“I’m surprised to find you still up, Ms. Fujiwara.”

Around me, Palanquin was slowly settling into slumber. The staff were cleaning up the detritus and mess left behind by the ever sloppy Saturday night crowd, leaving the stage set for the coming day. Tomorrow—today, by some measures—was a Sunday, and no matter the 2 A.M. closing time the coming evening ostensibly had, Sundays tended towards being quieter. Not quiet, never quiet, but likewise not the same furor that came with Fridays and Saturdays; a special sort of energy born from people partying in open, desperate defiance of Monday’s approach. But for the moment, Palanquin was drifting—calm.

[Footloose: But I don’t waaannaaaaaa stoooooop…]

It was less calm in my head.

“Not Fujiwara.” I sighed and shifted to face where Ade stood at the top of the steps leading up to the balcony. “No sleeping either. Gregor told you what happened…?” [Diamondback: They need rest. They have to stop eventually.]

When Melanie had first introduced me to Adetokunbo Diallo—‘Ade,’ as he insisted I and everybody else call him—I had been more than a little thrown by his disposition. He wasn’t soft-spoken, but he never raised his voice either, not even when dealing with overly rowdy patrons. He could be quick when the occasion called for it, but he never gave me the impression he felt rushed. A full build that didn’t rise to the level of ‘stocky,’ a neatly trimmed beard with far more gray than black, and crows feet that could easily claw out my eyes if they’d been real and attached to a less gentle man. Not the sort of man I would have envisioned as the manager of a successful nightclub when I met him, but looks could be deceiving.

Ade had everything ready for us by the time the van pulled into Palanquin’s loading bay. I was glad for it. The others had gotten some rest here and there along the way—even Gregor, after Masuyo had forced him to swap out, despite his protests—but they were still dragging as we piled out and schlepped our things upstairs. Ade had even arranged some temporary clothes and sheets for Therese, all laid out in the room she’d be sharing with Emily.

“I must ask you to be more specific,” he replied as he crossed from the stairs over to join me where I had been slouched against and looming over the railing like a rumpled owl. “A great many things happened while you were away, as I understand it.” [Footloose: But we could rest together? Sixteen, go find some bed warmers before they all get away! Go go!]

I schooled my expression as best I could as the mention of ‘bed warmers’ sent my head skipping through blurry memories of the countless people Footloose had slept with over the years. “I can’t sleep after… you know,” I told him, uncomfortable expressing it in exact words while unmasked, even with no one outside the know nearby. [Klaus: Foots. Stop pushing my niece to have sex.]

“Ah, is that so? I was not aware that came as part of the package, so to speak.” A single graying eyebrow climbed his forehead, dark eyes questioning. “And this is the sole reason you have not retired for the evening then?” [Footloose: Pushing is such a weak word. Here, I’ll choose some stronger ones: Get laid, dammit!] [Caterpillar: Sixteen’s thoughts don’t shy away from the topic… Interesting. Children are having sex earlier and earlier these days.]

I flushed, both caught out and not thrilled by the turn of the conversation in my head. Stop. Leave it, I warned the Chorus before saying aloud, “It’s reason enough.” [Toro: Oh? Well well, this is juicy.] [Footloose: See?! You’ve already popped your cherry! No need to be ashamed!] [Sarah: Can we not…?]

“Certainly.” And that was that, it seemed. Instead of pressing, he gestured down to the staff, still putting everything where it needed to be. “Can we help you with anything before we retire for the evening?” [Toro: Hey, I’m just relieved we won’t have to break this one in as much as I thought.] [Klaus: Yes, let’s not.]

Leave. It. “I don’t need to eat either. Moment I get hungry, it’s just,” I snapped my fingers. “Gone.” [Quarrel: Not interested, but if it grinds your gears, Sixteen, then who’d you fuck?] [Butcher: Still plenty to break.]

“Not needing something is quite different from being unable to do it,” Ade replied, unaware of the trainwreck in progress in my head. [Sarah: Hey, you heard her. Fucking leave it.] [Rotlimb: Isn’t it obvious?] [Footloose: Probs frumpy girlfriend. B-or-ing! I mean, unless they’re into some kinky shit?]

Shut the fuck up. I didn’t know how I wasn’t screaming. How I wasn’t hurting myself. Not then, anyway. Right then I was shivering in a room still sweltering with the sticky warmth of too many bodies, too much dancing. I was looking without seeing, hearing without listening. I might have been growling, a rumble pressing against my clenched teeth, demanding and urgent. I was definitely crying. No sobs, just tears and thoughts. Thoughts, wants, needs that might have been mine. That might not have either.

At least I could tell when it was the others speaking.

