The fairies swirl around the Exiles from all sides, forming a ring which rises, then seems ready to fall inwards on them. It is cut short by a door slamming open, a rapid grating of wheels over wood and stone, and a shotgun blast. A hundred tiny voices cry out in pain and thump to the ground, crawling away into the underbrush. Panic breaks out and the swarm begins to scatter.
"The rolly-death comes! Away! Away!"
A blonde man, missing most of one arm and all of one leg, has rolled down to the street in a wheelchair, a still smoking shotgun held with one hand and balanced with a prosthetic claw. "Iron bird-shot and rock salt. Does the trick for most things." He looks down then abruptly rolls the chair forward over a crippled fairy. "Boot heel or retreads do the rest." He turns the gaze of his one good eye on the Exiles.
"I'm Captain John Walker. Who the *%$@ are all of you, and what are you doing with that shield, young lady?" He loads another cartridge as he stares straight at Sarah.
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