The sub-settings to focus that range in a cone or a line in front of her, with corresponding increases of range as she widened her blind spot were all operational.

It would do.

Carefully, given the machinery around her arms and hands, she wiped away moisture from her eye. She choked back the emotion that settled at the branch in her windpipe. She stood straighter. The sensation of the apparition clung to her, warmed her.

Everything in order.

She made her way down the stairs, claws clicking on the wood.

“It’s not your circus, it’s not your monkeys.”

Sidepiece’s voice.

“It’s kind of my monkeys.” Colt. “I’m here, right? I’m a part of this.”

“Nah. Because you can leave.”

“No. Not really.”

“Yes really, you loser. Don’t let someone else’s shit become your shit. They gotta do what they gotta do. You gotta do what you gotta do. I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do.”

“Aren’t you—you’re helping though.”

“I’m doing what I gotta do. And what I gotta do is Disjoint, every morning and every night if I can help it, I gotta make money, I gotta keep my ghoulish figure, and I gotta work for the coolest, fiercest gal this side of the end of the world. That’s me. What’s you?”

“I don’t know what I am. I’m staying away from home, being independent.”

“Nah, bullcock-and-shit. You’re not independent. You’re the furthest thing from independent. And staying away from home isn’t what you are, my big-haired loser friend. Staying away from home is what you aren’t.”

Silence.

Silence was ever damning, whether it was damning others or damning oneself.

“Anyone with powers has horrible shit they’re wrestling with, unless they’re one of the lucky ones who got the good powers for being math superstars or going to Mars or some bullcock-and-shit like that, you get me? And we deal with it. If we’re really fucking lucky, then we’re like Disjoint and me, and we find someone really boneable who also helps us through our horrible shit. Or we’re pretty and classy as fuck and we get a bunch of underlings willing to help us, like our boss. But mostly we deal with our own horrible shit ourselves.”

“What if you can’t?”

“Then we don’t. Most don’t.”

“What if… a bit more help makes the difference?”

“What if it doesn’t? Then whoever tried to give that help gets fucked over and things stay bad.”

“But…”

“But,” Sidepiece said, and the word was a condemnation. “Come on. Fuck off.”

“But—sometimes when you’re dealing with your shit and you’re dealing with it alone, you lose…”

Colt’s voice faltered.

“Perspective?” Disjoint offered.

“What if you need someone outside of it to point you in the right direction? A second opinion?”