<em><strong>Cori Michaels ---- Playing Peek-a-Boo with an eerie chanter.</strong></em><br/><br/>She was out of her element here; now it was Cori who felt like the deer in the headlights, blinking numbly at the world around her as small women lifted bats and the explosion of a gun illuminated ominous figures in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for the smell of copper and cordite then the detective would have been convinced that this was all an illusion –because nothing here made any god damn sense. How could a place be crawling with so damn many insects? How could a man stand so tall, and why wasn’t he dropping from the bullets pelting him?<br/><br/>She was back in Iraq, huddling down a side chamber against a stone wall that protected her no better than a wet blanket. She heard the white-noise then, ducking as the bullets of an ak-47 chipped the brick above her head, and she was hearing it now. The only relatable moments in that situation was that both times, she wasn’t supposed to be where she was, and could only follow instincts in a displaced haze. She found comfort in violence, comfort in the cold, distant numb that gave her an excuse not to feel anything else, even for a little while.<br/><br/>Except for that; chanting, the frantic mutterings of, what she assumed at first, was a frightened man praying to the god she didn’t believe in. It came from her flank and immediately she didn’t like that. Corez wasn’t there to guard her rear anymore.<br/><br/>Three quick steps backwards pressed her shoulders against the wall, and after crouching, Cori dropped to a low squat with her weapon held ready. The opposite hand reached the door handle, turning it while lifting up to take the weight off of the hinges so that it parted soundlessly as she took a glance inside. That same voice that belonged to her psyche filled her head again.<em>This isn't the sort of trouble you want; you're out of your league.</em>