It was the only sentence that came to Shannon’s mind, and she knew it wouldn’t help. Lorraine rested her weary head in one hand, and stared deep into Shannon’s eyes.

‘Tell me you can forgive me for what I did.’

Shannon raised her eyebrows in surprise. She knew that Lorraine wanted comfort, and that comfort from anyone would do. But forgiveness was a big word to use so soon.

‘I can understand why you did it,’ she answered.

‘But tell me you can forgive me…’

Shannon’s mind wandered to the McCormick she had known and loved, who had taken her in and accepted her despite her background, and done more for her in three weeks than he ever could have known. She remembered his gentle humour, and his quiet but unrelenting love. Her thoughts rested on the first night she had met him, when he had stood over her in the clinic with his unforgettable warm smile.

A smile that would never return to Spitfire’s Rise.

‘Shannon?’

‘I can understand why you did it,’ she repeated.

*

When Oliver Roth had learned that his enemies had escaped, his main reaction was relief.

The destruction of Marshall’s office had wiped out any chance of organising Floor Z. The soldiers scouring for fictional explosives had not been told their orders had expired. The surviving insurgents were able to vanish without a trace, victorious but without their leader.

Roth was just grateful to return to his room for the night. He staggered along his Floor A corridor, the last of his energy faded after an evening that had involved a fight in a burning Experiment Chamber, a rampage through the HPFC, escorting a high-profile prisoner through the darkness, and the violent death of Iain Marshall. And Roth knew that if it weren’t for his boss’ orders to hunt the other rebels, he could have died in the blast too.

He walked into his messy bedroom, dropped his helmet onto the floor, sauntered to his bedside and collapsed onto his covers with an ear against his pillow, half-focusing his eyes towards his personal armoury. Even in his own sanctuary, he was surrounded by instruments of death.

When Oliver Roth looked back on his short life, he didn’t see much that mattered. There were a couple of old schoolmates he had liked, but he had focused more on his bullying victims. There had been vague hobbies, but his biggest efforts went on his social media presence. There had been plenty of decent teachers, none of whom he had respected. Now every one of them – from the pleasant but useless to the unbothered and ineffective – had all ended up inside their nearest Citadel. Some may have been dead.