Every gunshot, every explosion, every slash sent a burst of sparks erupting through the dim laboratory, casting the shadows on the walls like ghosts. If they did not look with their eyes, but instead relied on their ears, noses, skin, and instincts, it would have been easy to believe that the high-temperature halberd crackling with electricity was constantly passing over their heads. Fitz and Mike bent at the waist and ducked their heads as they ran toward the laboratory exit, doing their best to resist the fear brought on by the shrill whistle of blades tearing through the air, sharp enough to pierce their eardrums; the smell of propellant smoke seemingly right before their noses; the stench of burning bones; and the sulfurous reek of flames.
Even after crawling to the laboratory exit, that chill at the backs of their necks refused to fade. It was as if the fear buried deep within human genes was screaming at them, urging them to curl into balls. Fitz and Mike had to summon every ounce of courage just to force their limbs to keep moving. They could not even make out the giant in Golden Power Armor's movements. The Praetorian Guard's existence, like his Power Armor, was so magnificent that it resembled an illusory Baroque dream. As ordinary men, Fitz and Mike could only see the flames that sprayed out whenever Ghost Rider was struck. The laboratory walls endured a constant barrage of explosive shells, while high-strength concrete and radiation-proof coating crumbled like butter cookies.
This was not a battle ordinary people should have been involved in!
Mike cursed under his breath as he considered whether to call for reinforcements.
The moment the thought surfaced, he snuffed it out. Later, Mike decided the idea had been utterly foolish and would only have