air. He didn't realize the magazine was empty. He racks the chamber back and forth a few times, apparently assuming that it's jammed. Again. Click. An exaggerated sigh as he releases the mag, turning on a heel and grabbing the spare from Saba's discarded rifle.

He loads it up. Chambers a round… Heh.

“Let's try this again—”

Well. Guess this beats getting the crap beaten out of me for another five minutes straight. I close my eyes.

BANG.

I—What? I'm… Definitely not dead.

BANG.

I open my eyes. McNamara looks just as confused as I am. He drops my AM-77. I can hear the crunching of heavy feet on the gravel behind him. I put it together quicker than I should've. He's not confused. He's just been shot.

Bobrovnikov just saved my ass. With the shotgun I didn't bother to bring with me. I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially because I'm not sure how bulletproof this prick is. My second wind hits me like a truck.

To my feet. This time it's an even playing field. He's fucked up. I'm fucked up. I'm about to make him even more fucked up. Right hook. Left hook. It's jarring to feel my fists connect with something. Maybe the Thread isn't too happy with him having the audacity to get hit. He's reeling. Knee to the chest. Elbow to the back of his neck as he doubles over. I'm being sloppy, but I don't think it matters.

I wanted my crew back. Left hook again. Not revenge. Another right hook. Now I want both. Maybe it's being a little bit petty that getting the shit beaten out of me was enough to want to return the favor. Bobrovnikov just watches at this point. Probably wondering how the hell such a broken man is putting up such a fight.

My swings are getting sloppier as my body is telling me to slow down. I hit him square in the face. That bloodied nose just got a little bit more bloody. I've got a few feet of distance from him now.

I pivot back around to grab my rifle while he's discombobulated. The rifle that he thankfully reloaded for me.

“Have a nice trip to the afterlife, prick.”

I squeeze down on the trigger. The most I can physically register is the recoil getting a little out of hand. The kick of the gun causes me to gray out slightly before I realize that I've sent McNamara hurtling over the edge of the roof. Straight down three stories with a chestful of lead. I'm sure he's dead.

“Kid. Seriously?” I can hear Bobrovnikov laughing from behind me. “Killed a man, and that's the best you could come up with?”

“Alexei.” I shake my head. That sounds weird to say. I don't think I've ever addressed him by his first name. “I just spent the past few minutes getting the crap beaten out of me. That is the best I can come up with.”

Saba joins in with laughing. I can't complain. At least she's still breathing.

----------------------------------------

It's funny to think that the only person walking without a hobble is Bobrovnikov. I guess he got his replacement leg in the time that I was gone. I figure I could sleep for a few days after this. I don't remember the trip to the parking garage being this long. Might be the busted ribs. I shouldn't laugh, because all it's going to do is make it hurt more. We're all quiet, given that we know that we're not out of the woods yet. We still have to get back to the Slag in one piece.

The Road Dominator is just up ahead. Time to see if McNamara was lying or not. I hold myself back from bursting into a run. Mostly because it's hard to burst into a run at this point. Bobrovnikov pops the doors with his commlink, and I swing the back open with all the strength I have left—which isn't much in reality.

Springbok. Spot. Magpie. Flash. They all look a little worse for wear, but I probably look worse. Part of me is expecting a unified cheer. Instead, I get a roasting.

“Luc, man. Who hit you with a truck?”

“Took you long enough, Luc.”

“You shouldn't keep a girl waiting like that, Luc.”

I can't even tell who's roasting me with what.