The next two seconds happened so quickly and yet so slowly that Newt felt as if he’d been transplanted to a dream, where nothing made sense. Keisha had pulled out an old-school revolver from seemingly nowhere, as though it had materialized through a magic spell. Even as her arm jerked up, even as it let out the pop-pop of two shots, the soldier who’d been talking ignited her weapon, firing that strange flash of lightning along with its thwack of thumped air, an almost silent thunderbolt that was felt more than heard. Blue energy arced across Keisha’s face and she screamed a bloody shriek of murder and pain. Her body collapsed to the ground, arms and legs shaking with spasms. Little Dante was less than a foot from her, and for the first time since they’d met, he began to wail like the child that he was. The combined sounds of their anguish—mother and son—was enough to ignite a cauldron of rage inside Newt, coursing through his veins like flooded pipes.

He yelled–a primal, animal yell–and ran for the closest soldier, who stood there as if stunned, doing nothing, his weapon pointed at the pavement. The woman who’d shot Keisha was down on both knees, nursing a wound to her stomach. The third soldier lay flat on the ground, a crimson pool of blood widening beneath his or her bullet-shattered helmet. Newt dove at the only one standing, the one who seemed at a complete loss.

Newt’s shoulder crashed into the person’s chest, even as the man—at least Newt thought he was a man—shouted a muffled cry for help into whatever communication system the soldiers used. Newt’s arms wrapped around him, the momentum of his dive catapulting both of them to the ground in a violent tackle, the other man’s weight cushioning the fall. On some level, Newt knew he was being reckless, that an irrational rage had consumed him, that he was being... unstable. But that didn’t stop him from screaming again, from sitting back on the soldier’s stomach, from reaching forward to grab the man’s helmet with both hands and lift it, slam it back into the ground. He lifted it again, slammed it again. This time he heard a crack and a whimpering groan of pain that faded like a last breath.

The soldier’s entire body went still.

Newt’s breaths were pouring into his chest like a bellows, his chest heaving so much that he almost fainted, almost swooned off the man. But then another kick of adrenaline burst through him. He felt invincible. Elated. Hysterically euphoric. While still tethered to reality enough to know that the virus was changing him more and more each day. This would be his life soon. Seeking the thrill and feast of enacted rage.