NOVA SLUNG THE BAG over her shoulder and reached for one of the weighted ropes she’d set up in the alley the night before. She wrapped her arm around the rope and untied the sailor’s knot from the weights holding it to the ground.
The weights attached to the opposite end dropped, dragging it through the pulley on the rooftop above. Nova jerked upward, holding tight as the rope whistled past the building’s concrete wall.
The second set of weights crashed into the ground below.
She stopped with a shudder, her hand only a few inches shy of the pulley, her body swinging six stories in the air. Nova threw her bag onto the rooftop, then grabbed the ledge and hauled herself over. She dropped down into a crouch and riffled through the bag, pulling out the uniform she had designed with Queen Bee’s help. She slung the weaponry belt across her hips, where it hung comfortably, outfitted with specially crafted pockets and hooks for all of her favorite inventions. Next, the snug black hooded jacket: waterproof and flame-retardant, yet lightweight enough to keep from inhibiting her movements. She zipped it up to her neck and tugged the sleeves past her knuckles before pulling up the hood, where a couple of small weights stitched into the hem held it in place over her brow.
The mask came last. A hard metallic shell perfectly molded to the bridge of her nose that disappeared into the high collar of the jacket, disguising the lower half of her face.
Transformation complete, she stooped and pulled the rifle and a single poisoned dart from the bag.
“Where are you, Nightmare?” Phobia rasped.
“I’m here. Almost in position.” She approached the edge of the building and looked down on the celebration below. It was quieter up here—the noise of the crowd dulled beneath the whistle of the wind and the hum of rooftop generators. The street was a mess of confetti and color, balloons and costumes, laughter and music and cheers.
Nova loaded the dart into the gun’s chamber.
Ingrid had concocted the plan, and it was beautiful in its simplicity. When she’d told the group, Winston had griped about not being included, but Phobia had sagely pointed out that Winston, who most people knew as the Puppeteer, wasn’t capable of keeping anything simple.
So it was only the three of them on the field today. They didn’t need the others. Nova had one dart handcrafted by Leroy Flinn, their own poisons master. She only needed one. If she missed, she wouldn’t get a second chance.
But she wouldn’t miss.
She would kill the Captain.
Once he was hit, Ingrid, the Detonator, would emerge from hiding and hit the Council’s parade float with as many of her signature bombs—made from a fusion of gasses in the air—as she could launch. Phobia would focus on Thunderbird, as she usually took to the air during a battle, giving her a frustratingly unfair advantage. They’d heard that Thunderbird was deathly afraid of snakes, which was one of his specialties. They were banking on the rumors to be true. Worst-case scenario: Phobia startled her long enough for Nova or Ingrid to take her down. Best-case: He gave her a midflight heart attack.
And that was it. The Council—the five original Renegades—all eradicated at once.
But it started with Nova getting past Captain Chromium’s supposed invincibility.
“Say … Nightmare?”
“I’m here, Detonator. Relax.”
“Yeah, I can see you up there. But I’m pretty sure Phobia wanted you at the west station?”
Nova froze. She glanced at the rooftop behind her, then across the gap to the apartment building on the other side of the alleyway, where her second weighted rope sat waiting, unused. She squinted up into the midday sun and cursed.
Phobia drawled in her ear, “Tell me she didn’t get on the wrong building.”
“I was distracted,” she said through gritted teeth.
Phobia sighed heavily.
“She can’t hit the target from the west rooftop?” asked Detonator.
After a brief silence, Phobia said, “She might have a fair shot at Tsunami or Blacklight, but not Captain Chromium. The parade route will have them turning before she’s in alignment.” He hummed thoughtfully. “She can end one Council member, and we shall have to concern ourselves with the others at a later date.”
“Our priority was the Captain,” said Ingrid. “This entire mission was built around taking out the Captain.”
“One Renegade is better than none.”
“It still makes this mission a failure.”
Licking her lips, Nova looked across at the opposite rooftop, estimating the distance over the alley. “Everyone calm down. I can get to the other side. Phobia, how much time do I have?”
“Not enough.”
“How much?”
“Ten seconds before the float enters your prime target area, then perhaps forty-five to make the shot.”
