The capes in question stood. Cleo’s eyes glistened with opaque teal-green moisture, the fluids leaking out and weeping regularly, the brilliant color a striking contrast against her olive brown skin. Where she dabbed with the corner of her sleeve and napkins, the fabric was bleached or eaten away entirely. She wore extra layers, including a scarf to keep her hair out of her face, a shirt, sweatshirt, and jacket, possibly just to have the extra fabric, and possibly because she had other physiological issues.

The sad fact was that they weren’t Valkyrie’s. She didn’t know them, beyond what she’d seen the last time she’d had them. She couldn’t know their needs.

Voltrage was a recent piece of work, pale, with paler, drier hair than he’d had in his first life, a perpetually angry expression marked with arched brows and a pointed beard. He was skinny, his shoulders especially bony, collarbone sticking out a bit more than was natural. He’d ripped the sleeves off of the sweatshirt he’d been given, but had later donned a white long-sleeved shirt.

Edgeless was older, unfortunately bearing more of a mask than a face, a consequence of a lack of personality in life—which was why she’d made him one of the first she experimented with. Dull in many senses of the word, he was big, bearing a combination of muscle and fat, and he obeyed orders.

“What about the rest of us?” Milk asked. She was the heroine with the too-bright-to-be-tattoos marks on her face.

“Stay. Do you need anything? You’ve been fed? You’re entertained?”

“We’re telling each other stories for entertainment,” Milk said.

Valkyrie looked at the other tables. There were cards there. Not at this table.

To ask or demand would be a power play. She wasn’t interested in that.

Waggish, Twelfth of the Fabricators.

The shadow appeared, short, with dirty, blemish-covered skin everywhere but his face, where he’d once worn a mask. The face was frozen in a serene smile, blemish-free.

Waggish had to hop up onto the bench to reach the things on the table. He snatched up a piece of trash, then reached for another. Some people nearby began sliding him things.

With two hands that were disproportionately large for his small frame, Waggish pressed the collected debris in between his hands. There was an acrid, burning smell as it reconsolidated. She could see the power work in the movements in the air.

Waggish set two decks of cards down on the table, holding one up for her to see. Custom card faces, the upper left and bottom right of each card featuring a minimalist illustration of someone from around the table.

“If we don’t return in three hours, assume we’re dead or trapped. Use thinkers if you can, verify our status, then mount a rescue or leave, as you see fit.”

“Understood,” Milk said. She had already picked up one of the two decks, fanning it out so people could see. She plucked one free and held it out. Milk’s own. “Thank you for the cards, Valkyrie. And can you tell whatshisname thank you for not going the cliché route and making me a hearts card?”