THE ARMORED STRANGER turned his head toward the laughter, just as the curve of a hot-air balloon rose into view over the parade. The balloon was decorated in black-and-white harlequin, with an enormous acid-green Anarchist symbol painted over it. Its wicker basket carried one occupant—a man with wild orange hair, painted red cheeks, and deep lines drawn from the corners of his mouth down his chin in mimicry of a marionette.
The Puppeteer stood on the rim of the basket in a checkered suit, gripping the upright bars as it bounced and swayed beneath him.
“Oh, Reeeeenegades,” he shouted in a singsong voice. “Doesn’t anyone want to play with me?”
The cheers below turned to screams of fright, and he cackled again, holding one hand out over the crowd, tilting so far forward it seemed he would topple from the basket. “Eeny, meeny, miny … mo!”
Eight shimmering gold strings cascaded from his fingertips into the crowd, and though Nova couldn’t see where they landed, she knew he would be seeking out children in the chaos below. Those who were touched by his strings would turn into puppets he could control. After all these years, she still wasn’t sure if his power only worked on children, or if he just preferred them because a mindless, rabid four-year-old was so damned creepy.
“Tag!” the Puppeteer bellowed. “You’re it!”
The screams grew louder.
“Friend of yours?”
Nova glanced sideways at the armored figure. “Not exactly.”
The Puppeteer laughed again, and the stranger’s fists tightened. Nova couldn’t fault him for his irritation. She wasn’t exactly Winston Pratt’s biggest fan, either, and she’d been technically on the same side as him since she was six.
In one movement, Nova pulled the duffel bag around to her front and reached inside for the netting gun she’d engineered from a toy bazooka when she was eleven. The figure turned toward her at the same moment she lifted the gun and pulled the trigger, sending a net of nylon ropes soaring toward him. Its eight points spread out like an octopus. The stranger stumbled back in surprise, lifting a hand to defend himself as the net descended.
He dropped to one knee. The net wrapped around him, tangling around his limbs. The helmet twisted from side to side as he struggled to pull the ropes away, but every movement only drew them tighter.
“It was nice to meet you,” said Nova, tossing the bazooka back into the bag. She jogged past him, scouting out the next rooftop before making the easy jump.
“We’re not done.”
She glanced back. The stranger’s shoulders were hunched. He wrapped his gloved fingers around the knotted ropes, and smoke started to wisp between his fingertips.
The ropes caught fire. Flames licked along the nylon, blackening the net until whole portions of it crumbled away into ash.
When enough of the netting had been burned off, he tore a hole in it and stepped out of the bindings, leaving the rest to smolder on the concrete roof.
He walked to the edge and peered down at Nova.
She smirked, unimpressed. “Another fire elemental. How quaint. Not exactly a rare breed, but it’s hard to criticize a classic.”
He bent his knees, lowering himself into a slight crouch, then sprang upward, lobbing his body clean over her head. Nova followed his trajectory through the air, a full arc that carried him onto the rooftop behind her. Though his landing was graceful, the weight of his armor made the floor shake beneath them.
Nova’s smile faded.
A fire elemental with a fancy anti-gravity suit … or a prodigy with superior speed and strength, who just happened to also be able to burn things … or, a superhero with both powers? She’d never heard of such a combination before.
“You can’t escape me, Nightmare,” he said. “I’m taking you into custody, and you will answer for your crimes.”
“Lovely as that sounds, I actually had other plans for this afternoon.”
A shadow passed over them—monarch butterflies slowly merging into a girl’s shape.
As Monarch took form, Nova looked between her and the stranger. She was trapped between them.
She didn’t like being trapped.
Monarch frowned at the armored man. A hasty bandage had been wrapped around the wound in her thigh, cut from gray cloth. “Who are you?”
The stranger didn’t speak for a moment, and Nova was sure his voice deepened when he responded, taking on an air of righteousness. “I am the Sentinel.”
Nova laughed. “Seriously?”
