Searing pain. The smell of hot composite and flesh. Jinx fought for air, her throat raw from her last scream, bruised from being choked. She kicked out, her boots striking exskel legs. She clawed at the mech hands holding her down, one gripping her throat, the other driving a spike of plasma through her shoulder armour.
The alien didn't incapacitate her with its mind as it had before. It wanted her to struggle, to—
A wave of fear and fury. A sense of crushing pain.
Terror swamped her; she was no longer alone in her mind. But it wasn't Callan Tarak or the alien. Recognition slammed through her.
Kaplan.
Even as she shrieked out her pain, she felt his like an inferno in her skull. He fought to remain conscious, to reach—
The world tore from her grasp. She plunged into memory: Cal's screams; drowning darkness—the abyss. She struggled to find the surface—reality—but invisible hands dragged her deeper, forcing her down, down, down into endless black ... and into a sensory storm.
Flashing images: faces, a row of human children. Distant whispers rising into harsh words—an order to "shield". Sudden merciless pressure against her skull. Discomfort sharpening to outright agony. A sense of betrayal and resentment, of love warping into something closer to hate.
The burn of ice-blue eyes.
Memories. These were memories. Of someone being taught to—
Reid? The name punched through her like a plaz bolt. For an instant, emotion overwhelmed her: confusion and concern. Then images exploded behind her eyes, a violent kaleidoscope: her own face; Cal's; Xykeree dragging human forms onto the black alien ship; soft-bodied aliens in blue liquid; battleships, thousands of them—
Pain hit like a supernova.
The world rushed back. Shrieking bells in her ears. Hellfire at her shoulder. A pounding drone hammered nails through her temples.
She gasped, tried to recover her wits, think past the pain. She was on her back in the Hydra's deployment bay, her alien torturer standing over her, her plaz blade in its fist. But the bastard's attention was no longer on her. It had turned to face—
Kaplan—now on his side, the taut lines of his body screaming silently of agony. The pain tearing into her skull wasn't all hers. Whatever Kaplan had just done, he'd pissed the alien off. And it was striking back—hard.
It was killing him.
No. She struggled to get up. Her pistol. If she could get to it... Kaplan was still fully suited. The alien was no longer right on top of him. He'd survive an explosive round detonating.
But she probably wouldn't. The alien was too close. Her battle suit's cowl and mask were still detached.
Fuck it. There were worse fates than death. She'd always known that.
She shoved herself up.
An invisible blow took her back down. Pain stole thought. Everything spun ... hazed. For a flicker of time, she sensed Kaplan, his suffering, his awareness of his imminent death, his ... bloody-minded satisfaction? What the—?
A thunderous detonation.