“Good sources,” Coiffure said. “Would it be weird to get them thank you chocolates or something?”

“Given the area, I think the chocolates would only work if they had heroin in them or something,” Moonsong said.

“I don’t think that would go over well with the boss,” Coiffure said, smiling.

“Let him go inside,” Tristan said, all seriousness, as if he was unaware of the light, tension-breaking conversation. “Let him get changed.”

“Are we playing it that way?” Figurehead asked. “Perception is going to be that we hit someone out of costume.”

“If he wants to grab his mask on his way out, that’s up to him,” Tristan said.

The shutter of the storage unit whisked open, banging as it reached its apex. Tristan peeked out, just in time to see the door sliding closed, Paris’s legs and feet on the inside. He looked in the direction the car had gone, then stepped out of cover.

Orange motes began to move around the door, forming like the flames of lighters catching, then striking out in straight lines.

He spared only a glance over his shoulder for his team, who was behind him. His focus was entirely on Paris, now.

With a clench of his fist, he made the lines into something solid. A ramp with the sides curving around to the sides of the door, with the backing that kept it from rocking forward. Had someone sat on the ramp and if the door had been open, they could have slid inside.

“What in the world are you making?” Tribute asked.

Tristan pressed a finger to his lips. There was a pause as he listened, and then he began drawing his next object. A pillar, singular, high above.

The door opened, and Tristan passed control, letting the pillar become water.

He can’t even trust me to follow his logic, Byron thought, as the water came down, hitting the funnel. The stone structure bucked slightly, even with the reinforced back, but it did its job. The water was funneled to flow into the door of the storage unit, straight at Paris.

Team Reach fanned out as Byron drew out more water. The direction he drew was more important than the points of light—the opposite of Tristan’s handling of it. He placed the lines so they flowed down, aiming at the ramp.

No movement from within, no sound, no response, no swearing.

Byron hesitated in his drawing.

Figurehead drew his fingers together, middle fingers and thumbs touching, so there was a circle in the middle, and he aimed it at the storage area. “He’s moving! He’s going through the far wall!”

Moonsong shouted, loud enough to be heard on the far side. “Steamwheel, Furcate!”

Byron let the water down. A spray this time, not just a body of falling water with some direction to its flow. It hit the ramp and banked into the storage unit.