The gas washed over him, warm and dry, as Gray plunged into the park. The Henekker was held out like a dowser’s wand, drawing him across the field. The clouds were illuminated dimly by the streetlights ringing the area; human shapes, blurry silhouettes, swam up toward him as he passed them. He heard them puking their guts out, coughing wetly as the gas drove them down; suppression gas wasn’t the love-tap tear gas that police used to use. Prolonged exposure would kill you, but as his own skin had begun to burn it was hard to feel pity for the tattooed gang scum sprawling in the grass.

He charged across the park in a straight line, letting the pistol lead him through the choking clouds. Gray made his way toward the interior of the park where the gas was bound to be thinner. His skin itched and burned as the stuff clung to him, though it hadn’t begun to blister - he’d need to get out before then else he wouldn’t be any good to anybody. Behind him, the telltale crack-crack of flechettes being fired from their guns meant that Park and his Pacifiers were already on the charge. That was good, he thought as he ran toward the edge of the cordon of gas. They’d be trapped between the cops and the water.