Worrisome given the blood and the flare of temper. Me back at the hideout. Him just now, with that Teachered Officer.

—but Rain and Sveta seemed a lot cooler about Goddess, and the protocols of proper caping were far less ingrained in them.

Tristan was talking to them about Goddess. About trusting protocols. The blind led the blind.

I wanted my own blind self to join in, but I didn’t trust myself to string coherent thoughts together.

Battle mode, Victoria.

Thinking about the ingrained things helped.

How many nights had the teenaged me gone out in costume? White costume with the dress and the skintight shorts beneath for modesty, gloves, knee-high boots, short cape, my tiara with its spikes radiating out. That was physical. I’d stretch, check on any injuries from the night before, adjusting my costume to cover any hints that I wasn’t invulnerable, and then I’d be out the door, running first and then flying. All of that was the physical, the external.

Internally, it was excitement, anticipation, reminding myself of all of Mom’s little tricks about how to present oneself when out in costume. I would be thinking about the recent crime maps, the online listings of last known sightings by villains, and Mom and Dad’s rules for my costumed activities.

The lines blurred at times, but it was very much a role I wrapped around myself, past and present. A mode.

It hadn’t been that long ago that hands tattooed in red, black, and gold reached out for me in a place I’d thought safe and mine. I was shaken. I remained shaken enough that a droplet of red threatened to bring me back to that wretched place where Sveta had been forced to grab me and stop me.

But routine left its—its scars, I supposed, even though I didn’t think of them as bad scars. It wasn’t just the bad experiences that left their mark. A route walked through the wilderness enough times became a dirt path, a scar through nature. Cities were harder to alter, but a cape or team of capes making an area part of their regular routine changed that area. A pair of gloves and knee-high boots could be washed and worn enough times that they came to fit perfectly. Scars and marks, impressions. Impressions had been the idea I’d been searching for, and I was glad to have it.

I had to be able to do this. I had to find that worn path, that image that I could wear as comfortably as any pair of gloves. I had to be able to settle into that mindset.

Any alternative to being functional was not okay. Not for right this moment, with so many people counting on us. Not for the long term, when it meant I might have nothing at all in the aftermath.