I floated over, so my feet wouldn’t contaminate the scene. A new face, a new set of expectations and prejudices to wrangle.

“Can we look?”

She seemed to take her time considering, until Golem flashed his Wardens badge.

“Be my guest,” the woman said. “We’re taking our photos and our notes, but this looks like costume on costume crime. We’re not equipped for it.”

“They were heroes. These ones were good guys who saved lives,” I said. “They worked with the system, they worked with police.”

“I’m sympathetic, I really am,” she said. “But we’re not equipped.”

I was left kind of speechless. A shift in the light drew my attention—Vista was enlarging the car headlights, and it looked like she was bending the beams, illuminating the scene.

“I’ll put it back before we go,” she told the officer driving the car.

No response.

The Navigators had passed through Hollow Point briefly. They’d been just far enough away that we hadn’t had much more cause to interact with them. Too small, too narrow in their focus.

Nailfarer had a weird name, but it was based in legend, and she’d been candid in interviews about why. She had talked about her trigger event at a time when such things had been discouraged. Her parents and aunt had boarded a ship to America, convinced by shady individuals that it was by legitimate channels. Mock tests, mock papers, and fair amounts of money. They had boarded a ship and then been shuttled into a cargo container. One of several.

She and her family members had been let out to work the ship or provide services to the crew. They were slated to be slaves, and this was a beginning to their new lives. She saw her oldest family members die, heard from others that they’d been thrown overboard. She’d seen younger family members die too—alive but dead inside.

She’d gained powers, she’d fought, and she’d lost against sheer numbers. She’d been beaten into submission and made to serve for three months as an enforcer before fighting her way out.

For ten years, she’d been a hero. Her name more a reference to where she came from than her ability to turn dead tissues into doors.

“Fuck,” I said, as I looked over the scene. She’d been torn into fifty pieces. Some were in the branches of a tree above, now brightly illuminated after Vista had adjusted the light.

“Found a murder weapon,” Golem said. “Shovel, wooden handle. It’s buried.”

Police officers jogged over to investigate.

Didn’t narrow things down, I was pretty sure. Nothing jumped to mind.