Nova picked up the duffel bag and heaved it across the gap. It landed with a thud on the other rooftop.
Phobia’s voice crackled. “This seems inadvisable.”
“Let her try,” said Ingrid. “It will be her own fault if she falls.”
“I won’t fall,” Nova muttered. She slung the rifle onto her back and released a pair of gloves from a hoop on her belt. She shoved her hands into them and buckled the cuffs, securing them in place, then pressed her thumbs into the switches on her wrists. A jolt of electricity shot through the black fabric, forming pressurized suction cups on her fingertips and palms.
She reviewed the distance one more time. Paced back to the far edge of the building. Inhaled.
And ran.
Her boots thudded. Air whistled past her ears, knocking back her hood. She planted her right foot and leaped.
Her stomach hit the ledge of the brick wall on the other side of the alley. Pain jolted through her bones. She groaned and pressed her palms against the concrete to secure herself in place before she started to slip.
Ingrid whooped shrilly in her ear.
Phobia said nothing until Nova had hefted her body onto the east rooftop, and then merely, “Four seconds to visual.”
Nova switched the pressure on her gloves, letting the suction cups recede into the fabric, and pulled her hood over her face again. She slung the gun off her back as she walked past the building’s utility elevator, coming to stand at the edge as her pulse thrummed through her veins. Though she couldn’t see the Council’s float, she could tell from the increased excitement in the crowd that it was close.
Ignoring the throbbing pain where her stomach had hit the wall, she knelt onto one knee and propped the barrel of the gun on the rooftop ledge. She checked the loaded dart. “Ready.”
“Well done, Nightmare,” said Detonator.
“She hasn’t done anything yet,” said Phobia.
“I know, but isn’t it nice to have a shooter on the team again?”
“She hasn’t shot anything yet, either.”
“Would you both zip it?” Nova growled, peeling off the gloves and shoving them back through the hoop on her belt.
Below, the Council’s parade float rolled into view. It was an enormous tiered structure with five pedestals rising from a dark storm cloud. A literal thunder-and-lightning-filled storm cloud, like they thought they were gods or something.
Strike that. They definitely thought they were gods.
Thunderbird—the inimitable Tamaya Rae—stood on the first pedestal, her enormous black wings spanning the full width of the parade float and the wind catching in her long, dark hair, making her look like the proud mascot on the mast of a ship. She occasionally sent bolts of lightning to further ignite the cloud at her feet.
Not to be overshadowed, Blacklight was on the second tier shooting fireworks and flashing strobe lights into the air as the crowd gasped and squealed. With his red beard and tightly curled mustache, Nova had always thought Evander Wade looked more like a six-foot-tall leprechaun than a superhero, but supposedly he had a dedicated fan following, and the giddy shrieks from the crowd seemed to support the theory.
Above him, Kasumi Hasegawa might not have been aware she was in the middle of a parade at all. That’s how Tsunami always looked though—caught up in her own world, a cool, secretive smile on her lips. While she stood barely moving with her arms extended, the stream of fish-filled water she was manipulating moved around her like a ribbon in a mesmerizing dance. A jet of foam and spray and angelfish spinning, twirling, spiraling in all directions.
The fourth pedestal appeared, at first glance, to be empty, which meant that’s where Simon Westwood was standing. And sure enough, as Nova watched, the Dread Warden flickered into view, posing like the Thinking Man. A second later, he vanished again, only to reappear posed in a handstand, which then turned into a one-handed handstand. A second later, he went invisible again. The crowd roared in laughter when he reappeared, not on his own pedestal, but on the fifth and tallest platform on the float, using his fingers to give bunny ears to Captain Chromium.
Beside each other, they were like night and day. Simon Westwood had olive-toned skin, a close-trimmed beard, and dark, wavy hair, while Hugh Everhart, the city’s beloved Captain, was the picture of boyish charm, complete with golden hair and dimples.
Captain Chromium rolled his eyes and glanced at the Dread Warden over his shoulder. They shared a look that was disgustingly endearing.
