Light and nippy though the car was, the Turbo had a heavy engine. Brigid was counting on that—once it began to roll, it would keep going. Another crimson beam of energy cut the air before her, blasting just six inches in front of the windshield and casting the whole interior of the car in a bloody red glow. She clung on for dear life as the vehicle slammed against the crash barrier and flipped, leaving the road entirely as it twirled through the air. Amid the shrieks of lasers and the rat-a-tat of the conventional guns, the barrier strike seemed soundless. Then she was upside down with the car still flipping, its heavy engine drawing it slowly along its x-axis even as it flipped again 420 degrees along its lengthwise y-axis. She couldn’t picture the map to the city because there was no map, Brigid recalled now. There was no map, no history. An hour ago she had entered a dingy little shack in the back street squats of Hope and paid a man to pump her with glist and send her on a journey into the traum wirklichkeit.
