The third shot was agonizing. Tom didn't mean to scream---could have told himself that he'd been through worse, that he could take the punishment---but it was the shock of it that did it. What little direction he had over his heat spiderwebbed, smashed, and the tears it brought to his eyes hissed on contact with his skin. Still hot, but not hot enough. His chest heaved.

"Came to save you," Tom hissed, pressing his good hand to the new wound in his bicep. The slug had dug deep into the meat of his arm. He needed help. He needed backup. He had neither.