“We each get one easy one,” Swansong said. “I get the halfwit who can’t aim unless she’s hitting a kid, and you get the contender who can’t win his fights.”

Contender arched an eyebrow above the white and black mask he wore, looking back at the Harbinger.

“Holding that up as a victory isn’t making you look better,” I said.

“Hey ’Tend, ya got dez deaf it,” Vulturehawk said. His eyes were sharp.

“Yeah,” Contender said.

I tried to slip past, but Vulturehawk was fast, more mobile with two-thirds of a sliding power than I was with two-thirds of a flight power that didn’t really do more than make me weightless. I continued to exert pressure, studying them. When there was a chance, I glanced back toward the others, to check.

There were headlights on the road.

The claw skimmed along my arm. I kicked, another roundhouse with part of a flight power accelerating the movement, then used more flight to change my direction as I fell, while Contender ducked in low, trying to flank.

I could avoid the opening swing, bring arm and leg up to shield the one side of my body as he kicked—

I didn’t miss the weapon that he slipped into one hand. My thought was knife.

A baton, that whipped out like a switchblade, striking me across the face.

I drove my forehead into his face. The icon at the front and center of my hood slashed forehead and eye. He stumbled back, but I was on his heels.

He found his bearings, and instead of panicking, he began to respond. Blocks, a strike to my jaw, then a kick. The kick to my side hurt.

He knew my forcefield was something that ‘broke’, or he thought it was fragile.

He was bigger, stronger, and if I was a hundred percent honest, his hand-to-hand technique was better than mine on a general level. I was willing to press it regardless, trusting that one in every two hits that he landed wouldn’t count, while I could make mine count just fine.

He created his circle, a flash, a flare, and I lost my power.

Which—well, of fucking course he did. Now I wasn’t ignoring one in every two hits, and he had the baton.

I shifted to the defensive, looking for an opening. Punch after punch, and I kept my arms up, dealing with the fact they were still spasming. The cut on the bottom of my foot made footwork hard, and I couldn’t use any degree of flight to ease my weight off of it.

I was too out of practice. The Patrol training had been me instructing the newbies more than it had been me learning.