The overwhelming terror fell away in time with the Butcher’s collapsing body, horror blooming in its place. The horror was mine, not forced—natural under the circumstances. I knew better than to use that command, but the fear forced upon me had robbed me of reason and left only base instinct in its wake. Two of us with our casual costumes and some basic, police issue equipment. A dozen and a half murderous outlaws kitted out armor and weapons fashioned from the bones of their victims, painted with the blood of those who stood defiant and failed to stop them.

Was it any wonder I lashed out with the worst my horrible power had to offer?

“Run!”

Licit’s propensity for gambling and drinking and his not so subtle flirtation had left a negative impression on me from the first day Director Armstrong paired us together. As I watched the great, bulbous globes of gleaming light blossom between us and the gobsmacked Teeth left standing over the crumpled corpse of their leader, I could have kissed him. His barriers could only take so much abuse before failing, but they were many, and they were layered. Enough to hold back the tidal wave of blood and bone and steel long enough for me to get a head-start running.

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There was no running from the roar of indignation, no escaping the jeers and taunts and the barely heard whispers of empathetic sympathy.

[Toro: You fucking CUNT!! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!]

He was stuck in my head, just like the rest of them. No body, no power. A voice and nothing more. He can’t hurt me, I told myself.

Three weeks, two days, and one moment of weakness. That’s how long I lasted before Toro made good on that threat.