She fired again, and again, and again to ward off the fear inside her. Rivka should have offered the soldier back his rifle but the thought never crossed her mind. It was hers to use now, until someone with authority ordered her to return it. Perhaps its owner was more disciplined, more able to cope with the fear, but he could not have done better. She was an artist. As much with the rifle as an instrument that was true, and even if these... creatures could ignore shots that should have killed them her art was still effective.
Because no quirk of enhanced physiology could ignore simple kinetics.
With the two soldiers playing rearguard she didn't need to fire so often; at Wei's order she kept moving, kept her head on a swivel, and her rifle up. For this flight she took her finger off the trigger; shooting an ally because she got jumpy would have been inexcusable. Especially when their escape was going so well. The stairwell was in sight, the soldiers were keeping the creatures at bay, and she was just starting to believe everything might turn out okay.
And then it went to hell with falling debris. First because it landed on one of the soldiers to the rear, then because it was blocking their path, and then because Chie chose to run back to try and save him. The Baeterraen girl's lips worked as though she was going to spit her fury, hissing Russian curses with venom and vigor bereft of her usual grace. It wasn't her problem. They'd all been given clear orders, instructions to stick with Wei, and it was that soldier's job to get them safely to their destination. Not the other way around. There'd be time for heroics when they were trained, when they had their full power. This was the time to run. No one would ever blame her for it. She stopped walking; her foot landed hard, the barrel of her rifle pointed away from both her salvation and the people still behind and she hesitated. No one would blame her but that wasn't the point. She was going to be an Ars Magi. She was going to be a hero. And that didn't happen just when it was convenient for her, it happened every day from the moment she made that choice.
And that included saving this idiot.
"Selma!" She hollered, planting her feet and swinging her rifle back towards the enemy. No longer was she firing single rounds; she was aiming for center mass, and she was squeezing the trigger in quick, successive shots. Two to the chest of the attacker closest to Chie, two to the one behind them, and reassess. Conservation of ammo was no longer her concern, her concern was putting enough shots into them to slow them down. Buy time. To that end she felt for the Nox around her, gauged what she could gather; she did nothing with it, not yet, because she would only get one shot. But she would take it if she had to. She was going to get everyone here out alive, and she would pull out every stop. "Get Chie, but keep my line of fire clear! I'll cover you."
Sorry, Kapitan. But no one writes songs for cowards.