We all saw the balloon about eight leaps out, squishing along through the haze. It was drifting towards us, undulating slowly down from the roof of the four-story across the border street.
“Slickball!” We could outrun the balloon – they were slow – but not the splatter when it blew above us.
We slammed into the pile of border rubble, too hasty in our clambering. Up and over the urbanite walls, feet slamming down, away from the Slickball, towards the watchcave, always on the lookout for that telltale sheen where previous balloons had blown. One slip, one misplaced hand and we’d lose another fighter. Once you touched the Slick, there wasn’t much the healers could do.