I didn’t come out of it until someone else came up the stairs. One of the staff, someone I couldn’t place right then. They came and went, and in their wake, they left a glass of ice water. I stared at it—stared at them—uncomprehending. A table. The water sat on a table, and Ade sat with it. I followed, too heavy and too light as I came down, as I settled into skin ill-fitting and tight. I drank that water like I’d only ever drunk sand, and when it ran out, I ate the ice like it was potato chips. More water came, and I drank it.

I slowed down on the third glass. I think. Time had passed, I knew, but I hadn’t been a part of it, my mind drowning while my body pressed through molasses. A Master? My heart nearly stopped at the thought. But no… No, I knew this feeling. Panic was never good, but it was mine.

“Feeling better?” Ade asked, the rich rumble of his voice as unflappable as ever. I appreciated that he’d only asked if I felt better. I would never feel ‘okay’ ever again. [Diamondback: Losing control, drinking whatever you’re brought. That’s how you get killed.] [Klaus: June…?] [Edict: Welcome back…]

“Better,” I replied, more a grunt than speech. I cleared my throat. “Thanks.” [DZ: Can’t exactly help that sort of thing, Diamondback.]

“You are quite welcome.” He rose from the booth we had settled into, an apology in his eyes that bore out in his words. “I’m afraid I must leave you now. There is much that must be done, and too little time to do it in. Gregor can reach me should you a need arise before the service.” [Alchemist: You will have greater success convincing water it is dry, Danger Zone.]

My heart constricted. “The PRT found it?”

Even the Chorus, it seemed, waited on the answer. I’d asked two things of Legend when the dust settled after my would-be jailbreak and the Teeth’s assault: To speak with my mother, and—

“The fragment of Ms. Faultline’s mask has been left in our care. I understand Legend himself found it.” Ade gave me a wan smile, hesitating. “Thank you for giving us a piece of her to bury.”

There were productive ways I could have used the time the rest of the world was sleeping. I could have been researching whether there was anyone out there with a power that could help with my unwanted tenants. I could have been trying to figure out to use the weird Thinker aspect of Belial’s power. I could have used my uncle’s power to make weapons and sculptures to sell at the Market for extra cash with our team’s future uncertain. Hell, I could have been using Alchemist’s power to create clean drinking water for people without any. Or maybe there was some other clever use for these unwanted powers that I could use to try and make it all worth it.

I walked right up to the edge of choice paralysis, gave it the finger, and went flying on a whim instead.

That choice proved more valuable than I expected in the end. None of the Chorus had a power that let them fly, so it was still novel enough to placate and distract. That alone would have been enough, but after a couple hours of aimlessly drifting over Brockton Bay, the surrounding countryside, and the ocean—while making sure to give the PRT’s oil rig a wide berth—I found a quite novel way to spend my time.

I went to church. Kinda.

The sun had begun its creeping ascent, painting the fluffy clouds and still waters around the oil rig swatches of bloody reds and bruised purples. Seagulls flitted across the scene, periodically diving and rising like motes of dust caught in the wind. And beneath it all, lights burst into life across the city as people rose with the sun. Pretty, all of it, but none of it held my attention like the SUV that passed beneath me

“Huh.” Though really it wasn’t the vehicle itself that had caught me. That honor belonged to the submachine gun, assault rifle, several pistols, and assortment of knives speeding along inside it. “That’s interesting.” [Rotlimb: I’d say anything would be more exciting at this point, but that looks like a chance at real action. Follow them!]

For once, Rotlimb and I were in agreement. The others variously voiced their approval or disapproval, but they fell into the periphery as I focused on tracking the vehicle from overhead. One in four or five people in Brockton Bay had some kind of weapon on their person as they walked the streets, and that number only increased when cars came into the equation with all their nooks and crannies for hiding things. But this many weapons? In the wee hours of a Sunday morning?

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

It didn’t take especially long for the driver to get their destination, an old factory on the north end of town. The trainyard, I vaguely recalled and Danger Zone confirmed, specifically an area of it that niggled at my brain. By the time I figured out the connection, the SUV’s occupants had already exited and joined a couple other groups that were approaching the guys posted outside the only open entrance. All of the weapons that had captured my attention were left behind.

“I fought Lung here,” I said to no one in particular as I carefully maneuvered myself to a nearby three story, just in case someone got the bright idea to look up. Last time I’d been here, I’d decided the nearby roofs would collapse if someone so much as sneezed on them. They didn’t look any better now, so I carefully put the edge between them and me without actually setting myself down on the surface. [Rotlimb: You fought a lung…?] [Quarrel: You fought Lung? And lived to tell of it?]

