"Not done yet," Mikhailis agreed, forcing a shaky grin.
No reply—she'd already limped forward, grabbing his uninjured arm and yanking him to his feet. Even hurt, she moved with soldier's urgency. "Cover," she ordered, nodding toward a colossal fungal bulb slumped against the wall. The thing glistened an unhealthy violet, skin pulsing as though something inside breathed slow and shallow. Good enough.
They dragged Rodion—who managed a lurching half-hop on his one stable leg—behind the bulb's shadow. Its rubbery flesh exhaled a bitter scent when they brushed it; Mikhailis tried not to imagine spores nesting in his sinuses.
He patted his belt. Psycho-gel grenades clinked softly in their loops, netting tight. He slid a finger beneath one cloth band to be certain—three left. "Loaded," he whispered, mostly to reassure himself.
