THERE WAS a sudden vacuum of air, a lack of noise that welcomed Lale as he stepped out of the hot basket for the briefest of moments, before the alarm.

The deep and droning whines dug their way into his skull, and he winced, pressing his one hand against his left ear while tightening his towel across his waist. "What the hell — ?"

"All marines to their stations," a woman's voice was barely audible through the din. Lale blinked and raised his head to the closest camera, which stared at him impassively. The intercom was right next to it. "We repeat, all marines to their stations. This is not a drill."

As suddenly as the alarm had begun to ring, the young man shook himself from his confused stupor, mentally cursing himself for wasting even a second in a moment of crisis. Lale grabbed ahold of Bradley's shoulder; the former airman was wearing the mask of pain he had himself worn a second before — but he ignored the alarm's wails and shook his friend.

"We've gotta go!" He shouted. Other men darted past them, their towels flapping behind them as they rushed to the entrance. Lale followed, then twisted to the left and slipped into his dressing room, only hoping Bradley would have half the brain to catch on to the severity of the situation — whatever that situation might be.

Lale pulled on his suit, thanking whatever god was up there that they were easily put on-able in his damp state, before he snatched hold of his verification card and put it into his pocket. A few marines he recognized headed by his door (some dressed, most not), and he followed them.

"Any idea what's happening?" He called to the leader of the pack — Xeon, Lale believed he was called. The marine half-turned and scowled at him.

"The hell you think I know?"

Lale shut up, his eyes following the curve of the white and metallic hallways. His confusion burnt in his chest, but he set it aside for later. First things first. Assess the situation. His eyes once again travelled across the institute as they ripped past glass walls, feet pounding. There's no breach; at least, not yet.

Concern replaced perplexity. If whatever-it-is has broken past the fence — the electrified fence — then what can we do? But the Lale of before — before PAST — wouldn't have asked questions. He would've done. Just another thing to add to his growing list about how he had changed while training for ERAA.

As the marines emerged from the lower levels of the PAST bunker, more people became visible. Almost unconsciously, he scanned the crowd for Amelia's signature curly hair, but he couldn't see her or Tina (something that his heart stammer in relief, at least for that moment, not that he was going to admit that).

Lale's counterparts vanished in the swell of confused and frightened people, more than he had thought even lived in the institute. Distantly, his calves burnt and his lungs labored for air, but he wasn't going to accept that — he had a job to do, and he would damn well do it.

"Lale!" He heard a familiar voice, and twisted in the throng to see Bradley, carrying a pair of volt-guns. Clever Bradley. Lale snatched the one, giving his friend a nod.

"Let's go!"

Both he and Bradley had been stationed as entrance guards; in the case of an attack, or a heavy-duty drill, they would take their places behind the metal door, open the sniper slots with their verification cards, and shoot any hostiles. Simple — back when it was a drill.

Then? Not so much.

For starters, the Learners and more uncomprehending of the marines were getting in the way; Lale unashamedly pushed two people from his path, the siren's cutting screeches echoing in his ears. They hooked a left and cut across the training and meeting facility, heading for the metal steps that would lead them into the warehouse.

Lale barely stopped in time before another man made his appearance, carrying a far more lethal .40 S&W. An antique, but something that would do the job. He glanced towards the man's face, registering with a start that the man in front of him was Ichabod.

But the Brit didn't utter a word, and nodded, as if allowing Lale to pass. He didn't hesitate, and he could hear Bradley follow. I hope he'll help us, Lale thought, launching himself with all his might onto the metal steps, catching the handrail to swing himself around the curve. Or at least get out of the way.

Finally emerging into the warehouse, the shrill alarm faded, replaced by a sound Lale had not missed — gunfire.

The repeated pop-pop-pop of an auto-rifle against the warehouse doors, already slammed shut, signaled to Lale that they were indeed under attack; and it was only he and other entrance guards that stood in their way of complete genocide.

Even if Lale hadn't missed battle, it was refreshing how sharply his senses attuned to his surroundings, and how quickly his body could ready itself for a fight. He relished it for a second before he raced to the doors, his legs screaming, and watched in mounting horror as dents appeared in the metal.

Maybe even an auto-rifle 5. Those things were nasty.

