“You’re fucking us,” Prancer retorted. “How’s Moose supposed to have his adult summer camp—”

“Winter camp,” Moose said.

“How’re we supposed to call this place home if they bring this garbage here?” Prancer asked, almost snarling. “If you help them?”

“If you thought it would be any different, you were lying to yourself,” Etna said. “This is the default. The way things are staying. It’s the best we get.”

“Fuck that,” Prancer snarled.

He turned to go, but as he did, the villains we’d been fighting with tensed, shifted footing, got ready to pursue.

We couldn’t turn our backs and a small village of capes had turned up to defend their turf. They were wet and cold after Byron’s impromptu shower, but that didn’t count for nearly enough, not when our team was halfway disabled, if not outright down for the count.

“And this isn’t even going to be the hard part,” Prancer said.

Heavens 12.4

Moose, Prancer, Sveta, Swansong and I were a loose line against Paris’s group. Etna was worse for wear but she could sort of fly, and that meant she could be an airborne mess instead of a burden on her teammates. Contender was bleeding, but that wasn’t keeping him down. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

Paris stood tall, darts in one hand. Vulturehawk lingered somewhere between Paris and Contender. I interpreted it as a kind of anxiousness, finding some degree of familiarity in Contender and a bit of reassurance in Paris’s confidence. Thud hung back.

One of the Navigators had had their throat slashed. We’d read it as an attempt at a mercy kill. I found myself staring at Vulturehawk’s ‘talons’—the singular blades at each foot.

“I was hoping you’d come around, Prance,” Contender said.

“Shouldn’t have,” Paris added.

I moved the Harbingers as we steadily retreated. One was leaning on me, the other was unconscious. My hand periodically convulsed or tensed, causing my grip to slip on the one I dragged, keeping me from making any headway. Swansong couldn’t hold them at all, and Sveta—well, Sveta wasn’t an option.

“Let me carry,” Moose said.

“Can I trust you?” I asked.

“Come on,” he said, and it wasn’t a condemnation or a plea. Closer to an ‘excuse me’, as he bent down. Each of the Harbingers was lifted up, draped over one of Moose’s shoulders. One was conscious and able enough to protest, and was shifted to a position where he sat on Moose’s right shoulder.

“Better?” Moose asked.

I wasn’t sure if he was asking me or the Harbinger, but the Harbinger said “yes,” and I took that as excuse enough to stay quiet and stay focused on our immediate problems. I could support Swansong’s balance and keep an eye on Paris’s group.