The Sentinel angled his head in her direction, and she couldn’t tell whether she imagined the way his chest expanded defensively.
“Friend of yours?” Monarch said, glancing at Nova.
She tightened her hands around the strap of the duffel bag. “I’m really not that friendly. Besides, he’s wearing your trademark.”
Monarch’s eyes narrowed as she took in the R on the Sentinel’s chest.
Losing interest in Monarch’s confusion, Nova heaved the bag at the Sentinel’s head, then reached behind her for the red dagger. She swung the blade toward Monarch’s abdomen but hit only air as she dispersed again into the swarm. Snarling in frustration, Nova swung again and again—finally slicing a single butterfly in half.
She let out a breath and glanced down at the faint brush of wing dust on the blade.
Two arms wrapped around her, securing her elbows at her sides. If Smokescreen had been strong, this guy was iron and steel.
Or perhaps it was the suit.
Nova clenched her jaw and pushed backward. He yelped but didn’t release her as his foot hit the low rail along the building’s ledge.
With one more shove, Nova sent them both plummeting over the side. For a moment they were airborne, his arms locked around her.
They hit the next roof with a jolt that reverberated through Nova’s bones. Something beneath them crunched and shattered.
Though her body ached, she forced herself to roll off him, shoving his arms away from her as she collapsed, trembling, onto a rattan mat. Nova looked around. They were in a small rooftop garden, surrounded by wicker furniture and potted plants—one of which was now pinned beneath the Sentinel. A water fountain gurgled against the wall they had just fallen from.
She caught a glimpse of the Puppeteer’s balloon drifting along the street. There were flashes of strobing red lights brightening the sides of the buildings along the main avenue. Blacklight, perhaps, trying to distract the Puppeteer with fireworks and flashes, or maybe Thunderbird throwing one of her lightning bolts in an attempt to take down the balloon … or electrocute the villain. Maybe both.
The butterflies returned, forming a dark cloud overhead. The Sentinel had rolled onto his side and was attempting to push himself up.
“Hey, Sentinel,” Nova said, tightening her grip on the dagger.
He glanced up.
She plunged the knife into the space between his chest and shoulder plates.
The Sentinel roared and shoved her away. He crumpled, planting one palm on the ground, while the other lit up, suddenly engulfed in orange flames. He hauled the hand back.
Nova ducked, pulling her hood down as a column of flames rushed over her back. She knew adding a flame-resistant coating to her uniform had been a good idea.
A cry of pain hit her ears.
Nova peered up from the shadow of her hood as the swarming butterflies converged back into the body of Monarch. The flames had hit a cluster of the orange insects, and the remaining wisps of ash seemed to melt into the girl’s left side, from her ribs to her hip. Her uniform was blackened and smoking, and the stench of burned flesh permeated the air.
The fire escape rattled and clanked off the side of the building. Smokescreen appeared on the ladder, hooking his cane over the rooftop edge to help pull himself up. He was breathing heavily, his dark hair matted to his brow as he took in the scene. His eyes widened. “Monarch?”
Something clattered at Nova’s feet. The ruby dagger, its blade darkened with blood.
Nova didn’t bother to look back at any of them as she turned and ran again, scaling the burbling stone fountain and hauling herself back to the rooftop they had fallen from. Behind her, she could hear the Sentinel ordering Smokescreen to help Monarch, and an incredulous Smokescreen demanding, “Who the hell are you?”
The Puppeteer’s wicker basket drifted back into view.
“Catch!” Nova yelled.
The Puppeteer glanced in her direction, but made no effort to catch the duffel bag as Nova tossed it into his basket.
“Good afternoon, tiny Nightmare,” said Winston. “What a delightful surprise this is. I was just out for a little … float.” He tossed his head back and started to laugh, the marionette lines on his face making it even creepier than it already was.
His hands were still held out over the crowd, golden gossamer strings toying with the helpless children below. Nova glanced down long enough to see a pigtailed girl chomp hard on the ankle of a gray-haired man … possibly her own grandfather.
