A handful of others had found escape routes too, I noted. Merchants were crossing the parking lot at a run, or helping wounded buddies limp away. We weren’t so conspicuous.
Let’s hope we don’t run into Spitfire out here.
Hell, it’s entirely possible Spitfire is actively looking, if Faultline did indeed spot Taylor catching the papers.
I hurt. I’d been cut on the arm, and I’d taken my lumps in too many other places to count. My knuckles and fingertips were scratched raw from climbing the walls of the maze and moving rubble, my cheekbone throbbed where I’d been elbowed, and my fucking contact lenses were still irritating.
Oww.
Never ever something I could get used to, even with other things taking up my attention.
Heh, yeah, sounds about right.
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