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?”

“He heard,” Valkyrie said. She glanced at the three she had picked out, then started toward the door. They fell in step behind her.

Nobody else in the mess tent spoke. Except for the idle chatter from the table she had just supplied with the cards, discussing rules and bets, the only noises were the buzz of the lighting that had been rigged up at the top of the tent, the flap of the wind against the taunt tent fabric, and the distant screeching and roaring of the colossal gun barrel.

“Cleo, stay safe. Voltrage, Edgeless, clear the way once we’re inside. There are traps.”

“Tinker?” Voltrage asked.

“Tinker, at the very least.”

Her phone buzzed at the side of her utility belt, where pouches and pockets were hidden by the armor that covered her upper body.

Dialback.