Яппаньки вам,уважаем(ый)(ая)(ое)!

There was a disaster happening right in front of her eyes, a calamity that she knew she was helpless to avert, and the occurrence of that catastrophe was taking forever.

[And she is in the Zocalo....]

Lyta staggered, putting her hand against the wall, and in a low voice she murmured, "Please ... not again ..."

[... And she should not be able to smell anything in a telepathic flash, but she can nonetheless. She smells death. She smells it in the burned and scarred flesh, she smells it in the evacuation of bodily fluids and waste that occurs at the time of death, and it is all around her, yes, the smell hits her first and then she sees it....]

"Make it stop," she whispered, and a single tear rolled down her face....

[She is in the Zocalo, yes, and her sleeves are torn, her hair is disheveled, and she is covered with blood. She cannot tell whether it is her own blood or someone else's. She stumbles through and she has trouble finding where to walk, because there are bodies. Bodies everywhere, everywhere she looks, piled up like firewood, stacked three deep. Furniture is wrecked, blood spatters the walls, and no one is moving.

Why has this happened? Her mind calls out, but there is no answer. She doesn't know the hows or the whys, she only knows what is. And what is, is an utter disaster. She skids slightly and doesn't look down to see what exactly it is that she almost slipped in. She doesn't want to know.

She had felt relief after the Shadow War, convinced that a bullet had been dodged, that now there would be peace and safety. And it was all a lie, a sick joke, be-cause there is no peace or safety for these people, there is nothing but darkness and blood and oblivion.

She senses it behind her.

There is a shadow there, there on the wall, and she
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