Get away, I thought. The rule for the powered dealing with trumps—especially the ones that screwed with powers. I had to fight my instinct to get away faster by flying.

I ran, feeling like a coward, feeling worse because Caryatid was still on the ground. Head low and face turned away from all hints of flame, my movements stumbling as I almost bounced off of a wall in my not-quite straight run down the hall.

Purple flames that licked me turned orange as I left the house. I spotted a puddle where road met a dip at the edge of a lawn, and threw myself at it. I chanced a use of my flight to get myself to the right angle, limiting the impact as I rolled into it. The coldness of the water and the wet corner of my hood slapping my cheek was a shock to the system.

A high whine caught my attention. I turned my head and saw a man in a white coveralls, a black jacket and black winter boots pointing a janky wires-and-kid’s-building-set gun at me.

I raised my defenses, and then remembered it had burned. What did that mean? I started to fly away, and he shot me.

The forcefield took the hit, sparks flying from the point of impact, visible flashes of light traveling between raindrops like lightning. Before he could line up another shot, I changed direction, to one side, flipping around to be right-side up, a spark of light passing just to my left, and then, planting my toes on the ground to help arrest myself and give myself a physical point to orient myself around in space, flew into his legs, rising once he started tipping over.

The result was that as his feet went up, his face went down with that much more emphasis. He had the weapon in his hands, and he was unwilling enough to let go of it that he only used one hand to brace himself in the fall.

He failed utterly, and more or less met the ground face-first, landing with half of his body in the puddle.

The gun fired in the moment of impact, or out of some reflexive action, the spark hitting the edge of the lawn, conducting through the water, and making his body convulse and jerk—which included a spasmodic pull of the trigger. The spark hit the same spot, more or less, conducted into the puddle, conducting into him, which made his finger jerk—

I kicked the gun away before it could happen again.

I could hear more guns—there were enough people around and the light was bad enough that I couldn’t see who was aiming at what. I could see the glows and crackles of guns as they reached the point of being charged enough to fire, the faint illumination giving me some sense of where guns were pointed, but that only gave me a moment to react to each.