"Fall back! FALL BACK!"
BANG! BANG! BANG—!
Bryan dropped an onrushing rioter with a single shot and heard the officer's command from nearby. Without hesitation, he spun and sprinted in the opposite direction.
Smoke choked the QZ. The sounds of combat and gunfire battered his ears from every direction. He ran full-tilt toward the corridor leading to the central district—District G—and spotted a soldier at the entrance waving people through. He pushed himself harder.
But just as he was closing the final distance to the checkpoint, a figure burst from a side alley. A rioter, clutching something against his chest, wearing the expression of a man with nothing left to lose. He was charging straight at the checkpoint.
Rat-tat-tat-tat—!
The checkpoint soldiers spotted him instantly. Without a beat of hesitation, they swung their barrels and opened fire.
Bullets tore into the rioter. One punched clean through his shoulder. His expression didn't change. He didn't slow.
He ripped open his jacket, revealing a belt of pipe bombs strapped around his waist.
"CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!"
The lead soldier's eyes went wide. She screamed the order at the top of her lungs, her voice carrying a tremor she hadn't noticed—equal parts terror and desperation.
Too late. A bullet was already in flight, streaking straight toward the pipe bombs on the rioter's belt.
Whether it was the satisfaction of taking so many government soldiers with him, or the grim triumph of completing his mission, the dying man smiled.
BOOM—!
The explosion was blinding. A flash of crimson light, there and gone. The entire checkpoint vanished behind a wall of smoke and debris. The shockwave caught Bryan at close range and hurled him through the air, ripping the rifle from his hands.
THUD.
He hit the ground hard. Agony ripped through every inch of his body, nearly sending him into unconsciousness. It took him a long time to come back to himself.
He clawed at the wall, dragging himself upright in a daze. He shook his head violently and slapped himself several times until his vision cleared.
The smoke ahead was thinning. Where the checkpoint had stood, there was now only rubble—twisted metal and shattered concrete blocking the path completely. He was alone.
Then he felt it: a wetness at his waist, followed by searing pain. He looked down. His combat uniform had been sliced open by something sharp, and with it, a long gash across his side. Blood flowed freely, soaking through his clothes.
"Shit!"
He pressed his hand against the wound to staunch the bleeding, head swiveling left and right, searching for an alternate route to another checkpoint.
"The checkpoint's down! It's destroyed!"
"CHARGE! Kill these government dogs!"
Voices roared from behind him. Close. Too close. Bryan's blood ran cold. Wearing a soldier's uniform, if those rioters caught him, he was a dead man.
He ran. Straight into the same alley the suicide bomber had emerged from.
Every step pulled at the wound. The pain was manageable at first, but before he'd gone far, he was grimacing with every stride, blood seeping between his fingers despite the pressure.
But between life and death, Bryan didn't dare slow down. He pushed through until he was deep enough into the alley to feel marginally safer, then finally eased his pace.
One arm braced against the wall, he moved through the narrow passage with every sense on high alert—eyes scanning ahead, ears straining behind. His free hand hovered near the pistol at his hip. If an enemy appeared, he needed to be ready for a single killing shot.
Shff, shff, shff.
He rounded a corner in the alley and saw daylight—an opening to the main street. Relief surged through him. But before he'd taken more than a few steps, the sound of many footsteps reached him from that direction. A lot of them.
He scanned left and right. A low wall jutted from the alley's side. He pressed himself behind it, drew his pistol, and peered around the edge toward the alley's mouth.
Six or seven armed rioters emerged onto the street—carrying guns, knives, and dragging an unconscious soldier between them.
Bryan held his position long after they'd passed, waiting until he was certain the coast was clear before slipping forward.
"Please! Don't kill me! PLEASE!"
He'd barely reached the alley's exit when the sound of desperate begging hit his ears. The rioters hadn't gone far. They'd gathered around a streetlamp on the road's edge.
The soldier they'd been dragging—now conscious—knelt among them, looking up at the ring of hostile faces with tears streaming down his cheeks, pleading for his life.
The rioters stared back with eyes like ice. Not a flicker of sympathy.
One of them held a length of rope. He scaled the lamppost with practiced agility, tied a knot at the top, and dropped the loop down to his companions below.
Seeing the noose descend, the others grinned. They slipped it over the soldier's head.
"No! NO!"
The soldier understood what was coming. He thrashed wildly, trying to shake free of the noose. But his hands and feet were bound. Every struggle was futile.
They cinched the loop tight around his neck, checked the fit, then signaled to the man on the lamppost.
"Watch this!"
The rioter up top shouted, released his grip, and jumped.
As his weight pulled the rope down on one side, the soldier shot upward on the other—yanked off the ground and hoisted to the top of the lamppost. The rioter landed safely below.
They watched the soldier's eyes roll back, his body twisting and jerking, and cheered. This clearly wasn't their first time.
Only after the soldier stopped moving did one of them pull out a can of spray paint. He walked to the wall beside the lamppost and sprayed a message:
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO GOVERNMENT DOGS.
Then, a short distance away, he sprayed a symbol—an insect. Something that looked like a firefly.
Bryan didn't dare watch any longer. His eyes swept across nearby cover points, calculating a path to slip past. A plan was forming.
Thud-thud-thud—!
But just as he was about to move, rapid footsteps sounded from directly behind him. Close—far too close. A wave of mortal danger crashed over him.
BANG!
Pure reflex. Bryan swung his pistol toward the sound and fired without looking, knowing the shot might draw the rioters but having no choice.
His bullet never landed. A foot lashed out and kicked the gun from his hand, sending it spinning away. The muzzle jerked wide. Then a long blade came arcing down toward his skull.
Bryan twisted sideways, dodging the slash, and snapped a kick at his attacker's legs.
His assailant had anticipated the move. They lifted their leg to avoid his sweep and, in the same motion, drove a vicious kick at his face.
"Hssss—!"
Bryan's full-force kick had missed, and the overextension tore at his wound. Blinding pain lanced through his side. He saw the incoming kick but couldn't dodge. He crossed his arms to block.
The impact was devastating. Pain shot through his forearms, the force slamming his own guard into his face. His body snapped backward, the back of his skull cracking against the wall he'd been using for cover. The world went white.
Lying on the ground, vision swimming, Bryan looked up at his attacker. Through the blur, he couldn't make out the face—but the silhouette was clearly female. She held a long, slender blade. A pendant hung from her neck, and on it, barely discernible, was the same symbol the rioter had sprayed on the wall.
A firefly.
The woman planted her boot on Bryan's chest. She raised the blade high, looking down at the dazed soldier beneath her.
"The darkness will fade. The Fireflies will build the future."
She brought the blade down toward his skull without an instant's hesitation.