Everyone is very still. We stare at the Mogs, and I wonder if they’ll even recognize us in the state we’re in. The Mogs stare back, not making any move to restart their boat and get out of our way.

“Friends of yours?” Dale slurs.

His voice breaks the standoff. In unison, two of the Mogs reach for their blasters, the third spinning around to restart their engine. I shove forward with my telekinesis, hitting the front of their boat with as much force as I can muster, causing the ship’s bow to rise up from the water. The Mog going for the engine falls overboard, and the other two go staggering backwards.

A split second after my telekinetic attack, Marina leans over the side and plunges her hand into the swamp water. A sheet of ice spreads out from her towards the Mogs’ boat, the water cracking and popping as it flash freezes. Their boat is stuck on a tilt, half out of the water, as the ice floe coalesces around it.

Nine bounds out of our boat, gracefully runs across Marina’s ice floe and hurdles over the side of the Mogs’ boat. He grabs the nearest Mog around the neck, his momentum and the boat’s sloped deck causing them to stumble towards the boat’s rear. The second Mog gets his blaster up and aims at Nine, but before he can fire, Nine plants his feet and tosses the first Mog at his buddy.

The scout who fell overboard tries to climb out of the water and onto Marina’s patch of ice. That’s a mistake. A jagged icicle rises from the floe’s edge, impaling the Mogadorian. Before that Mog has even turned to ash, I use my telekinesis to tear the icicle through him and send it plunging into one of the Mogs on the boat. The final Mog, dagger drawn, charges at Nine, but he grabs the Mog by the wrist, twists backwards and stabs him through the eye with his own blade.

Just like that, it’s over. The whole fight lasted less than a minute. Even as dysfunctional as we seem right now, we can still kill the hell out of some Mogs.

“Now that was refreshing!” Nine yells, grinning at me from the other boat.

I hear splashing from over my shoulder and turn around just in time to see Dale swimming frantically through the swamp water. He must have jumped overboard, and now he’s dog-paddling away from us as fast as his scrawny arms and drunkenness will allow.

“Where are you going, idiot?” I shout after him.

Dale reaches a muddy outcropping of roots and pulls himself onto it, gasping for breath. He stares at me and the others with wide, wild eyes.

“You people are freaks!” he screams.

“That’s not very nice,” Nine says, laughing, as he carefully makes his way back onto Dale’s boat, the ice floe Marina created already beginning to melt in the Florida heat.

“What about your boat?” I shout to Dale. “You gonna swim back to Trapper’s?”