“Guys,” Sveta said, over the phone. “I don’t know if you see—”

“We see,” I said.

“But it’s Swansong. They didn’t mention her earlier because they’re using her as one illustration of their bigger point. Trying to get people upset. They’re talking about her place being provided for her, about support, how she abused amnesty when others didn’t get a shot…”

Swansong was shaking her head.

“We can deal with this,” I said.

Swansong’s answer to my statement was to step off the edge of the roof.

Shit.

Shit.

I followed her off the edge. I flew down to make up for the second or two I’d taken to process implications, then veered off as I saw her move her hands into position, one a little too close to me for comfort. I didn’t want to get clipped by a lazy blast.

She blasted once to break the momentum of her fall, twisted in the air, and blasted again to reorient. Her boot skidded on sidewalk covered in salt and gravel.

“We don’t get anything by doing this,” I said, as I put myself in her way. I was aware members of the crowd were watching. Behind me, the crowd parted, getting out of Swansong’s way, even though she’d stopped in her tracks.

Tristan was drawing out orange motes. They solidified into a pole. He slid down, controlling his descent with both feet and one hand at the pole, one hand on Rain’s shoulder. The pole broke, and when it did, Rain stopped in mid-air. With his grip on Rain’s shoulder, Tristan stopped too.

Together, they stopped once more on the way to the ground, landing heavily.

Sveta hung back, with the crowd. Probably a good thing, because she wasn’t costumed and she passed for ordinary. She could do things from that angle that the rest of us couldn’t.

“We don’t get anything by hanging back and watching,” Swansong said. “Let’s open a dialogue.”

“You need to say that last bit without flexing your hands,” I murmured. I glanced down at her feet. She was putting on a show.

I was really, really worried that the show would bleed over into reality. This really wasn’t the time to play with fire. It made things more authentic, I was sure, but it was also playing with a really fucking volatile situation.

“Maybe you need to go,” I told her, my voice low. “Let the rest of us handle it.”

“It’s about me. It’s relevant to me. My reputation. They’re saying I was subservient, lesser, groveling for handouts. I earned my money. You don’t know me, you don’t know the answers to the questions.”

“I know you might do something you regret here.”

“I don’t play second fiddle, and I don’t bow down or back down. At worst, I’m a partner.”