You are on your knees in the wreckage of a downtown alley. The world tilts, a nauseating carnival ride. The hot, insistent pulse in your gut is your own blood, welling up between your fingers where you press down, just like she taught you.

Above, the sky is a bruised purple, streaked with the afterburn of repulsors and alien energy weapons. The distant wail of sirens and the panicked shouts of civilians are a muffled roar, like listening from underwater.

Your comms unit, crushed somewhere under your ribs, crackles with static and broken phrases.

From the mouth of the alley, a shadow falls across the broken pavement.