From the moment he landed, Mark's features started slowly fading back into visibility from the shapeless, nearly transparent dark blur that he was while in motion. The fading revealed a tall young man, with a bulk that was equal parts solid muscle and a rather unflattering priest's frock adorned with crow feathers. The otherwise threatening visage was undermined by the warmth of his soft hazel eyes, fluffy blond hair and the awkward, almost shy way he slouched over himself – though the latter, perhaps, could be explained by the bullet wound on the abdomen that the teen was trying to hold closed.

“I go by Kindly One these days,” he replied somewhat bashfully.

The Nefarious Nine were a small-time villain group, not even worth being called a gang. Its members, whose number perpetually failed to live up to the team name, ranged between fourteen and seventeen years of age and treated their villainy almost like an extracurricular club. A twenty-second century version of Dungeons&Dragons, if you will.

“Greek mythology? A classic. I like it.”

“Thank you,” he shifted, somewhat uncomfortable with praise, and yelped from the pain.

With names like Mark the Mauler, Sinister Sam and Dimka Doombringer, they were a little difficult to take seriously – the fact not helped by their overwhelming fondness for all things dramatic and villainous – but that just made them fight all the harder for recognition. In a way, they were the very people that the Game was created for. Some were fleeing from unpleasant home lives, some were searching for a meaning, a cause to fight for, and some simply loved the attention and power that being a cloak gave them.

I sympathized. I was like them once, a young villain struggling to find his own place in the world. Acknowledging the kids, helping them out every once in a while was a tribute to those olden days – and it was a fairly low price to pay for having a group of cowled on call in case of sticky situations.

“What happened to that guy you picked up?” I asked absentmindedly, peeking over the forcefield.

“I deposited him onto the unfinished building.”

I hummed.

Construction nanites, the basic building blocks of the entire city, allowed for rapid repairs and raising entire city blocks overnight, but more precise and delicate work still required a human touch. Type C nanites, the lowest ranking permitted within the boundaries of the city, had all the generic safeties build in, so you wouldn't end up crushed or suffocated – but it would still leave the gunner with a limb or two entombed for the next couple of hours until the construction manager came back and freed him.

“It's very nice to see you, mister Carnival,” the cowled fury said hesitantly.

“Sceptic called me in when he didn't receive confirmation of the heist's success,” I replied to the implied question. “I simply drove around until I heard the commotion.”

“We got the goods,” Mark shook his head. “The route passed just where he said it would, and neither the driver nor security caused too much trouble after Sam stopped the van.”

“But?”

“Bobby towed it to an empty parking lot, but the guys in the uniform followed us somehow, locking us in. I'm not sure if they were contacted by security or were planning to steal the goods themselves, though.”

“They're Sanction.”

“Private para-cowl contractors?”

I scoffed.

Fancy term for a bunch of mercenaries. Contractors like these used the legal grey area reserved for the cowled to carry out black ops for whoever paid the most, giving a bad name to every cape and cloak out there. Still, whatever my personal opinions on them, mercs faced a lot of competition. If this team was picked by one of the corporations to do its dirty work, that meant two things: they were capable of keeping their mouths shut and genuinely good at what they do.

As though sensing my thoughts, Sergeant whistled, the sound reverberating through the parking lot.

“Cut it off, we lost the bogey.”

“I can try to target the skies,” Airstrike offered. “Scare him off.”

“Oh, right, because you're so fucking good at targeting,” Calibre sniped back.

“Shut it,” Sergeant growled. “You know Airstrike has only partial control over the discharge locations. We have the field, boys, now let's use it. Beachhead, I want a shield at eleven. Move out people, burst and rumble!”

The gunners rushed forward from behind their forcefields, pulling bizarre, glowing grenades from their belts – and ended up right in front of a barrage of rubble, chunks of asphalt and pieces of construction trucks flying toward them at speeds high enough to shatter bones and rupture internal organs. With the kind of swearing that would make make a marine blush, the cowled rushed back on the double, ducking behind the forcefields, nursing bruised limbs and egos.

“Beachhead!” Sergeant barked.

It took me a second to realize just who Beachhead was supposed to be – which was a second too late to duck my head beneath the forcefield.

“Well, it seems the Sanction now knows I'm here,” I informed Mark cheerfully. “Can you fly?”

“Not for long,” he grimaced, pulling himself up.

“If I got a bead on Sergeant, he'll want to eliminate the threat from the rear first. This gives your folks an opportune moment to - ”

“Well, boys, it seems we've got somebody aiming at our asses.”

Sergeant's voice was loud, deliberately so. In fact, it was so loud, it was heard not only by them or me, but probably even by the Nefarious Nine almost a hundred feet behind the mercs.

“I don't know about you, but I don't swing this way. I say, we swing back and show our guest some hospitality.”

Why would he warn...

“Switch to awol rounds, hook back and fire!”

Oh. It was a trap.

I shot a look at the Mauler, but, by chance or skill, he was out of the fight. The kind of a wound he had was not life-threatening, nothing the Cluster couldn't fix within an hour, but it would allow him neither the maneuverability, nor the focus required for combat. It seemed, the rest was up to me.

I picked up the baton, felt my heartbeat speed up and the sounds sharpen, as they so often did whenever I planned to do something foolhardy.

“Prepare to circle around when I charge,” I told Mark, ruffling his hair.

Connection established.

“When you...” he blinked at me. “They are going to shoot us!”

“They're going to shoot,” I agreed. “But not us.”