“What we’re doing right now. Playing tag with guns. Get them before they get you and you win. Other way around? Lose.”

“Don’t lose,” Kitchen Sink said. “Those are Heartbroken. They don’t go easy on losers.”

Claw snapped against claw like a snap of a finger, but far more violent, and with the lights still left activated, the movement produced a small sparking of light.

Love Lost broke into a run.

Colt raised her binoculars to confirm, even as she started running too. It was the pat-the-head-while-rubbing-your-tummy kind of coordination that would have been hard at any time, but the pill made it harder or the pill made it seem easier of a task. She slipped and skidded on ice until her foot hit the crust of a snowbank. A mercenary hauled her to her feet, then kept a hand on her shoulder as they ran.

They’d been noticed, so the attack was happening now. Gun tag?

She had a gun.

“It’s not March!” she could hear one shouting. The dorky-cute blond boy.

“Shit,” was his companion’s response. The broody-cute one.

They converged on the group, each set of Love Lost’s people rounding the corners and stepping out from cover in near concert. The Undersiders–Breakthrough teamup had already formed battle lines, a loose ring protecting more vulnerable members.

Lookout already had her tinker weapons out. A clawed tail or something and a white gun that she clasped in both hands. Disjoint’s hand appeared and seized her wrist. She pulled the other hand away, taking on a one-handed stance, aiming off to the side. Another hand caught her.

The black-haired boy was stepping forward, and Colt had to remind herself she had a job to do. She aimed high and fired.

It didn’t slow him down or distract. Fists clenched at either side of him, he roared, a fierce sound, veins standing out on his face. Kitchen Sink reeled, then started sprinting forward.

“Don’t!” Hookline shouted.

There was no controlling it, apparently. A headlong berserk rush, meeting the black-haired boy, who was still roaring.

Kitchen Sink was all brawn, weapons appearing in his hands, slipping free as soon as he realized he couldn’t use them. A metal stein became a thing he could grab and swing toward the black-haired boy’s face. In the other hand, the deciding fixture was a bit of piping with a showerhead fixed on the end.

The black-haired boy fought with one arm extended, the other held back. It was a fencer’s pose without a fencer’s foil, grace, timing, and keen reactions contrasting with the way his eyes were bloodshot and veins raised on his forehead. He swayed back, slapped aside, and stepped in close, driving a knee into Kitchen Sink’s middle.

Faster than a normal person, maybe stronger. Inflicting rage but suffering it too. Forced duels. If he kept doing that—

She raised her gun.