I could see the general silhouette of the station, and of the people on the landing. Dark shapes against a dark background, my vision filled with afterimages and spots, with Capricorn lines and Subside’s sparks, and the fallout that was cascading down around the entire town, from MYOSHA’s liquid metal spill.

“Watch out!” my father called out.

I felt the Wretch go down, and I had no idea why. I lost the strength I needed to hold up the shield and protect my back from the distant munitions. I wasn’t even positive it would matter.

“Do I move!?” I asked.

“No!” my mom ordered. My dad gave the opposite response, “Charge in! Hit them before—”

“No!” was another voice in the jumble. There were shouts, questions, most from people who couldn’t see much better than I could.

“Get your mom in there, charge in yourself, they’re using powers!”

I could see the glow of my dad’s grenades forming in his hands. I saw my mother’s silhouette as she caught the grenades she was handed, the glow as she became a ball again.

“No!” again, I heard the voice. It stood out from imperious words, complaints, and questions because it was meek.

No, not meek.

“Don’t throw!” I ordered my dad.

Something heavy hit the wall of the new house we were using for cover from the massed soldiers and capes in Cradle’s contingent, striking above heads and sending debris down onto Chastity, Cassie, and the Harbingers. Chunks of concrete larger than a fist, one chunk even larger than that.

“Why not, Tattletale? Rachel, can you hear what she’s saying?”

“It’s not an attack,” Rachel translated, voice tight. “It feels like being attacked!”

“Water?” Byron asked.

“Tattletale says no,” Rachel translated.

“Clarify!” I shouted.

Something hit me again. The Wretch went down. Another chunk of concrete, this time aimed my way. Again, I lost my strength, my feet hitting ground, my entire body, strained and tortured as it was, bearing the full weight of the posts, planks, and textured cover of metal.

“Hostage!” Rachel huffed. “Paris!”

I was already flying before she added the second half of her statement, abandoning my shield, because it was too unwieldy for a dangerous situation.

I flew closer to the group. To my parents, it was Paris and Thud backing the rest of Bluestocking’s group, with Thud hurling rocks and Paris throwing his darts with Thud’s hand pointing over Bluestocking’s shoulder. Men were hunkered down on either side.

But Tattletale had been right. This was a hostage situation, and Thud had one hand at the back of Bluestocking’s neck. Paris had a dart held like a knife at Bitter Pill’s back.

Thud could see despite the residual glare, and he had some sense that I was nearby.