I didn’t get quite why they were suddenly chattering at high speed from the moment they were reunited when they were connected with Darlene’s body-interlinking power and Kenzie’s cameras and microphones for good portions of the day. Kenzie had fixed her microphones first thing as we’d returned from the Wardens HQ.

“Not Hookup?” Darlene asked, her expression and tone somewhere between tragedy and disappointment.

“No,” I said.

The driver was a mercenary, burly with a shaggy beard, with a cold stare. Black outfit with black gloves, a gun at his hip. He didn’t look much like someone I could have a conversation with for the drive. I debated my policy of riding along with team members whenever possible.

“Tattletale says she’ll be at our base for a bit when you get there. Whatever you need to talk about,” Darlene said.

“Thank you. I did get a message from her.”

Darlene nodded. “I can’t believe I can’t use Hookup.”

“You can,” I said. “But it’s a bad idea.”

“Uugh,” Kenzie said. Darlene mimicked the sound, then tackle-hugged Kenzie before the two of them climbed back into the back of the vehicle.

They were getting along in a way that would have been next to impossible if either one of them were unpowered or from different backgrounds. I felt like this was a good thing, pending sufficient supervision, but I could also see how it lined up almost perfectly with the mentality in the diary. By taking this course of action, was I reinforcing the diary, giving Dragon and Jessica more fuel to doubt me?

I settled in the passenger seat, with a nod from the driver.

The pair in the backseat talked nonstop, with seventy-five percent of the talking being Kenzie’s.

Was my input on the name wrong? Was my condoning Tattletale’s part in this fucked up?

Our driver didn’t try to make conversation. I finished my sandwich, being careful with crumbs, then set my head against the window, staring out at the city beyond, and I got lost in my thoughts.

⊙

As we entered the yet-unnamed junior team’s headquarters, a chair slowly swiveled one hundred and eighty degrees. Chicken Little sat in it, stroking the pet in his lap. That pet clucked, right on cue. “Welcome back.”

The maneuver prompted an overflow of excitement and praise from the two girls, who charged into the room.

“Stop! You’re going to scare my birds!” he protested, as the girls chattered at him. I had the impression he was the one who was a little overwhelmed at the response, rather than the sedate white chicken he was holding.

All around his ‘office’ were cages with birds, some dangling, others set against the wall. They looked to be categorized roughly by size, scale, and type. No doubt so the big birds wouldn’t eat the little ones.