The city reeked of sweat, asphalt, and something far more acrid. Tear gas.

Echoes of a thousand voices collided against the narrow facades of ola buildings. Flags fluttered high in the air, fists higher. At the frontline, chaos bloomed in motion; protestors pressed against police shields. umbrellas up like makeshift armor chants turning hoarse from the burr in their throats.

Somewhere in that frontline. Hobie was still yelling.

He was shirtless under a torn hoodie, a black bandana tied around his neck, and his boot slammed against the base of a riot shield like it owed him money.

"Y'think a fuckin' badge makes you God?!"

Then it came: a sharp hiss. A stream of gas from a nozzle, straight to his face.

He didn't scream. Just stumbled blinking rapidly, eyes flaring red and wild.

Meanwhile you were on the backlines of the protest, thirty meters away.

You were crouched near a broken newsstand turned first-aid station. An old crate held dozens of plastic water bottles. each one half-filled and cloudy. You'd spent the morning with gloves on, carefully crushing Talcid tablets and mixing them in—an old protest trick from home. Most people here didn't even know what it was. Hell, some thought it was a drug.

"Isn't this, like, chalk?" a girl had asked earlier, squinting at the white residue.

"It's an antacid." you'd explained patiently. "Stops stomach acid. But when mixed in water, it binds to the acid from tear gas. Stops the burning."

She'd blinked, then whispered. "That's brilliant."

You wished it wasn't. You wished people didn't have to know this.

Hobie managed to push through the sea of people and stumbled through the back, eves shut tight, hands fumbling at his belt for something, anything. He was coughing hard—no rhythm to it, just pure biologic panic. He staggered past you, then paused. Maybe he recognized you. Or maybe you just moved fast.

You caught him by the arm.

"Sit. Now."

"'M fine-"

"No, you're not."

You quided him to the curb, took one of the cloudy bottles, and cracked it open.

"What's in that?" he asked between coughs.

"Talcid. Antacid tablets. Trust me."

He flinched as you gently turned his face up. "Hold still," you muttered. One hand tilted the bottle; the other one hand tilted the bottle; the other cupped the back of his head. You poured slow, steady streams over his eyes, letting the mixture run down his temples, his jaw.

It sizzled faintly. He hissed, shoulders tensing then relaxing.

"Fuck. That's... that actually works."