Grimacing, Nova climbed onto the ledge of the roof. “Toss me a rope.”
The Puppeteer fell silent and peered at her with emotionless eyes. “You have a tagalong.”
A hand grabbed her elbow, spinning her around. Fingers closed over her throat, tilting her backward, squeezing just tight enough to keep her from plummeting to the street below.
“You tried to assassinate Captain Chromium,” the Sentinel growled. “Why? Who put you up to it? What else are they planning?” The visor of his helmet was a blank canvas, but his voice was furious. Nova imagined she could still feel the heat from his flames seeping through his glove.
“You Renegades sure ask a lot of questions,” she said, white spots flashing in her eyes.
He moved so close that his visor almost clicked against her own face mask. “You’d better start answering them.”
“You think I’m afraid of a pompous neophyte in a toy suit?”
The fingers at her throat seemed to loosen, just a bit. “Neophyte?”
“It means amateur. You’re obviously new to this game.”
“I know what it—” The Sentinel made an annoyed sound. “Look, I don’t really care whether or not you’re afraid of me, but I’m willing to bet you’re at least a little bit afraid of dying, like we all are.” The fingers tightened again, and Nova felt herself being forced backward. The change was minimal, but just enough so she could feel the shift in her balance, the slight pull of gravity.
She fought off the need for air and forced out a laugh, though it came out more like a wheeze. “You know what they say … one cannot be brave who has no fear.”
He jerked back as if she’d struck him. In the same moment, Nova reached forward and pressed her hand against his chest, digging her fingers into the sliced fabric where the knife had penetrated. It was hot and sticky with blood and it was all she needed. Flesh and tissue and a heartbeat that thundered underneath.
“What did you just—”
She drove her power into him, a sledgehammer into his chest.
His breath hitched, and he stood immovable for a moment. Then the grip loosened around her throat. Nova cried out and grabbed his forearm, pulling her center of balance toward him as he fell backward, landing with a bone-jolting crash.
Nova’s heart ricocheted inside her chest as she stared down at him, still feeling the drop in her stomach when, for a split second, she’d thought she was falling.
“Niiiiiightmare…”
Rubbing her throat, she turned in time to catch the shimmering gold threads the Puppeteer tossed to her. Though her legs had begun to shake, Nova forced herself to gather together any last shreds of strength. She wrapped the strings around her wrist and leaped, swinging out over the street, where people had scattered and a parade float had crashed into the side of a hair salon.
She hauled herself up the ropes and into the basket, landing in a heap on its floor.
“Thanks, Winston,” she gasped.
He didn’t respond—already he was focused again on his puppets, his mad laughter shrieking over the noise of the propane burner above them.
Once Nova had caught her breath, she wrapped her hands around the edge of the basket and forced herself to stand.
The street below was in chaos. The Puppeteer’s gossamer strings littered the pavement, some still wrapped around children’s throats and wrists, though many of his puppets had been discarded and were crumpled against buildings or in the middle of the street. A number of onlookers were injured, their bodies sprawled out on the sidewalks and streaks of blood trailing behind them as they attempted to crawl to safety. Winston had four children still enthralled, the strings like nooses around their necks as they threw marching band instruments through shop windows, ripped parade floats to pieces, and hurled street food at the Council members who were trying to stop them without actually hurting them.
The Dread Warden, of course, had gone invisible, while Tsunami kept trying to trap the puppets in a frothy tidal wave—except the spellbound children didn’t seem to care that they might drown as they plunged into the wall of water.
Nova searched for Captain Chromium but couldn’t find him in the uproar.
All the while, Winston’s grating cackle echoed through the city. He could have been at a circus for all his apparent glee.
Nova reached behind her ear and turned on the transmitter. “Nightmare checking in. Detonator, Phobia, where are you?”
Phobia’s voice came back to her, even and dry. “Where have you been?”