"Duck!" Someone tackled him, just as there was an earth-shattering explosion. Lale felt flames dart along his side, and the warehouse doors bursted open in a twisted mess of fire and molten metal. A female marine Lale didn't know the name of straddled him and took potshots at an enemy he couldn't see beyond the smoke, but the return fire was quick and deadly, and the woman fell in a heap at his side, her throat gushing with blood.

"Everyone take cover!" Lale yelled, and he rolled over and began crawling on his elbows, the volt-gun's strap around his neck and digging into his collar. He reached the woman, but her eyes were already blank, her hands limp and covered with the blood she had tried to stop from gushing.

I'm sorry, was all Lale could think — because this woman had saved him, and now she was lying dead on the floor — before he continued crawling towards the rusted remnants of an early 2020's model Hummer in the corner of the warehouse, sticking to the shadows. He couldn't see Bradley or anyone else, and he could only hope that they were hiding as well.

Just as he crept behind the vehicle, a unit of five hostiles entered. Lale trained his volt-gun on them, fervently wishing for something that was a lot more lethal.

Behind the veil of smoke and flame, the uniformed intruders were wearing tinted visors and carrying the heavy-artillery auto-rifles. He had guessed correctly, even though he wished he hadn't. These guys are pros. He'd have to be more careful.

Lining up his sights on the closest, a man, by the looks of it, Lale gave a quick exhalation before pulling the trigger.

A hum filled the air as the particles within the volt-gun grew charged, and a stream of yellow energy lunged out towards the man hungrily. He fell to the ground in a flurry of screams and twitches, and his gun slid across the cement floor. Not close enough for Lale to grab it, but a start.

Before he could line up the next one, a flurry of gunfire charged the Hummer, smashing cracked and brittle windows and denting the bonnet. Lale pressed himself to the back of the jeep, panting as the will to flee filled him. I'm trapped! Where the hell is Bradley?!

He was cornered, and there was no sign of his fellow marines. The reality that he was going to die washed over him, and Lale felt surprisingly peaceful. Another barrage of gunfire radiated over the Hummer, and he ducked to his knees, clutching the volt-gun in his hands and watching the four remaining intruders approach from under the car.

Or maybe not ...

Lale aimed the volt-gun beneath the rusted relic of a vehicle, going for the shoes of the enemy soldiers. He pulled the trigger again, then tried something that would probably make Field Marshal go into cardiac arrest if done in training.

Tensing his forearm and gritting his jaws, Lale swung the volt-gun in half an arc; left, right, and left again. The strain was immense, especially with his arm lowered at such an awkward height and angle, but he heard the screams of the approaching soldiers, and felt nothing more than relief.

There was a sudden calm after his return fire that felt wrong. Beyond the silence of the warehouse, he could hear screams and shouts from the perimeter. The fence must be screwed. He cautiously poked his head out from behind the Hummer, eyes scanning the gloom for anything else other than the prone bodies on the floor.

Lale didn't see any sign of able-bodied life, and, before he could think about it too much, he lunged out from behind the vehicle, and into the open.

He waited for the pain of a bullet, the ripping of his life — something that didn't come. Lale didn't hesitate, barely breathing as he scanned the area for Bradley or Ichabod; the only guy with the legit gun on their side. He noted with a pang of concern that there were only four hostile bodies on the floor; not the five of those who had entered.

His thoughts were merely confirmed when someone lunged at him from the cover of the one warehouse door, barely hanging onto its hinges, and he felt the blow of a gun's butt on his cheek.

Lale noticed three things at once while he was in the process of falling onto his butt. First off; by using the butt of their gun, and not shooting him, they were evidently out of bullets. Although deadly, auto-rifles were extremely dependent on high charges — something that this trooper probably did not have access to.

Secondly, it was a she.

And last, but certainly not least — Lale was falling straight on top of the lady's fallen comrade's gun. (A more spiritual person would've placed it on fate. But Lale wasn't a spiritual person, and it was merely his luck.)

Forgoing his own weapon — Useless piece of dank — he focused his weight onto his back and rolled to an ungainly stop, his hands clasping the auto-rifle, which he aimed right upwards and towards her face.

In tough situations, one second could mean death.

Lale didn't give himself a second. He pulled the trigger.

The seconds that followed, however, were far more unprofessional. The visor was ripped off by the momentum of the bullet, allowing him a full view of his victim's face as she fell, her mouth an 'O' of surprise, and a more prominent, bloody 'O' imprinted into her skull.

The realization doused his adrenaline with ice-cold water.

Fereldson.

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