Lyra's eyes opened slowly, twitching in-sync with the throbbing of the pain in her back. She slowly turned around (as much as she could, given the circumstances) to survey her surroundings, her mind still hazy. [i]What the hell happened?[/i] 

And then it came to her--the noises she'd heard as she ducked for cover from the street thugs' sloppy gunmanship. Not just that static, but that unmistakable, high-pitched whistling, a sound she had grown accustomed to hearing when she worked for ThysenKrüpp. [i]A fucking [b]smart rifle[/b],[/i] she thought, as her eyes widened in horror at the implications. ThysenKrüpp was mixed up in all of this. Two years trying to run away from her mistakes, only for those very same mistakes to ambush her in a seedy bar in the middle of the Gutter. She broke out in a silent panic, her breaths coming quickly and raggedly, her mind a frantic cacophony of worries and frustration and anger and terror. It was overwhelming, far too much to bear, endless worries and possibilities assaulting her mind. She couldn't take it. She opened her mouth to scream, and...

She exhaled. She shook her head. [i]No,[/i] she thought, [i]panic won't get me anywhere. I just have to stay calm and try and take as much control as I can of this shitstorm.[/i] She forced her breathing back to a calm, steady pace.

[i]Well, may as well use this[/i], she thought, [i]maybe make them regret fronting me the money for this mod.[/i] With that, she focused, and her vision when black for a fraction of a second before returning in a series of blues, yellows, oranges, and reds, as she gazed at the door to see just how many guards were waiting to blow the rag-tag group's heads off if they managed to escape.