There's blood. On her hands, on her clothes, on the ground around her-- it mixes with the grease and oil and sweat, coating everyone in a thin layer, weighing heavy on them all.
Not all the blood on her is her own. Not all the blood on her belongs to others.
Gashes and cuts and bruises, entry wounds and exit wounds and the open wound where she'd pulled a broken knife blade from the gap in her leg armour.
She's standing up, fighting for traction, her rifle raised against the enemy. She knows how to use a gun. She knows. She knows.
She's jumping from rooftop to rooftop. One misstep and she's dead. It's not like this is the first time she's done something risky.
She knows where to go. She knows the streets. The streets haven't changed. They'll never change.
Her leg is going to give out on her, she knows. She's injured, she knows. Her lungs are filled with dust, she knows. Her glasses are almost broken, she knows.
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