Interlude [h.s]

ninety-seven

Elijah looks above the chaos of running men, trying to spot his teammates, but it's no use. Even if they were in his same corridor, there would be no way for him to know. There's too many people, all of a sudden. It's suffocating. He's never seen anything like it before.

Someone grabs him from behind. He elbows them in the face, trips them with a swipe of his leg and shoots. The person lets him go, but several heads turn towards him at the bang. Elijah takes a step back, then another. His back hits someone and he whirls around just in time to avoid their blow to his head. He shoots twice more, and two people fall. It's a small win against the dozens around him.

Their hands fly to their weapons. He dips through an open door and hides behind a sofa, reloading his gun. He's breathing heavily, but tries to steel his nerves. He has to focus if he wants to get out of here alive. He points his gun at the door and shoots the first three people that walk through.

In the corridor, screams ring out. A rise in gunshots tells him more of the Revolution has arrived. He makes to go out, but a man steps through the door. It's too late to avoid him—Elijah points his gun at him and shoots.

And misses. The man strikes him across the face and he plummets to the ground. Elijah rolls around—avoiding his kick to the jaw by a thread—and grabs his ankle. He pulls, and the man falls on top of him hard enough to take his breath away. He shoves him away and tries to get back to his feet, but the man swipes his leg out and Elijah falls again.

His gun slips out of his grasp and skitters down the floor. Elijah crawls towards it but the grabs his legs and pulls him back. Fingers nestle into his hair. Elijah's hands fly to his face just in time to keep his nose from being smashed into the cement. He flails, but the man is on top of him now, too heavy for him to get free. He strikes him across the back of his head, hard. His vision sinks, but he blinks away the sensation. Elijah turns his head and tries to hit him, only for his wrist to get grabbed. His hand turns and grabs the man's wrist. The man's hold is released. Elijah grabs the man's wrist harder and twists. A scream comes from behind him. The man bends forward, and Elijah takes it as his chance to shove him off. He kicks him back, hard, and stalks to his gun.

He picks it up.

The man laughs. "I'd be careful with that if I were you."

Elijah hesitates. "What?"

The other smirks. "What, don't tell me you haven't already figured it out?" He coughs, blood splattering against his hand. "After the upper floors went off just a while ago?"

Cold trickles down Elijah's spine.

"After our attack on Dacran? Are you really this dumb?" Another laugh. "My, you aren't smart, aren't you? Does the Palace not have standards anymore?" He looks him up and down. "You're not wearing a uniform, though—"

"I'm not from the Palace." Elijah nearly spits the word out. The man is staring him down, waiting for him to lower his weapon, but he doesn't. "I'm Revolution."

"You're Revolution?" the man chortles out. "How the Palace has fallen. This is hilarious." He glares at him. "Get out of here. This isn't your fight."

"You've set cities on fire. This is my fight."

"You have no idea—"

Elijah makes a show of taking the safety off. Shouts are still coming from the corridor, but neither of them miss the subtle click. "You're wasting my time."

The man smiles. "So we blew a few cities up and were ready to move in on the capital. Where do you think all that explosive is?"

Elijah halts.