This time I was the focus of the strike. It came at me, and I knew I wouldn’t have time to run.

In that same moment, Error hit me.

Even an accidental deflect could send that wrecking ball into ten or more people, with how Error’s power worked.

I tried to fly out of the way, and I knew I couldn’t.

A hand at my shoulder adjusted my flight path. A yank pulled me away from the human-sized flail. I landed on my back, the impact traveling through my arm to the bullet wound. Concrete below me, Sveta knelt above me. The sky was dark, and it smelled like violence. People approached, coming after me.

Fume Hood lurked nearby, her hands out, three shiny spheres the size of billiard balls floating around her hands. She let them fly their courses, each one rocketing into a dense collection of the villains before detonating into a cloud of gas.

Error was focused on someone else again, no heavy pressure settling around me. It freed me to deal with Cleat. Foxtrot was closing in around Trial, but her ability to appear at random or at strategic points close by her target didn’t really jibe with the fact that Trial was swinging his teammate around him, clearing a forty-foot radius around himself of anyone with any measure of self-preservation.

I rose up into the air, ready to meet it.

I had one shot, for best effectiveness. I watched as the wrecking ball made its rotation, hit a wall, and then bounced off with almost more momentum than before.

He was manipulating the chain to make it so Cleat could be swung, keeping it out of my reach.

Foxtrot closed in on him, narrowing her range for harassment. One appearance to his left, ducking beneath the swinging chain. She kicked him in the back of the leg, then the small of his back. She had a weapon in hand—

She was elsewhere. Swinging—

And stopping. Error’s influence, no doubt. Foxtrot couldn’t follow through without danger.

Balance found, back now straight, he swung the Cleat-ball in one rotation, counter-clockwise. A second rotation. A thir—

Cleat hurtled toward me as Trial used other chains to lunge in my direction, putting the flail on course to hit me.

This time my timing was right—no confusing changes in direction. Just hitting that cape-turned-weapon with everything I had, aura-wise.

Cleat uncurled, yet still flew toward me. He’d lost his grip on the chain. He’d carry forward, bounce off of things, and maim or kill everyone he contacted.

I threw up the wretch, and I caught him, full-bodied, the Wretch’s arms, the Wretch’s chest and faces. The impact made a sound that was almost enough to deafen me. The spikes scraped against my armor on their way down.

He hit the ground, tried to rise up, and then stumbled, landing on hands and knees.