He had to get away. Boots tromped on hard floor. He didn’t get tired, even running in armor heavier than any medieval knight might wear, but there wasn’t much he could do about the noise.

Like an array of stylized drum beats, boot struck hard ground, metal armor rose up, settled with a series of metal on metal sounds, rose up, settled. His heart hammered in a loose accompaniment.

Until his foot came down, and he went too far up in response.

Moonsong.

Silver strands barred his path. Coiffure.

And then there were the others. An entire hallway was blocked by Steamwheel’s mech.

And behind him—he couldn’t do anything except draw out spikes, buy himself a few seconds more of existence. Just a few seconds.

Throttle reached him. The rope, now a hangman’s noose, went around his neck.

Through that rope, he felt a power seize him.

Motes appeared, and he didn’t summon them. His hand moved, and he hadn’t moved it.

“Ahhuh,” he made a sound, involuntary.

“Can you do it?” Moonsong asked.

Before Throttle could figure out how to make it happen, Tristan used his power, and he shifted out, slipping into the void within Byron.

Because, whatever else happened, however narrow the margin, he wanted to be able to tell himself he managed it in the end.

“I’m sorry it took so long, Boo,” Moonsong’s whisper cut through the dark, anguished.

Byron’s answering scream tore through the throat he and Tristan shared.

Tristan’s cut through nothing. Limited to a dark void.

⊙

Present

Tristan was patient. It was Byron’s turn.

Irony of ironies. Barcode hadn’t brought their cape to test for brainwashing.

“All clear.”

“Thank you,” Byron said. He reached into a pocket.

I have it.

Byron swapped out. Tristan reached beneath his armor for an envelope, then handed it over.

There was something of a relief in the fact that they’d established something of an income stream. The Number Man would fund them. They’d answer the favor with cooperation, a continued supply of information, and some of Lookout’s devices.

Without that income stream, this would have been harder to sustain over the long term. Especially with the dropping dollar.

“Gonna count. Give me a minute.”

“Sure,” Tristan said. He leaned back against a wall. The Barcode hitmen walked over to where the light was stronger, and tore open the envelope to begin counting the contents.

“By,” Tristan murmured. “I was thinking about… everything that happened, two years ago. Been thinking about it a lot tonight.”

He swapped out.

“Mind whammies always bring up those days. Dark feelings,” Byron said. Swap.

Tristan, as soon as he had control, replied, “I don’t think you’ve ever given me a straight answer about why.”

Swap.

“I’ve given you answers, Tristan,” Byron’s voice was so quiet it was barely audible.

Swap. Each finished statement was followed by one.

“Not satisfying ones. Why? Why didn’t you push for harsher punishment? Why… let me go? Why not press charges? They wanted to arrest me for attempting to murder you. If it hadn’t gotten snagged in the courts, interrupted by Gold Morning…”