Bullets flatten on blue armour, on skin, Clark reflexively raising his arms and turning his shoulder to the onslaught. Red glows through closed eyelids, and light is set free in a quick jab, weapon exploding, half-melted, a strangled cry in the chaos. Then, rabbit-panic heart beats knock at his senses, and he's aware enough of Bruce grappling with one to register the second, and he turns the world around himself to face the hostages in the other room.

Thin wall shatters around him as he takes off at a blur of motion.

Huddled civilians feel the breeze overhead as man and alien go zooming. Superman stops; human is thrown, slamming hard enough into the opposite wall that pulverised plaster lifts like smoke in the air. He'll probably be fine.

Clark turns, all worried eyebrows, but the hostage is fine, breathing, no bullet holes save for the one embedded in the concrete in front of him. The wall dividing them from the rest of the action now half-collapsed, he sees where the boiling over of assailants is divided between attack and retreat, but then divides as one cuts a path through. Dragging something, a large canister, and whatever it is, it has his friends skitter backwards, listing towards retreat.

Something shouted. A threat or a profanity or both. The man twists the valve, and hefts the canister, some thin, dirty-grey vapour trailing from it as it's launched towards heroes and innocents both. Thick and faster.

Superman is a blur, a wind that drags at the thick weave of Batman's cape. Got it.

Both he and canister disappear via-- well, a new hole in the roof.