This has to be a dream, right? Not a rhetorical question. 

Lucien wracks his brain for the last thing he remembers, what got him into this foodcourt. What's he wearing here, by the way? Not that it's important, but it'd be lovely if he had shoes right now.

The idea that this might be a dream doesn't make him feel any safer, mind you. The Heart is a strange place, and he's willing to take it for granted that harm done to him here is harm done. And we must always face our dreams alone...

Still, the Angel can only hurt what it can see. This one doesn't take a genius. 

[Roll 2d6 = 4+3+1 = 8]
[I get away, fast and without taking harm]

Lucien grabs whatever large bits of shrapnel he can, and throws it one way as he bolts the other, running as fast as he can. The Angel shoots what it sees, but it's still pausing between shots. He can cross a solid eight meters for every second his clay pigeon gambit buys him, enough to get him out of line of sight again. 

He dives over the cash register of a food-court counter, and breaks his way into the kitchen area at a crawl. Knifes, deep fryers, spices, and as many reflective surfaces as he can take advantage of. 

He probably can't outrun this thing forever, but he doesn't have to. He just had to find a decent position of ambush. Something he can fashion into a simple trap in one direction, while he can hide with a weapon near it. If the trap works, good. If it doesn't, he can nail it while it's distracted. 

And if that doesn't work, he was dead anyway.