Lockwood and I retreated; we dug in, we held our ground. Just for a few moments we were side by side, him slicing at whirling tentacles, me parrying the woman’s blows. Our reflections skipped along the fractured surface of the wall mirrors, swelling and shrinking, distorting on the jags of broken glass. There was no sound but the scuff and squeak and shuffle of our boots, the crack of glass, the tang of blades. In and out we went, twisting and spinning as if in synchronized flow. It must have been quite a spectacle.
This is always how I imagined them fighting side by side
