Nick had not planned to reveal Zin right away. He knew the Atlanta Afterlights needed to be prepared. But Zin—to whom common sense was a limp afterthought— made herself known even before the train rolled to a stop. She took one look at the Atlanta kids, then poked her head out of a window, and shouted at them, “If you throw them bricks at me, I swear I’ll rip out parts a’ ya y’didn’t even know ya had! See if I don’t!” And then to prove it, she reached over to Johnnie-O and ripped his memory of a spleen, holding it out the window.

“Don’t you drop that, ya stupid inbred freak!” yelled Johnnie-O.

Since Johnnie-O had no idea what a spleen looked like, his memory of it more closely resembled a Polish sausage than anything else. Even so, it inspired terror in the crowd. They all dropped their weapons, scattering in abject fear, and yelling, “It’s Zach the Ripper! It’s Zach the Ripper!”

Johnnie-O pulled her away from the window, retrieving his Polish spleen, but it was too late to stop panic from spreading through the mob.

“Great,” Nick groaned. “Why don’t you rip out your own brain and give yourself one that works?”

Zin was unfazed. “Yer just mad cuz your chocolate don’t scare ’em as much as I do!”

“You had better start listening to me!” Nick put his finger in her face, and, of course, she bit it.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, all nasty grin, “but I thought yer hand was one a’ them chocolate Easter bunnies.”

Johnnie-O let out a guffaw, and Nick glared at him. “Sorry,” Johnnie-O said. “It does kinda look like that sometimes.”

Nick decided to use a different tack. “Soldier! Your behavior is disgraceful for a sergeant of the Chocolate Brigade.”

“Sergeant?” said Zin. “I thought you said I was a private.”

“Not anymore.” He reached over and painted a chocolate chevron on her sleeve. “You’re a sergeant now, and I expect you to act like one.”

Zin was overjoyed. “Yes, sir!”

“And if you follow orders and do your job to the best of your ability, you might even make lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir! What are my orders, sir?”

Nick had suspected she might be more motivated by responsibility than by threats. “Your orders are not to do anything unless I tell you to,” he said.

“Good luck,” grunted Johnnie-O. Then he asked what rank he got to be. Nick told him he was special ops, which suited Johnnie-O just fine.

Five minutes later, Isaiah, the kid who ran Atlanta, showed up, just as Nick knew he would. He barged right onto the train.