Another throw clipped Figurehead in the side of his mask. He had to twist away to keep the resulting spray of his disintegrating mask from firing into the group.

He’s the worst guy for us to fight. Maybe if we still had Boundless…

Or if you would fucking let me out so we can work together, Tristan! Work with me! Work with the team! This guy is a professional, trained mercenary with more years of fighting capes under his belt than any three of us put together!

Tristan heaved himself to his feet, eyes moving to the ground, seeing the twenty dollar bills floating in the water that was still flowing from the storage locker. He raised his eyes to Paris, and Paris flicked his hands down, sending darts into the wet road.

A barrier of geysers, disintegrating the road and sending the fragments directly upward.

Tristan trusted his armor to protect him, running past the barrier. Byron felt the bite of a pellet at one corner of Tristan’s jaw, sharp, with an impact that made teeth clack together, followed by a pain that felt like a sore spot on a tooth had just been hit with ice water, magnified by ten. Another pellet bit into the back of Tristan’s leg, finding its way into the space beneath armor, past bodysuit, and into calf.

Paris was careful with the one leg where he had rolled his ankle, and Tristan was far less careful with his own injured leg, pushing through the pain. He closed the distance, orange motes appearing like stars on the ground behind Paris as Tristan charged in, swinging. Paris backed into a field of spikes and uneven ground, his footing unsteady, every other step a stumble. He blocked one gauntlet with the length of his arm, and the resulting grimace suggested it hurt.

The surge of triumph in the chest the two brothers shared suggested Tristan was glad to see that hurt. Tristan shifted his footing, and with his fist still in close proximity to Paris’s arm, slashed out with the spikes that he’d attached to his armor. Paris pulled back, stumbled more in the process.

A moment later, his feet skidded on Tristan’s rock, wet from the water that had splashed up with each footfall. Moonsong’s work, pushing him down when his footing was insecure.

Tristan closed the distance, swinging in the moment Paris was essentially reduced to kneeling. Byron knew every technique Tristan was employing, every thought process. He’d seen the training sessions and he’d had his own turn at them.

Tribute’s power surged through Tristan’s body, and time seemed to slow down. In the moment he felt it, Tristan felt confident enough to shift his footing and balance, and throw out a kick from the side.