their hands to heads. Her own head ached. The music stopped. She turned towards the door then. The voices and minds around her were starting to burble, coming out of their stunned and pained silence. Few of them had caught what had really happened, but they had caught on that something bad had occurred indeed. That was sick. That was wrong. I can’t believe I took part in that. Images of the mind meld she’d just experienced bounced through her, nauseating her, reminding her too much of… of… of what she’d killed to escape. Time for reminiscing later. She caught a glimpse of Kade on his knees, vomiting onto the floor. She felt a pang of pity, of regret. Time for that later, too. She strode towards the entrance, locked her mind down. Crowds parted. Then she felt a mind against hers, saw him move to block her path. Watson Cole. He felt hard, poised, resigned. Pacifist or no, he was not going to let her pass. [Combat Threat. Extreme Caution.]
Alternate routes flashed on her display. Arrows towards other escape vectors. She could turn and run, beat him to an exit. But Sam was not in the mood to let some burnedout jarhead stand in her way. She blanked her mind, weaved towards him unsteadily on the floor, brought her left hand to her stomach, her right to her face, feigned a disoriented stumble to the left as she reached him, came out of it in a vicious right-hand backfist to his temple.