Nova had been too young to notice if there was any shock or scandal when two of the original Renegades announced they were in love, or if there had been any announcement at all. Maybe they just were, from the start. Either way, she suspected the world had been dealing with too much devastation to really care back then, and these days Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden were practically the world’s favorite sweethearts. The tabloids were forever going on about whether or not they were planning to adopt another child, or if they were going to retire from the Council and move to the tropics, or if a dark, hidden secret from the past was threatening to tear them apart.
From their smiles, though, Nova highly doubted there was much substance to those rumors, and it made her teeth grind.
Why should they have such happiness?
She eased herself into position, calculating the distance and angle as the gun warmed in her hand.
The Dread Warden disappeared again and returned to his own pedestal, leaving the Captain alone, a king before his doting subjects. He was as familiar to Nova as her own reflection. Yellow-blond hair curling against his forehead. Blue shoulder pads jutting out from a broad, muscled chest. A winning smile with teeth so white they gleamed in the sun.
Then, as the crowd’s cheers reached a deafening crescendo, he reached for the display stand at his side. His hand wrapped around a tall metal pike, and he lifted it overhead. One of Blacklight’s fireworks burst then, lighting them all in a hue of coppery gold.
Nova’s stomach dropped.
“Is that…?”
“Don’t dwell on it,” said Phobia.
“Dwell on what?” asked Ingrid.
Nova swallowed around the lump in her throat, unable to respond.
Captain Chromium, beloved superhero and adored Renegade, had Ace Anarchy’s helmet skewered at the top of his pike. It had been driven through the skull, fracturing the bronze-tinted material that had once been dragged from the air by her own father’s fingertips, years before Nova was born.
The Detonator’s voice came through the headset again, an understanding “Oh…” as the parade float entered her view. Nova barely heard her.
She was six years old again. Afraid. Devastated. Staring up into the eyes behind that helmet, throwing herself into his arms.
The Renegades had not come, but he had. Maybe not soon enough to save her family, but still, he had come. He had saved her.
“You’re dwelling,” said Phobia, his voice almost a taunt.
Nova squared her shoulders. “Am not.”
Phobia didn’t respond, but she could feel a haughty response in his silence.
“It’s all right, Nightmare,” said Detonator. “We’re doing this for Ace, aren’t we? Use that anger. Use it to avenge him.”
Nova didn’t respond. The world became still. Serene. Black and white.
She looked through the scope, lining up the sights.
It had to be in the eye. Anywhere else on his body and the tip of the dart would snap on the layer of chrome beneath his skin, and the poison would never make its way into his system.
Her aim had to be perfect.
And it would be.
She’d been preparing for this moment for years.
Use that anger.
It wasn’t just to avenge Ace, though that might have been enough all on its own. It was to avenge her family, too, who the Council could have saved, but hadn’t.
It was to revitalize Ace’s vision. His dream of freedom for all prodigies, not just those who were willing to pander to the self-appointed Council and their autocratic laws.
It was because Nova knew that the Council was failing the people—was failing them even now—but no one was brave enough to say it.
Society would be better off without them.
The street below seemed to fall silent, blanketed by the purpose drumming inside her head. The Captain’s eye came into focus. Shocking blue and bearing faint wrinkles in the corner as he smiled. He wasn’t young anymore, like when he’d first formed the Renegades. The Council were getting older, passing their legacy on to a new generation.
“Pull the trigger,” she whispered to herself. Inhale. The trigger pressed against her finger.
They were getting older, but they still held all the power. All the control. More, perhaps, than they ever had when they’d prowled the streets at night, searching for criminals and villains.
More than when he’d taken that helmet from its rightful owner.
Exhale.
“Pull the trigger, Nova.”
The Renegades will come.
Nova flinched.
“What’s wrong?” asked Detonator.
“Nothing.” Nova licked her lips. Lined up the sights again. The float was turning the corner now. Soon it would pass out of sight. Soon he would turn away from her, his smile and charm greeting the next street of worshipers.
This was the best opportunity they would have to take down the Captain, and soon, the rest of the Council would follow.
While the Renegades scrambled to replace the Council, the Anarchists would rise again. Without the villain gangs interfering this time, they would show the people of this city what anarchy was meant to look like. True freedom. True independence. For everyone.
All she had to do was pull the trigger.
A bug fluttered in the corner of her vision. Nova shooed it away.
