To join a fight inside the building, people may have found running outside to be a bad idea. Mav would respectfully disagree. If the terrorists had blasted a hole into the central building, why wouldn’t they do it everywhere else? 

Mav turned a corner upon reaching the building’s edge. I’m a genius!  

A gaping hole marked the wall, wafting smoke and sounds of gunfire escaping it. Mav’s training came to mind, presenting him with two options: a sensible one – which required him to survey the battlefield, register friends and foes, and then act upon the relevant data – and the correct one. 

“Preparation Rocket!” A large blast propelled Mav fifteen feet in the air. He angled himself to face the hole. “Descending Comet!” 

Mav blasted into the building. He threw his arms forward as he neared the ground and created another blast, which both slowed himself down as well as shove two people into a wall. Mav landed in a large room, facing police officers who had their guns trained on him. 

Mav leaped to the side as they opened fire. 

“I’m friendly!” Mav roared, the gunshots blasting and bullets ricocheting off the floor and embedding themselves in walls. “I’m on your side!” 

Mav raised his hands, as if in surrender. A bullet nicked his right forearm. It stung, but he’d felt far worse in his twenty years. 

“I’m here to help!” Mav said in the new silence. 

The officers hesitated. There were three of them, scattered across the room, which appeared to be a holding area for newly-arrested civilians. The cell in the corner, however, was empty except for a couple benches and shattered metal from the destroyed cell walls. And along the opposite wall, another large hole provided passage to a different room. 

From which another explosion sounded. 

“If you are,” a police woman said, “then come with us. More of those bastards are in the detaining cells with dangerous criminals.” 

Mav checked that the two he’d flung against the wall were unconscious, noting several more unmoving bodies nearby, both terrorist and officers, then rose. 

“Lead the way.” 

Most other rooms were thankfully fire-free – as well as empty aside from desks – but that didn’t make Maren’s rushed tour through the police complex any less stressful. Sounds of gunfire pounded in her ears, louder even than her palpitating heart.  

All coming from the end of the hall, to which Maren now sprinted. 

“Cover me!” a man yelled as she entered the room. 

Rows of metal shelves filled the room’s center, most of them empty. The little that remained in them, however, were rifles. Six police officers were shooting at the terrorists. Maren spotted four at a quick glance, outside the far wall which an explosive had rented open, littering the floor with brick and drywall. 

The officer who’d yelled moved forward, into the open. Two other officers veered around their protection, laying cover-fire. One foolish terrorist, however, stayed in view and aimed at the uncovered cop. Before she could pull the trigger, a pop sounded and she crumpled, a stream of blood flinging skyward. 

Maren wrapped water about herself. There was a brief lull in the police gunfire, so Maren flung her arms forward and blasted her water. As she’d thought, the terrorists peeked out from around their cover, ready to shoot. 

Then Maren’s geysers struck their faces, flinging them back. Several police officers glanced at her, then hurried forward, guns still raised. 

“Arms down!” the first officer who moved said. He was staring toward the ground, outside the hole in the wall. “Keep them down!” 

Maren also started forward, just as the officer fired his rifle three times. 

A relative silence followed as the officers hurried out the hole, or maybe that was because all the previous gunfire had muted anything quieter than a scream. 

“Hold these two and get our shit back!” the officer who’d moved said. His uniform was black like the others, but he sported a different badge on his chest than the others – gold, not silver, the bottom of which resembled a wildcat’s face – and looked in no way out of place providing orders. The other side of his chest presented a tag with the name Finnegan. “Barlowe, Ashford, get some cars and go. Those bastards are peeling outta here with most of our armory.” 

“Sir!” the two yelled, then rushed through the hole while two others grabbed the surviving terrorists. Two cops lay nearby, empty eyes open, not seeing the lake of their own blood in which they drowned. The last officer, stepping over the bodies, grabbed large, black bags and heaved them over his shoulder. 

“Leaper, thanks,” Finnegan said. “Woulda lost a lot more firepower without ya.” 

“Glad to help,” Maren said, stepping aside so the officer could bring the bags presumably full of weapons back into the armory. 

“Any fires breaking out?” 

“Only one I already doused.” An alarm sounded, then water sprayed from sprinklers in the ceiling. “But things can change.” 

Police vehicles, sirens blazing, rushed by, on the tail of a large van. Someone stuck their upper torso from a van window and shot at the cops. 

“See if there are any more. Lane, Raven, leave those two with me. Get after those bastards and bring them in.” 

“Sir!” the other two said, sprinting toward the lot. Several cars, however, were smoking. The terrorists must have blasted some as they assaulted the building. 

Gunshots sounded from where Maren had arrived. 

“You good with more of a civilian’s help?” Maren asked, wrapping water around her. 

Finnegan reloaded his rifle. “You know Wielders ain’t civilians.” 

“Let’s get to it, then.”