His finger made it one inch before a shot rang out, from the Orphan on the left. The second inch was accomplished before the echo of that shot had even begun. The bullet pinged against the railing, just as his finger triggered the burst packet on his waist. Orange triggered the burst packet on her waist. In sync, with the sounds of twin explosions, their bodies lifted from the landing and curved into the space of the globe, then flipped as they continued to manipulate the dynamics of the packet’s guidance device. Feet first, with the precision that had come from years of relentless training, they slammed into the faces of both armed Orphans with the force of booted cannons.

Minho and Orange ignited a rebound repression just as they made contact, preventing them from slamming against the wall of the Grief Walker. Minho fell on to his back, the breath knocked from his chest. As he struggled to recover, struggled to get breath into his shocked lungs, the priestess leaped from her command chair and came at him, a long curved blade having appeared in her hand. Weak from the effort just expended, he raised an arm, a useless attempt to block her as she dove, weapon first.

But then a long object swung in from the left of his vision, slamming directly into the face of the priestess. The woman screamed, blood spurted, she dropped the knife, collapsed, and went still. Minho, finally pulling in a pathetic attempt at a breath, looked up, tried to see what had happened.

Roxy stood there, brandishing the rifle dropped by the Orphan whose face Minho had ruined with the flying missile of his feet. The butt of the rifle, a little blood dripping from its tip, was actually dented from Roxy’s assault on the priestess. Minho didn’t have enough air to utter a single word, but their eyes met with all the power of a lightning strike.

“No one hurts my son,” she said. “An Orphan no more.”

Her head thumped twice against the floor as the bald-headed freak dragged her down the hallway and around a corner. Then he dropped her next to Isaac, who lay on his back with a look of the purest terror gripping his features. In the devil-glow of the red emergency lights, Jackie stared at the people who’d pulled them like sacks of garbage away from their friends.

They were two of the mysterious strangers she’d spotted from the top of the Berg, the ones who’d unlocked the chains of the Crank horde. Standing over her and Isaac, they looked down at them with wide, haunted eyes—eyes lacking some crucial element that would’ve made them closer to human. Jackie didn’t know what it was. They were both bald, dressed in drabby gray clothing, androgynous. One of them yanked the rags out of their mouths.

“Who are you?” Isaac asked.