She found her target again.
The Captain shifted, turning his head slightly in her direction.
It was the best shot she would have.
Nova started to squeeze.
Something landed on the end of the rifle. Nova lifted her eyes, focusing on the gold-and-black butterfly, its wings opening and closing as it perched on the barrel.
Nova’s gaze lifted skyward.
A swarm of monarch butterflies clouded overhead—hundreds, perhaps thousands of vibrant wings fluttering as they clustered above her.
“We have company.”
A beat of silence was followed by, “Renegades?”
She didn’t respond. The float was turning. Five seconds, maybe less.
Nova looked through the sights and found the Captain, found his perfect hair, his perfect smile, his perfect blue eyes—
A bundle of balloons passed between them, each emblazoned with the iconic Renegade R.
She waited, frozen in time, sweat dripping down her neck.
The balloons passed.
Captain Chromium shifted his gaze upward, looking almost right at her.
She fired.
The Captain turned, just a hair.
The dart struck him in the temple. The needle tip snapped off.
Captain Chromium jerked to attention, searching the rooftops, signaling the others. Nova let out a stream of curses as she ducked behind the ledge.
A red hook flew from the side of her vision, attached to a thin wire. It wrapped around the gun and snatched it away.
Nova leaped to her feet.
A teenage girl, pale and freckled, stood at the corner of the roof, holding Nova’s gun in one hand and the glittering hook in the other. She wore the Renegade uniform—form-fitting charcoal-gray Lycra from her neck to her boots, piped in red and emblazoned with a small R over her heart. Her hair was a mix of bleached white and pitch-black, pulled into a shaggy ponytail.
The butterflies swarmed beside her, cycloning until their wings became a blur, then solidified into the body of a second girl, wearing an identical gray bodysuit, with long blonde dreadlocks framing her face.
Red Assassin and Monarch.
Nova had met them once before, when they tried to stop her from robbing a small pharmacy for supplies Leroy needed, but there were more of them that time.
Nova lifted an eyebrow. “Where’s everyone else? Living it up in the beer garden?”
As soon as she said it, she heard a ding, and the metal grate over the utility elevator squealed open.
A third Renegade emerged from the elevator—a boy with light brown skin and thick dark hair. He walked with a slight limp and a cane, faint tendrils of smoke following in his wake.
Smokescreen.
The corner of Nova’s mouth curled upward. “That’s a bit more like it.”
Detonator’s voice crackled in her ear. “What’s happening up there?”
Nova ignored her.
“Nightmare,” said Smokescreen, with a subtle incline of his head. “Long time, no see.”
“You’re about to wish it had been longer.” Nova reached for her belt and unclipped two of her heat-seeking throwing stars, an invention she had worked all last summer to perfect.
She threw them both at Red Assassin, knowing how dangerous she could be with that hook of hers. Red dodged. Monarch burst again into a swarm of butterflies.
A bolt of black smoke struck Nova in the face. She stumbled back, blinded.
“Nightmare, report,” said Ingrid.
Snarling, Nova reached for the transmitter behind her earlobe and shut it off.
She forced her burning eyes open and saw a blur of yellow, then Monarch was beside her. A knee collided with Nova’s side and she fell to the concrete, rolling from the force of the blow. Nova used the momentum to jump back to her feet, shutting out the pain in her ribs, blinking through the stinging tears that blurred her vision.
Something hooked beneath her chin, pulling tight against her throat—Smokescreen’s cane. He yanked her against him. Though he wasn’t a big guy by any means, his arms felt like iron as his cheek pressed against the side of her hood. “Your days of villainy are over, Nightmare.”
She scoffed. “You sound like you’ve read too many comics.”
“You sound like you think that’s a bad thing,” he retorted.
She felt around for his hands on either end of the cane, but the gloves of his uniform overlapped with his sleeves, leaving no vulnerable skin exposed.
Smokescreen’s hold on her tightened. “Are you working alone?”
In front of her, Red Assassin caught one of the throwing stars on her wire, flinging it at a heat vent. It stuck with a metallic clang. The second star boomeranged over the alleyway and zipped back toward her. She pinwheeled the ruby hook in front of her and stabbed the star into the concrete with the gem’s point before it could rise again.
