War stopped being the subject of her nightmares long before now. Closed eyes brought interpersonal conflict, not gunfire. Familiar figures with shrouded faces, loved ones just out of reach, lapses in control like sand slipping between her fingers and the tops of high peaks, but never war. War dreams were mundane dreams. Work dreams where she thinks she's woken up late or forgot an important piece of gear.

This— the rustle and moan from inanimate objects, the cerebral pull and door that seems further and further away— is the stuff of real nightmares. It's abstract. She can't make sense of what to look out for, meaning she can't prepare, meaning they're screwed—

No we aren't.

"Whoever does the job, they've got balls. Attacking head-on like that is risky."

Her fingers wrap tight around a gaudy brass knob and pull. The door flies open. Carolina steps aside, plants a hand on Connecticut's back and shoves her through.

She makes the mistake of looking.

Still racks have moved. A conglomerate, all fabric and hangers and pieces of costume rack jutting like bone through broken skin, flaps wildly in its charging forward.

Ho- ly shit—