If you'd asked North, three days ago, what a domed energy shield slowly filling with a rising tide of meat looked like, he would not have been able to imagine it in this kind of loving detail. It's bizarrely transfixing, a rack of ribs splatting into the side of the dome as he stares, the explosions courtesy of his mystery rescuer almost a comfort compared to the surreality of the sheer volume that Maine is putting out in there.

The hall is starting to smell really, really good, even with the air thick with the tang of spent rounds.

One of the explosions sends his discarded helmet bounding and skittering along the floor toward them, and he limp-sidesteps to pick it up, still watching as the floor cracks and the shield stutters at what had been its border. A ham steak slides under the gap, flopping mournfully down into the yawning crevasse that goes down at least one floor, and North finally glances back at his presumed ally.

"I'm uh. I'm guessing this is where we retreat?"