1-2-1

Mikael stays low, moving quickly and quietly. It’s no easy task, considering the amount of rubble and debris that litter the city streets, but he’s fostered more fine-tuned control of his movement than anyone else he’s ever met. The material and heft of his gear make little difference.

The area has minimal phantom activity for a place where the fog is so thick. He only spots one other phantom on his way to the department store’s rear. It stands motionless in one of the alleyways as swaths of red particles twist and turn around its body, inert, so long as he and the others keep their distance.

He gives it a wide berth.

The department store’s cadaverous remains aren’t hard to get into. Most of the windows have long since been shattered. Several of the loading dock doors around the back side have been wrested open. Adjacent to one of them, he drops into a crouch and presses himself up against the side of the building. He strains his ears to listen.

Other than the sound of the wind, there’s nothing. Not yet.

He smoothly vaults himself through the opening in the door and into the darkened interior. Staying crouched, he pauses again, but still hears nothing. He allows himself to straighten, shouldering the shotgun that was holstered on his back and flicking on the light attached to its underside. An even sweep around the room reveals nothing other than smashed-up containers, rotting food, and other irrelevant junk scattered on the shelves and flooring.

As expected. It would be too easy if the person they were supposed to rescue hid in the first place he looked, and nothing is ever easy.

The weight in the air has only magnified in its intensity since he left the apartment. As much as he hates to admit it, it’s starting to get to him more than most things do.

It has him itching to shoot something.

Mikael shakes the thoughts from his mind. He can’t allow himself to become distracted from the task at hand. This isn’t how he operates in the field. He’s not reckless and illogical, he has a flow. A practiced rhythm. It’s what gets things done.

He weaves his way around the refuse to a pair of swinging doors. This time when he stops, he catches it: that distinctive thrum that sets most people’s teeth on edge even if they aren’t aware that it’s present. Not him, though. Not for a long time.

Knowing at least one is nearby now, he starts to go low again and push through the doors undetected–

–before a startled shout cuts through the air, accompanied by a loud crash and the cacophony of countless objects clattering to the floor.

All of it is close. Too close. Adrenaline takes over. Mikael kicks the doors open and dashes through to the sales floor, gun held at the ready. The place is lit by windows and caved-in sections of ceiling. Most of the once-tall shelving lies in broken heaps, allowing him a clear view of the scene playing out before him.

Ten or so yards away, a figure sits helplessly sprawled atop a collapsed bit of shelving as a phantom advances on them. It’s too close to its target to engage in a ‘chase,’ so instead it stalks slowly towards them, head lurching forward and arms rising from its sides as its fingers warp into sharpened points.

The figure throws their arms up in front of them in a futile attempt at self-defense. It wouldn’t do a thing. Caught and cornered, exactly where it wants them.

Quick flashes of light in the distance and the rhythmic sound of bullets catch his attention for the briefest moment. Somewhere at the other end of the store, Rani and Lionel are engaging the other phantom. However, the disturbance doesn’t deter the first from closing in on its prey.

It’s taking longer than one normally would, its movements more drawn out – strange, but nothing he can afford to dwell on.

Like a switch flipping in his head, Mikael’s movements become automatic. Pumping his shotgun, he hurdles over the remains of shelves and other detritus, closing the distance between the phantom and himself. It stops in its tracks, which buys him – and the stranger – a few extra seconds. He dives out of the way in a roll as it lunges for him. A rush of air blows past his ears when its claws swipe over his head.

He snaps back upright into a kneeling position at its flank, aims upward, and pulls the trigger.

The phantom’s head explodes, sending chunks of scarlet gunk in every direction. The rest of its body convulses violently, before finally swaying backward and crumpling to the floor.

The distant gunfire fades, and silence fills the area once again. Mikael gets back to his feet as the creature’s remains start to melt and rapidly evaporate, releasing clouds of mist that add to what was already in the air of the room. The thrum in the air is gone now, while the heaviness remains.

The threat dealt with, he turns his attention to their ‘survivor,’ and pauses.

If they were entirely still, he could’ve mistaken the person sitting atop the pile of dusty store products for a corpse. Androgynous. Skin drained of almost all color. Pale eyes, gaunt features, and a short, disheveled head of hair that is somehow even lighter in shade than the rest of them. Twig-like arms and legs that likely shake not only from the terror of what just happened, but from difficulty supporting the weight of their body.

The person stares back at him with wide eyes that are full of panic, mixed with only a small hint of relief, and bordered by deep purple rings. They don’t speak or move a muscle, other than their chest heaving for air and the persistent tremble of their limbs. With so much of them smeared in dirt and dust, it wouldn’t surprise him if it turns out they just dug themself out of their own grave. It’s a miracle how someone in this state managed to evade the phantoms at all.

His mind begins to clear as the adrenaline starts to leave him, and then, it clicks.

Mikael whips his shotgun back up, pumps another bullet into the chamber, and aims the barrel directly at the stranger’s head. He wants to kick himself for not noticing it sooner, but there’s no helping that now.

“Don’t. Move.”

The person’s parted lips snap shut in an instant. The shaking stops, but the fear in their eyes, as it locks on the gun, increases tenfold.

“Mikael? Is everything alright?”

Rani’s voice. He sees her come into view as she emerges from one of the crumpled aisles of shelving. The situation registers far more quickly than it did for Mikael, and all emotion leaves her eyes as she comes to a halt. Her gun is still in her hands, but she does not move to do anything with it.

“Jeez guys, what, were we too late or something?” Lionel follows behind her. He stops mid-stride once his gaze falls on the stranger. “…oh.”

Mikael returns his focus to their ‘survivor,’ who doesn’t seem to have looked away from the gun even for a second. The unease in the air is as suffocatingly thick as the mist around them.

For a long, drawn-out minute, no one moves or says anything.

This just got a lot more complicated.