Hundreds of men and women were busy donning armor, applying war paint, and checking over stacks of weaponry. Manny saw crates of guided mortars, piles of rocket launchers, boxes of high-velocity ammunition, and enough firearms to equip every citizen a dozen times over. There was no discernible Rolling Fuck “uniform” that Manny could see. Some of the city’s warriors wore powered body armor, painted in garish colors and bedecked with various quotations. “Fuck yer day” seemed particularly popular. Many of them wore pieces of pop-culture costumery mixed in with their gear. Manny recognized Darth Vader’s helmet, Hellboy’s Red Right Hand, and a surprisingly number of people with Mickey Mouse’s face spray painted on their chest armor.

An equal number of Fuckians wore no armor at all. Some of them were dressed in their normal flowing lounge garments. The weapons they wore were the only signs that they had plans beyond debauchery. Others were naked, or mostly so. He saw one man wearing the helmet of a Greek hoplite and carrying two Viking axes on his back. He saw a woman with a Dragunov rifle on her back, an old German Stahlhelm on her head, and Ottoman mirror armor on her chest. She waved at them, excited. It took Manny a second to recognize Topaz’s face under the helmet.

“They’re here! They’re–”

She stopped. Tule had stopped too. She cast her face down. Manny could see the shimmer of tears on her cheeks. A crowd gathered around them. In a few seconds, they were encircled by dozens of heavily armed post-humans in a dizzying array of war costumes. Skullfucker Mike, a good head taller than anyone else in the crowd, pushed his way to the front and ran up to embrace Tule. Manny was surprised when she started to sob. The big man held her tight but looked to Roland.

“What happened?”

Roland gave him a look that said, “You know damn well what happened.” But then he spoke anyway.

“Your friend didn’t make it.”

Skullfucker Mike’s jaw went tight. His eyes bulged and he held onto Tule a little tighter. Manny thought back to the night they’d spent in Brainbreakers, and the things he’d said about Marigold. Manny hadn’t really known the woman at all, but he could tell Mike had cared deeply for her. He looked around at the crowd closing in on them, the dozens of half-human god-monsters with helpless rage carved onto their faces.

“What. Happened.” Mike demanded.

Roland opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and ran a hand over his bald head. He opened his mouth again, managed to squeeze out an “I…” before he slumped his shoulders and hung his head.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” he said, finally. “They had better gear, newer suits than I’d expected.”