Subject A250: The Fallen

Thirteen: Crossfire

Flint charged into the room, hitting the closest guard from behind with a Launcher grenade. Blue sparks shot out from the man's back and he collapsed to the floor almost instantly. At the sound of his body hitting the floor, those nearby turned, and Trace and Flint's location was immediately given away. Trace followed after Flint, firing her own grenade and hitting the next closest guard as he turned around to aim at them. She dived to the side, hiding behind a crate as the return fire came, narrowly escaping a shot to the leg. Flint had dived in the other direction, behind another nearby crate, and had already begun firing again, this time over the top of his box.

Trace peeked up and over her own, trying to discern the best possible route to take to the Berg. She couldn't help but notice the drama unfolding on the far side of the room, at the open hatch door. Brenda had been hit, and Trace watched as Thomas and Newt carried her up the ramp and into the safety of the hatch. Thomas yelled out as a bullet grazed his leg. A bullet. This was a gunfight and Trace was standing among the enemy. She turned to Flint, who looked at her with wide eyes-- an expression that probably mirrored her own. He'd taken down the guards who were close by and an immediate threat, but many more remained.

"We have to run," he mouthed at her, pointing towards the Berg.

She knew what he meant. They had to run through the crossfire if they were going to make it before the Berg took off.

She stared at him, uncertainty plastered across her face. Could she trust him? Flint just nodded--probably not reading her mind, but insisting it was their only option. Trace looked out to the battleground once more and took a deep, steady breath.

Just then, Thomas collapsed to the floor, hit by a Launcher. He began to convulse.

Flint held up five fingers. Four. Three. Two...

And, on one, they ran. Immediately, the sounds around them amplified as bullets shot past and grenades bounced to the floor beside them. Trace's heart was racing faster than she'd thought was humanly possible, pounding so violently in her chest that it actually hurt. In any other circumstance, she may have screamed a battle cry, but some odd, irrational part of her believed any sound would only attract bullets, as if the enemy hadn't already spotted two kids sprinting through the middle of their battleground.

Newt and Minho were at the bottom of the ramp, beating the living daylights out of two guards, while Jorge stood between them, firing Launcher grenades into the Hangar at the remaining guards.

Trace kept running, the finish line in sight. Panting, she realised she was about halfway there when there was a sudden zip right beside her --too close-- followed a flash of hot, fiery pain in her side. Trace stumbled forward, releasing that scream she'd been holding in, purely out of shock, impulse, and agony. She'd been shot.

Flint threw an arm around her waist to support her and fired a grenade at the guard who'd shot her, sending him to the ground. He'd snuck up beside them from around the back of the Berg and across the room to fire at relatively close range.

Trace winced and continued to run. Jorge had made his way back up the ramp and into the Berg, and Thomas had managed to crawl his way up there somehow. Newt and Minho were backing up, retreating into the hatch, firing back at the guards. Minho glanced over at Trace and Flint, who had finally made some decent ground and were, in fact, almost there.

"No way!" he shouted. "She's not coming!"

Newt turned to see what Minho was yelling about. He grabbed his friend and pulled him back towards the ship. "Get in!" he screamed to Flint and Trace, without so much as a second thought, turning his Launcher in their direction to cover their backs. Jorge yelled something at the boys, and turned and ran into the Berg, making his way through to the cockpit, assumedly.