Maintaining their circle formation, the policlubbers were spreading out, firing irregularly to conserve ammo. Nobody called out for surrender or quarter. Thumbs knew he was a metahuman in racist territory. If they got him, his pointed ears would be nailed to their Wall of Honor. Horns carved into pistol grips, tusks sold to tourists, and the rest of him would go to feed their dogs and gators as a special treat, trying to cultivate in the beasts a taste for metahuman flesh. As if the freaking things needed any additional encouragement.