“Yeah. A few days after I got my powers, then again later.” Separate groups coming in, none of them bringing weapons in, but they all brought weapons with them. What were they doing in there? And in ABB territory? [Belial: I recall something of this one. You kept tabs on him, did you not Quarrel?] [Rotlimb: We’re talking about a person… who named himself after an organ… Am I getting that right?]

No—not ABB territory. I’d almost forgotten, Therese had mentioned once that they fell apart. Without Lung, there wasn’t anything to hold them together, and the Empire had gobbled up their territory like the vultures they were. But that still didn’t explain what this was. If it was a safehouse or whatever, then why leave the weapons? But it had to be something in that vein, otherwise why have guards at all?

It was a good thing I wasn’t a cat because I was very curious.

Before I could think better of it, I activated MirrorriM’s power. Of all the fifteen powers I’d inherited, it was the one with the most baggage, for lack of a better word. All of them had been weakened in some respect from how they worked in their owner’s memories, except for Uncle Klaus’, a fact I didn’t know what to make of. In Ror’s case, her power had been always active, except for when she focused on wanting to be seen and heard. For me, I had to focus on the opposite, on being hidden and silent. I hadn’t thought that ‘weaker’ at first, until memories of Ror being knocked unconscious rose up in answer—a passive defense. In the days I’d spent in the PRT’s holding cell, I’d wondered whether it would interfere with a Master, if they needed to make a conscious effort to control me.

If it did, well, I would have been understandably jealous.

But the reason the power came with so much baggage was— [Butcher: Scared you’ll be found out? If you want to know what’s happening in there, then go in the front door and make them tell you.] [Rotlimb: Seriously? You’re using that feckless bitch’s power? Give me a break.] [Toro: What the fuck, Sixteen? What the actual fuck? Are you trying to piss us off?] [Deimos: You smell delicious, Meteor. If only I could gobble you up like the distressed little morsel you are, ke ke…] [Quarrel: Disgraceful. And you say you fought Lung? Must have run for your life, you vile little ant.] —using it provoked a… strong reaction from the most vocal of my parasites.

I threw myself over the roof, plummeting down to street level before pulling up, fixing my scarf tighter around my face where it had come loose over hours of flight. More obscenities, taunts, and accusations bounced around my skull, joined by Klaus, Edict, and Sarah defending me. Edict speaking up made Toro act up even more like the dick always did, so by the time I carefully flew past the guards—a pair of bruisers with shaved heads and tats, who were clearly a little too invested in being stereotypes—half the Chorus was arguing and filling my head with enough noise it was difficult to think.

I paused, invisibly hovering in the air. I’d expected a stash of drugs or some other illicit shit, something that would require the sheer size of the building. And to be fair, the fighting ring I had not expected to find did use most of the retro-fitted factory floor. Suspended walkways of textured, open grill steel that criss-crossed over the area had been repurposed as stands and the bounds of the arena, new steel welded into place under the much older, painted walkways as the bones for a membrane of chain link walls. An aged, flaking onyx perched atop a gleaming crown stained with blood. A cage.

And there was blood. The factory floor was made of concrete sanded down and sealed with epoxy, the sort of surface built to last with regular maintenance. Irregular cracks and chips littered the floor, and whether for that reason, traction, or to make cleanup of pooled blood simpler, the cage floor was a layer of fine sand contained in a squat frame of more steel welded to the floor. Even this close to the floor, I could make out congealed patches and sprinkled paths ending in splatter adorning the cage itself in caked on rubies. Nothing fresh, from what I could see.

Easily a hundred people—perhaps another half that?—stood on the walkways framing the cage. Men and women both, but all unerringly white. Some were captivated by the scene below, which from up there probably looked like the sort of minimalist abstract painting you’d find hanging in an art gallery. Most were chatting. No, that was the wrong word. ‘Chatting’ implied something more friendly or at least polite. They were rousing one another, the atmosphere charged with building violence and thirst for the sort of atrocities that painted the arena in fresh gouts of red.

I felt the doors behind me closing before I heard the muted thunk of them settling into place. Well oiled, I thought, as I quickly shifted up and away to prevent the guards from walking into me after they locked up. Once I’d been snapped out of my stupor, I properly noticed the types of equipment spread around the factory—the mill. Hulking ladles and casters to mold, sheers and rolling mills for shaping, and two long cooling beds framing the room. Once upon a time, this very place might have made the sort of steel rods that had been slotted into its ruinous skeleton. An office that must have belonged to mill’s manager, or perhaps its owner, was built into the far wall and connected to the cage by another, unaltered walkway. I felt the mask, chains, and cage approach from the other side but didn’t recognize them until the door swung open, silencing everyone.

“New. Blood.”

