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Oates

Oates runs quiet as rain up the midnight side of the tower. She’s done everything possible to delay her opponent. With a bound, she’s horizontal again–

“Is it cliché,” asks Atwood coolly, “to point out that you’re late?”

“You’re the expert,” says Oates, and then they’re shooting each other’s bullets out of the air. Guns empty, they go to swords; swords bent, they flicker through hand arts: krav maga to hapkido, taekkyon, abir. They break apart at the click of the roof door.

“Take it from a reporter, girls,” drawls Didion, grinning, Automags in both hands. “Always skip the opening ceremonies.”

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