A barricade at the top of the ramp: tables and sofas and a sideways exercise grid with defenders cowering behind. I fly. I grasp the chair leg brandished at me as I soar over their heads, and now it is a weapon in my hand as well as theirs, and my hand is the stronger. A foe’s yelp spurs me as an arm crumples, a bulky arm, well trained, but only against weights and robots that do not strike back. I land among my adversaries, five, four Humanists and a Greenpeace Mitsubishi. I kick one in the temple, and block a chair leg with the one I carry, the aluminum rods singing like swords, but chair legs have no crosspiece to guard clenched knuckles. I slam my opponent’s knuckles and the weapon falls, the throat forgets language and syllable as it gurgles in pain. I leave that one for Saladin to finish off and body-rush another, half burying my face in the salty, soap-scented looseness of shirt. I can feel, with my embracing grip, how the ribs jolt inward like a closing turtle as I slam this body against the floor and banish breath. An ally’s tap on my hip reminds me I should use the stun gun Martin gave me. I draw it, test the grip, and now feel something at my back, the dumpster’s corrugated coldness as I count the breaths before I charge out onto this first battlefield with Saladin beside me. Will I kill you, Apollo? Will I stop your war? No, this is not a dumpster at my back. It is a coat of storm.