“Shitty,” I said, and my voice was rough from the gas. “Don’t ever wear it again.”

She didn’t smile. She pulled a hand away from her neck.

“Put that hand back,” I said, my voice hushed. I pressed down on her hand with my own. “It’s not bleeding as much as it could be.”

She didn’t respond or smile. I approached the box, floating closer, and I saw Rain and Byron huddled over.

“Look after her?” Swansong asked. “I don’t trust myself to get close. I want to, make sure to tell her that.”

“She heard,” Rain said.

“Yeah,” I said. I stepped around the box and around Byron.

Rain had supplied fabric to form the improvised bandage. Lookout wasn’t moving much, lying on a bed of Tristan’s power.

“Tristan caught a bullet,” Byron said, quiet. “He should hold until we get to a hospital. He’s in stasis where he is right now. It didn’t hit any vitals.”

“Good to know,” I said, my voice tight. “Hey Lookout.”

I saw her move her hands a bit. Her face wasn’t visible with the mask she wore.

“What are you doing getting shot?” I said. “I don’t advise it.”

“You got shot before,” Lookout responded, ghost-quiet. “Arm.”

“I’m speaking from experience, aren’t I?” I asked. “What do you say I fly you to a hospital?”

“What about Swansong?”

“Come on,” I said. “Swansong’s tough. You’re not.”

Lookout didn’t fight me as I scooped her up, Rain and Byron helping.

“Warn the team with Advance Guard and the Shepherds,” I told Rain and Byron. “I think the people who attacked were compelled, under the influence, or something, and they weren’t team one. The other team’s at risk.”

“They might not believe us,” Rain said.

“Try,” I said. “You comfortable, Lookout?”

“As comfortable as I can be with two bullets in me,” she whispered. “How was I the only one who got shot twice? I’m a small target?”

I talked to her as I floated up. “I’m going to need you to keep talking to me the entire way there. It’s going to be how I know you’re still alert, okay? Let me know if you get cold.”

“Oh kay,” she said, like it was two separate words. “You have to ask me to do something I’m bad at, huh?”

“Talking a lot?”

“Yeah. I’m joking. I’m not very funny. Blame the bullets. Maybe one hit me in the funny bone.”

“Ha ha,” I said, without humor.

As I took flight, turning my body so I caught the wind and the eleven-year-old in my arms didn’t, I had a view of the bloodstained field. I shifted my orientation and my grip, and set my eyes on the wound in the sky where the portal in Brockton Bay had been ripped open wide.