Sveta took the long way around, going up onto the top of the station, then circling around through the shadows of the encampment on the far right, while we traced a route along the left. Swansong was struggling with her footing, so I floated down, giving her support.

The hound huffed, almost barking, until Rachel shushed it. I saw its tail wag.

“Found it?” Foil asked.

“Yeah.”

Byron said, “We’re moving forward on foot. Are they in a car, is there any clue?”

“If they’re hitching a ride, then they have the windows open. And I don’t see fresh tire marks.”

Rachel indicated the half-frozen mud.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Byron said.

“It’s a good skill to know,” my mom said. “Admirable.”

“I don’t care,” Rachel said. “I just want to hurt the people who hurt the kids.”

“I agree,” my mom said. “One hundred percent.”

I turned to look back. A group of villains and corner-world civilians, all banding together. If there was a situation where I could have laid out the facts, told them the stakes, then how would they react?

“They might follow,” Chastity said. “Attack us from behind.”

“They might. They’re reinforcements for the people we’re really after,” I said.

“I can slow them down,” Foil said. “I count eight vehicles.”

“From this range? You don’t have any crossbow shots.”

“Range barely matters when you ignore gravity and air resistance,” she said. She had darts—though ‘dart’ was a misnomer. They were pencil-length, sharpened at both end, and looked to be singular pieces of metal.

“Do it,” I heard Swansong.

Flechette threw. One dart per throw.

There were no explosions. No dramatic movements or responses.

“Done,” Foil said.

I nodded.

I could see Crested down in that crowd, now that we were almost on the far end of the encampment. That meant Bluestocking was here or hereabouts—she had broken Crested out just a few days ago. I saw Moose, with another figure that might have been Prancer.

Factors to consider. That they had the means to detect us but hadn’t—they might be a consideration later. That they had a few people who could catch up. People who fit in weirdly—seeing Moose made me think of the weirdly civil true-to-the-‘game’ interactions I’d had with the guy. What would he think about Cradle’s whip?

So far, we hadn’t been detected. So far, we weren’t being chased. So far—

—So far, not so good. Not while it was a disaster in Brockton Bay. Not while we were stuck playing catch-up.

We hurried to catch up to others. Swansong looked unsteady, so I continued to offer her my shoulder.

“My new leg keeps digging into the ground,” she said. “The parts that look soft and muddy are hard and slippery and the parts that should be hard are soggy enough I sink in. It’s ridiculous.”