We move side by side up the hallway, guns in our faces, guns at our backs: one of us built like Atlas, one like Charlie Brown; one of us probably good as dead, one dead already. Only one of us is silent. Gould mutters as we move forward—I catch snatches of Tara, her father, lousy career choices, but after one abortive attempt to strike up a dialogue with Strickland— “You think you’re so smart, Tara? You realize this isn’t even Prophet, it’s just some grun—” “Jesus, Nathan, give it a fucking rest.” —he stops talking to anyone but himself. I’m still unsteady on my feet. The floor seems to shift under me with every step, and it’s only when Strickland hisses “Seismic tremor!” that I realize this is bigger than me. We move into a broad lobby just in time to see a ceiling full of decorative masonry shake loose eight meters overhead. That speeds things up. Suddenly the goons are bursting with really useful information like The fucking ceiling! and It’s coming down!