Red Assassin wrenched her gem free and turned to face Nova and Smokescreen, panting. She started to twirl the wire-tethered ruby like a lasso over her head.
Nova scowled. So much work, wasted.
Monarch formed again, arms crossed over her chest. “I believe Smokescreen asked you a question.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Nova. “I was busy daydreaming about your funerals.”
She grabbed the cane and kicked back her hips, launching Smokescreen over her head. He landed on his back with a grunt.
Snagging the cane from his hands, Nova struck the backs of Monarch’s knees, knocking her off her feet.
Red Assassin threw the gem at Nova. The wire wound around her ankle, yanking her to the ground and dragging her across the gritty rooftop. Nova tried to dislodge another throwing star from her belt, but before she could get ahold of it, Red pulled a dagger cut from the same red crystal as her hook and pressed her knee on top of Nova’s chest. She dug the point of the dagger against Nova’s jugular.
“Who,” said Red Assassin, with careful enunciation, “are you working for?”
Sensing her own heartbeat against the gemstone, Nova couldn’t help smiling behind her mask. “Your worst nightmare,” she said, jamming her fingertips into the cuff of Red’s boot and finding the skin of her ankle. Her power rolled through her. The blade dug into her throat, but then Red Assassin’s eyes closed and she collapsed beside her.
A wave of hazy white mist rolled across the rooftop. Nova looked around, but the mist was already too thick to see Smokescreen. Sitting up, she unwound the wire from her leg and grabbed the dagger. It was lighter than any knife she’d ever held and looked like it had been cut from a single ruby, though she knew a real gemstone would have been much heavier.
Whatever material Red Assassin used for her specialized weaponry, it was sharp, and that’s all Nova cared about.
On her feet again, she peered into the shroud of odorless smoke, listening for any sign of Smokescreen or Monarch. Her senses felt dulled in the fog. Infrared goggles would have helped. She would have to work on those next.
She spotted a dark shape—her duffel bag. With one more glance around, she bolted for the bag and threaded her elbow through the handles.
Monarch appeared from nowhere, her dreadlocks whipping behind her as she aimed a jab for Nova’s head. Nova ducked and rammed her shoulder into Monarch’s abdomen. The Renegade bent forward and Nova stabbed upward with the dagger, but the moment she felt the blade pierce the flesh of her upper leg, Monarch exploded into fluttering wings.
The smoke was beginning to clear, and Nova spotted a rickety fire escape on the next building. Tucking the dagger into her belt, she sprinted toward the edge of the roof and jumped. Catching the fire-escape rail, she vaulted herself over it and onto metal stairs that shuddered and clanged beneath her.
Smokescreen’s voice cut through the fog. “Monarch!”
Nova paused long enough to look back and see Monarch reappear, though she immediately collapsed and pressed a palm over the cut in her thigh. The gray fabric of her uniform was darkening with blood.
Nova swung the duffel bag over her shoulder and hauled herself up the winding stairs, taking the risers two at a time.
She reached the roof and ran for the far side.
She was halfway across when a large figure leaped up from the street below, clearing the rooftop by a good twenty feet. Nova skidded to a stop, her panting breaths warming the inside of her mask.
The form landed in front of her with a clang.
Rather than a charcoal-gray bodysuit, he was dressed in something akin to armor—every limb protected, every muscle sculpted into the rigid shell, his face disguised behind a helmet and dark-tinted visor. The Renegade R was emblazoned on his chest, but the armor wasn’t like any Renegade uniform she’d ever seen.
Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she could feel them watching her. Nova took half a step back, scanning the figure from head to toe. There was no skin to be seen, only narrow seams between the armored plates that might be vulnerable to more traditional attacks.
“You must be new around here,” she said.
His head tilted. “I’ve been around long enough to know who you are … Nightmare.”
Nova’s fingers skimmed along the top of her belt, though she wasn’t confident any of her weapons would be effective. “Should I be flattered?”
Before the figure could answer, a bout of high-pitched laughter echoed off the high-rise buildings, pealing through the streets and alleys of downtown Gatlon. The sound was grating, shrill, and far too familiar.
Nova grimaced. “What is that idiot doing here?”