[“Shut up,” she says, as if she's not the one spitting into empty air. Heavy steps, pacing, clambering—mind games, they’ve got to be. Caitlyn’s breathing heavily enough without it; her arm hurts. It’s not helping.

[Distance be damned. The mouth of hell emerges from the smoke. Caitlyn reevaluates—up, down, any angle at all—then goes still. The rifle rests along her better arm, pointed straight out.

[Blue eyes to pink.]

You.

[Affected.]