The run feels exaggerated as the Juice courses through his system, arms swinging in long arches out and above his head, legs stretching to impossible lengths, feet tramping and slightly sinking into rubbery ground. It’s worse when he comes to the edge of the roof, to the gap where one building ends and other begins. He pauses, hesitates and the bullets fly rocket past him, ripping little circular bubbles of puffy white air in their wake. His feet clam up and the ground wraps around them. He’s been lucky so far but as he glances back, spying the gunmen firing madly at him and yelling insults indistinguishable from the noise in his head, pushing it again feels wrong. Still, as the bullets fly he leans back, jumps and smacks his belly into the edge of the adjacent roof. Hands scrambling like a cat clawing for safety on the edge of some luxurious and godly couch, he loses his grip and drops to the alleyway below. His back aches. His head screams. And above it all, a beeping noise rise. Something is pressing into his back. And he lays for a minute before realizing it is a landmine.


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