Someone knocked me to the ground. I smacked my funny bone on a chunk of gravel and bit my tongue. Blood and pain blossomed in my mouth, adding to my disorientation. I tucked my legs up to my chest to prevent the feet stampeding around from trampling me, and mentally tested my other extremities. Arms: check. Chest and stomach: check and check. Head: check. Nothing else hurt. I wasn’t shot. Men shouted, ordering him to drop his weapon. Footsteps scuffled in all directions, around me, over me, and other voices shouted my name, Trance’s name. I peeked one eye open and found myself gazing into a purple one. Face-to-face with Trance, laying flat on her back on the damp pavement, head sideways. She blinked. Neither of us moved. “Trance!” Cipher’s voice, getting closer. Something red had splattered Trance’s cheek. Farther down, just above her right breast, where the silver armored tank top failed to cover flesh, blood flowed in a thin stream under the slick fabric of her uniform and puddled on the cement by her arm.
