I peek between the blinds, my pupils flickering with firelight. The city is aflame. Tear gas swirls, engulfing the fleeing masses. A dead hand clutches a blood-splattered sign: “FUCK THE NIGHTWATCH.”
Outside, the Watchmen draw closer. Tank treads crunch over charred bones. Loudspeakers call for peace.
“They’re coming,” I say. “Hurry.”
Finch stuffs a kerosene-soaked rag into a bottle of amber liquid, then adds it to the crate with the others. “Done.”
Glass clinks as we rush the crate to the rooftop. I peer down at the Watchmen below.
Finch hands me a bottle, then sparks his lighter. “Ready?”
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