The asphalt was hot against Elias's cheek.
Heat rolled from the skiff's undercarriage and pressed him into the cracked street. Dust fell every time plasma struck the transport plating above him. He kept both arms tucked close and breathed shallow, because deeper breaths made his ribs grind.
Roachaline's soldiers were dying in the intersection.
They had charged Federation armor expecting the towers to fall for them. The towers stayed up. The tanks did not care how brave anyone was. Plasma cut through salvaged rifles, patched armor, and bodies with the same clean indifference.
The street had no front anymore. Men crawled under skiffs, behind dead cars, into storefronts with no back walls. A wounded sapper dragged himself by one elbow while trying to keep hold of a charge satchel that no longer mattered. Someone called for Torqa and received only engine noise and plasma in answer.