“Fuck me,” I breathed, briefly losing concentration on Ror’s power. If it weren’t for the fact the eyes of everyone in the room were fixated on the man wearing them, I doubtlessly would have been spotted appearing and vanishing. Potentially enough to put people on alert for Strangers. [Butcher: Dickless coward. I hope they catch and flay you.] [Footloose: OooOoOoooo… A special sort of party’s about to kick off!] [Toro: Nice. We had a setup like this once or twice back when I was in charge.]

Hookwolf strode down the walkway, unperturbed by the rough texture despite his bare feet. The humming fluorescent bulbs overhead cast the sheet metal of his mask in a stark light, accentuated with a gleam from a hint of morning light peeking through the mostly fogged over windows. Canine in cut, with jutting protrusions suggesting ears and a snout, the eye marred by a gouge as long as my hand slicing from its right cheek up over its brow. An overly large belt buckle on the chain looped through his jeans was his only other concession to cape culture. He barely cared about public decency; the only article of clothing he had on was jeans and—I hoped—underwear beneath. His cronies flanking him were little better. Stormtiger was at least wearing shoes with his loose pants, and Cricket added to that with a wife beater.

“Two more wish to join our number.” An irregular clicking whir and scrape of metal on metal floated under his voice, his skin shifting and pinching together as metal musculature writhed over the mundane, flesh and blood variety. The words carried, buoyed by the uneven, discordant beat of his innards, made tinny by his mask and echoing in the silence of the mostly vacant mill. Silent but not calm. The crowd was restless, teeming with pent up violence as it parted to let Hookwolf and his entourage reach the edge over the arena. “Oliver Hart. Kennedy Hart. Step into the ring.” [Caterpillar: Leave before you’re found, Sixteen. It’s unwise to incite something unnecessary with a cape.] [Footloose: Gendered and agendered, welcome to the main event!]

The energy pulsing through the crowd boiled over, howls and jeers filling the space with an overwhelming cacophony that reverberated endlessly off the bare walls and fossilizing industrial equipment. The Harts made their way down the tiered stairs leading to the floor where the guards waited by chain-link doors. Brother and sister? Husband and wife? No, with that age gap, Father and daughter…? [DZ: Oh, I do not like this…] [Rotlimb: What a match-up! Some good ol’ fashioned family drama ought to make this spicy!]

The guards let the Harts in then blocked the exit with loose chain fed through the loops and an enormous padlock to bind it in place. The sand crunched and slid beneath them as they moved to the center before turning to face one another. The father’s face was rigid with restraint, accentuating the wrinkles around his eyes, but the daughter, her expression was as loose as it was inexpressive. She looked away, almost casual as her eyes slid over the crowd overhead while she tugged off her jacket and tossed it away. The black, bulky fabric collapsed in a heap with a dull thwump, its lining—bright red, the same as the streaks in the girl’s dark hair—on display.

The Chorus were speaking, but their voices felt far away. My ears, like my eyes, were transfixed by the fight about to begin, by the girl unconcerned by a brawl with her father, of her blood or his joining the spills and stains all around her.

The crowd fell silent, and Hookwolf spoke. But I was beyond words, the voices in my head whispers in the dark. She struck first, not quite fluid but making up for it with commitment. Her father dodged, his only retaliation a flinch and words, a name, “Kennedy.” Idiot, he’d never reach her like that. But she nearly reached him with the foot she lashed in his direction. Another dodge, except that time she had overextended. Sloppy? I thought, as she fell to the sand, catching herself with her palms. No.

She surged to her feet with a lunge, a left hook in the wings. He was already dancing back, clearly uninterested in hurting his daughter. The fluidity of his movements betrayed his training, stood in stark contrast to her jerky, improvisation. He knew how to fight. He was a head taller than her. He had the reach, the weight, the strength. He didn’t have the foresight to predict her left hook was really her throwing the sand she’d scooped when she fell into his eyes.

He cried out, nearly losing his footing, one hand going to his eyes in a vain attempt to dislodge the fine powder while the other rose in what would have been a half decent guard if he’d been paying more attention to her than the grit in his eyes. That was the real difference between them. Not the training or size. Commitment.

She slipped around his guard and punched his throat head-on. Coughing, sputtering, and blind he mustered no defense as she took to steps forward and around, swinging back around to smash her fist into his kidney. She missed, but not by much—enough he went down. She fell upon him, no let up, no hesitation. Commitment. When she finally stopped, it was all at once, mid-motion. She looked up, up into the eyes behind the steel mask watching from above. The room was awash with sound and violence and blood…

… and my voice, “HOOKWOLF!”

With a single word, I’d silenced hundreds. Silence from the ring, silence from my head. With two more, I made them roar.

“New blood.”