She shot someone. Oh, God. Let them be okay. Watching as the person she had shot fell, stopped in midair from leaping onto her shoulders and now slamming on the ground, her breath stopped. Her heart choked in her throat. From the end of the earth will I call unto Thee, when my heart fainteth; lead me to a rock that is too high for me. The prayer spewed from her mind almost instinctively, her lips forming the words. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t shoot people, like that would help them. She was afraid – of what would happen to whom she shot, of what she would become if she continued to equate saving lives with guns and force, of what would happen to the X-Men if they kept creating guns, of what would happen to the world. Everyone thought they and they alone were right, but that everyone includes the worst of history, the history that killed her grandfather, the history that continues to kill thousands in Africa, the history that incites mass genocides based on race or sex or nationality. How was she supposed to know that this was right? Xavier and Storm and Cyclops and whoever else lead the team couldn’t know for sure. This wasn’t right.
All of these thoughts came in unison, overwhelming her. She became focused immensely on the body of the person she had shot – the person, not the creature or the “infected” or the “Darkseeker” to whatever other term they used to mask the fact that these people were people, just like themselves. People. With lives, loves, family, cars, careers. And suddenly, before she could even think of raising her gun again or even maintaining a basic awareness of her surroundings, she was knocked onto the ground. She felt pressure on her side, her shoulders, face, could hear the growls and heartbeat of her assailant, feel the warmth of their breath on her skin, and then, while she was still figuring out that she was laying on the floorboards, she felt a sharp, blinding pain through her cheek and neck and screamed. Instinctively she pulled away, until her training kicked in and she phased out of the clutches of a person, rolling to her side, her gun knocked out of her hand from the fall and laying a few yards away.
Drawing up to kneel on the ground, her hands pressed against her cheek, as if attempting to hold herself together, her eyes squeezed together, she continued to phase, although she wasn’t noticing continued attempted attacks on her back. She did notice Peter, still firing like a good soldier, move to her side, and she reached out with a bloodied hand to take him, intent on keeping what happened to her not happen to him. Warmth fell into the hand cupped at her face. She didn’t want to look. She didn’t even know how bad the wound was. She just knew that if she phased, and if she kept her hand on her face, she would be okay. Things would be okay. If she didn’t know that, she wouldn’t be able to handle herself.
Distantly, she heard more struggles – Mars shooting, growling, grunting, and then not firing any more. They had to get out. It was time to cut their losses and bail on the mission. After a few deep inhalations, she felt the pain throughout her neck and face subside, although blood was still gushing into her hands and falling onto the ground. Maybe she was in shock. Standing shakily, she took Colossus more firmly, the attacks of infected people moving through her body as well as his, and said in a panicked, terrified voice struggling to appear confident, “We have to leave.”