Disjoint was knocked out. Hookline—he gathered chains together into a loose wall in between himself and Damsel. Doing so meant dragging the kid a little closer.

Colt found herself able to breathe again, unsure why she’d even stopped. Love Lost shoved past her, and started whipping at the air.

“You need to help!” Colt shouted at Love Lost, her voice too high, tremulous. The mercenaries that had been part of her flanking group were on the ground, and she couldn’t remember them getting beat.

Bending down, she picked up one of their guns.

Damsel crashed into the length of Nailbiter’s claws, then used her power again, forcing the claws to move with her, slamming into Hookline. It meant the littlest kid was free. Colt turned to look, and saw Lookout aiming.

She shielded her eyes, aimed blindly in the right direction, and fired, pulling the trigger again and again, in time with a heartbeat that was moving so fast she couldn’t count it if she tried.

Something hit her across the side of the face. She fell.

It was Love Lost who picked her up again, her grip hard enough that metal claws threatened to pierce skin. Love Lost’s claws were slick with blood. Kitchen Sink was battered, Hookline rattled, but those two were up. Disjoint and the other mercenaries still seemed to be unconscious, except or a guy or two at the far end.

They were outnumbered.

“Traitor,” Kitchen Sink said, to Damsel.

“Old news, that,” she said. Her eyes were black from corner to corner, and they smoked faintly. She’d been scratched at one shoulder by Nailbiters’s teeth.

“You shot a child,” Damsel said. “You’re working with Cradle on that machine of his? You’re a disappointment to yourselves and everyone who has to walk the same earth as you.”

Love Lost was silent, of course. Colt made a small amused sound before she could stop herself. Still a little giddy, loose around the edges.

The smile fell from her face as she noticed Love Lost staring her down.

Oh, this was worse than going to the doghouse. This was fucking up and then doing it again.

And getting beat. They were going to win.

And then—then she would have nowhere to go.

The thoughts that sprung from that were delirious, but they weren’t ‘upper’ thoughts, as far as she got that stuff. They were a swell of darkness, pushed up from below.

“You alright, Roman?” Lookout asked.

“Peachy,” Roman said, his voice a growl. He spat blood onto the snow. “Samuel’s not peachy, and Flor’s bleeding.”

Love Lost and Nailbiter looked so confident, and Colt wasn’t sure why.

Confident and pissed.