Nova glanced back to the rooftop, now half a block away as the balloon drifted along the street, but she could no longer see the Renegades or the Sentinel.
“I made some new friends,” she said.
A roar dragged Nova’s attention upward in time to see Thunderbird’s enormous black wings spread out against the blue sky. Her face was twisted with fury, one hand gripping a crackling white lightning bolt.
Nova cursed.
Winston giggled. “Hello, birdie bird!”
Thunderbird lifted her free hand and thrust her palm toward the balloon. The air boomed, shoving the balloon backward. The basket crashed into an office building. Nova ricocheted off the side and landed on the floor again.
Winston hoisted himself up, one hand gripping the upright bar as he pulled on the golden threads around his fingers, making the children below do who-knew-what.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he said with a childish titter. “It isn’t polite to hit. You should say you’re sorry.”
“Release those children now, Puppeteer,” growled Thunderbird, lifting the lightning bolt over her shoulder.
Nova pulled open the duffel bag and grabbed the netting gun. Exhaling, she popped up over the edge, using the basket’s side to steady her aim, and fired.
The ropes entwined around Thunderbird’s body. One side tangled around her left wing and she cried out in surprise. The lightning bolt struck a rope and the whole net lit up, crackling with electricity.
Thunderbird screamed.
Then she was falling, falling. Toward the street, toward the pavement—
Right into Captain Chromium’s waiting arms.
He set her down, then turned his blue eyes skyward. No longer was he smiling. No longer did he look like an overhyped imbecile on a gaudy parade float.
His eyes met Nova’s, and she swallowed.
“What’s happening down there, Detonator?” she said. “We could use some assistance.”
“Puppeteer wasn’t a part of this operation,” came the dry response. “He wants to act on his own, he can die on his own.”
Down below, the Captain grabbed the metal pike he’d been holding earlier. Nova watched as he ripped Ace Anarchy’s helmet from the top and tossed it away. The helmet rolled across the street, coming to rest in a storm drain.
“It’s not just the Puppeteer now,” she said. “I’m up here, too!”
“Good luck, Nightmare. This mission is over.”
The faint crackle over the ear piece went silent.
Captain Chromium hefted the pike over his head, holding it like a javelin, and threw.
Though the balloon was hundreds of feet in the air, the pike did not waver as it soared straight for her.
Nova ducked.
The javelin struck the balloon’s heater with a deafening clang, disconnecting the propane line. The flame spluttered and went out. The pike ricocheted off the metal and fell back down to the street.
The effect was instant. Though the balloon continued to drift from momentum, its upward course began to slow.
Nova looked around. They would have cleared the next set of buildings easily, but with the change of propulsion, she doubted they could make it now. Without the heater warming the air in the balloon, they would soon be sinking, and then crashing, right into the hands of the Renegades.
Winston cocked his head and peered down at Nova. “Uh-oh.”
Nova held his gaze, considering.
If they could lose some weight, they might still be able to clear the next block, gaining enough distance to make a getaway before the Renegades caught up with them.
She turned her attention to the duffel bag, and all her weapons and inventions. All her efforts. All her work.
Winston whined in sympathy. “Sacrifices must be made sometimes, mini-Anarchist.”
Nova sighed. “You’re absolutely right.”
Then she hooked her arm around Winston’s ankles and pulled. He yelped, arms flailing, and toppled over the edge.
Nova didn’t wait for his screams to fade as she hauled herself up onto the uprights and inspected the heater. The balloon barely cleared the rooftop, giving her just enough time to reaffix the propane line. She toggled the lighter switch a few times, and the flame burst to life.
The balloon drifted into the sky.
Nova released a weary, relieved groan and dared to look down at the street.
The Puppeteer had landed on a parade float. He was covered in confetti and flowers as Captain Chromium hauled him to the ground.
Winston didn’t fight. His gaze lingered on Nova the whole time, his expression contorted into that same delirious grin.
Nova lifted her arm and waved.