The fog helped. He found himself using himself and his clone to run around towards the old neighborhoods under cover of the thick fog, the sounds of his feet taking off and sandals pattering all over the deserted and otherwise silent streets amplified-- just enough to hope that the sound would attract the attention of the soldiers and draw them in.

He dashed into one of the houses, kicking up cobweb-covered pots and pans on purpose. Having sprung up onto an old cupboard, he crouched, waiting in the shadows with his hand to the hilt of his tanto.

Watching, waiting, listening, hardly ever breathing, aware that the chances of coming out unscathed from those bullets was very, very low...

He couldn't let them get to the apartments. He had to make them believe there were people around here...