Her claw-tips touched the window, and when she pulled them away, a copy of the window came with them, projected into the air. Not as dense or clear an image, but it was fine to see.

She dragged claws through air and the claws transmitted tactile feedback, a slight drag, a digital buzz. She rotated through to other pages.

To Precipice. To artist renditions of the face of the boy they’d seen in the cells. He would die soon. Seir, in secure custody because of his teleporter power, they would get him and he would die.

…Christine and Elijah Mathers. She paused, looking at the faces.

“Soon,” Cradle said. “Once we’re secured here.”

A swipe of the claw shredded the digital window. In the doing, she briefly shifted from the notes for their long-term plans to the plans already enacted. She saw the Navigators. She looked away.

Had to be done. If anything, they could’ve, should’ve done more. They hadn’t expected Advance Guard to be as capable as they were. The Shepherds had rebuffed the initial attack.

“I should go. She has notes on the times I should leave by, to get where I need to be. Good luck in your fights,” Cradle told her.

She gave him a single nod.

“Can I grab one?” he asked, indicating the agitation traps.

She held up two fingers.

“Two. They’re a pair.”

She nodded. At least.

“Thank you. If I don’t talk to you before then, I’ll see you in the room,” he said.

She nodded, not looking at him or the screens anymore. The tinkering—she had time to make some last-minute adjustments. Clawed hands rested on the table as she leaned over her work.

Cradle stepped downstairs. She could hear him giving orders to his mercenaries. Easier people to handle, in some ways. Tougher in others.

When alone, she removed her mask from her lower face.

Teeth grit together with a sound that someone standing next to her would have heard. The smallest of sounds at her throat and mouth were deafening to her.

When she couldn’t express herself, it was easier. Mask off, even the smallest thing felt like a crack in ice, an essential part of a water-retaining dam falling loose.

A fine screwdriver and a micromagnet adjusted the internal mechanisms of the mask.

A creak of her breath sounded like a whimper.

A slip of the screwdriver made it strike hard against the internal surface of the mask, metal against kevlar fiber. She was put in mind of the tables and chairs in the mall, all folded up, strapped together, and leaned against the wall.