I let Byron be the one to step outside, with me following. It gave me time to think about what I was going to say to the others, and it was symbolic of my course of action here—he would lead, and I’d support.

The freezing rain had already coated the fire escape. The strength of the wind this close to the breached Norwalk portal made the icicles slanted, more sideways than down.

“Do you want a hood or covering? We could probably cobble something up,” I told Byron.

“I’m fine,” he said, stepping down from the base of the door to the metal slats of the fire escape. The rain pelted his armor and helmet, and he didn’t flinch. I saw his shoulders rise, then fall very suddenly. A deep breath, his breath fogging out from the mouth portion of the helmet.

He dropped a clump of metal and chain onto the fire escape, then bent down, slipping his feet into them.

“Strap-on cleats?” I asked.

“Yeah, crampons,” he said. “I never thought I’d have reason to use these again.”

“It can’t be because of where you lived—you were… North Carolina?”

“Reach was Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. We were Maryland originally. No, you’re right, it was to work with powers. I’m surprised you didn’t know what these are called, living more north.”

“Our winters weren’t too bad, in Brockton Bay, and I fly, remember?”

Another puff of breath, like a laugh.

“Power-related?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “For a little while, I was ice.”

“Do you know what made it change?”

“We have ideas. If it was any of those ideas, it’s not worth trying to do it again. Too costly, with a lot of bad memories.”

I could imagine. Murder. A team breaking up.

“I can relate, I suppose,” I said.

“Maybe, yeah,” he said, his head turning my way. I’d read articles about helmets and how a given shape of opening or slit for the eyes could be heroic or villainous, or evoke a certain effect. His was more open and ‘heroic’, tracing the general outline of the eye socket, just low enough at the brow to cover the eyebrows, but even though the lighting touched his armor and the rivulets of moisture that ran down it, it didn’t let me see more than a faint reflection in the natural moisture of his eye.

I was supposed to trust him, rather than my instincts and thought processes both.

His breath fogged, very alive in contrast to the stillness of the rest of him. “It’s weird, having a normal conversation when there’s so much screwed up stuff going on.”

“Let’s not dwell on that stuff if we don’t have to.”

“Shouldn’t we?”

“I don’t think there’s any good answers, and it doesn’t change anything. You take point, you make the final calls.”