Jessica Yamada had once asked me to write letters. They hadn’t been letters I was meant to send or give, but ones that let me figure out the sizes and shapes of some of the individual wounds, so I could work on them.

This was that, but it had been sent. The room was quiet and I imagined everyone was either lost in thought or busy reading, taking it in. It was long.

A lot of hurt. A lot of blame.

“Just look away?” Sveta asked.

It was hard. It was being stuck on train tracks and seeing the onrushing train, being told not to flinch at the impact or pay too much attention to the train. There was nothing we could do about it in this moment, so we were supposed to let it roll us over, damage us.

The same window that gave us a view of the train or of the damage was the window I had to look through to see if there was help coming. If it was worth it.

I closed my laptop.

“I was talking with Fume Hood and the Malfunctions,” Sveta said. “The Malfunctions started their stakeout and realized they didn’t bring food. It was a whole thing.”

“They’re okay?”

“I sent someone their way.”

“And Fume Hood?”

“She’s fine. She was with the Malfunctions for a bit, then went her separate way, keeping tabs on someone from our A-list of concerns. She’s been at this for a while, hasn’t she?”

“Yeah. At least six years, maybe eight.”

I could see Kenzie’s computer screens at the front. She was talking with Ashley, reading the messages without a glimmer of a smile on her face. If anything, she looked energized by Ashley being there, her chatter punctuated by brief statements from our ex-villainess.

Emails with bold text to signify they were unread. The labels along the right side of each email were color coded. Too many were white. Unknowns. Anonymous people.

Chris… doing his own thing. Too hard to read. His stuff was all packed up and he was ready to go back and retire for the night, just as soon as he was sure nothing big was happening. Goddess, attacks, riots.

There was a large enough subsection of the population that resented us and enough stirred up by this to spark a riot.

Byron and Rain were the best people to watch, if I wanted to check the reception. If I wasn’t following the list and immersing myself in that flow of resentment and toxicity, then I could at least watch their faces and see if there was a note of interest anywhere, a spark of hope or light as someone said something in support.

“Did we make a bad impression?” I asked Sveta. “I thought we looked good on stage.”

“You intimidated,” she said.

“I tried to cover as best as I could, once my power leaked out.”

“Wresting control of the situation.”