The pain from the back of my hand made it hard to stand up straight, and hard to take a deep breath. Every breeze across that area where skin had been flensed away made me want to scream again, or to vomit.

Broad fucking daylight, how many witnesses? And someone in black clothes with a red loop of cloth at the neck made a run past Sveta, cutting her with a blade, and went straight for Tristan. Tristan leaped back, groped for an empty bowl, and the man who held the bowl handed it over.

The guy with the knife had skin that looked like the equivalent of hair bleached blonde, too white, damaged, and uneven to be entirely normal. He made two swings and Tristan held the bowl so it surrounded his fist, punching at the knife swings to deflect them with the wood. He saw an opening and hopped forward, kicking the attacker in the gut.

The guy with the knife came at Tristan again. Tristan stood ready, bowl in hand, and the guard who had been searching him earlier gave him a kick from behind, putting him off balance. The knife slash extended from the side of the wrist to elbow.

Someone stepped out of the crowd, toward Tristan.

The guard intoned a single word in another language.

I didn’t need to guess what it was. It was easy enough to tell, as Tristan took one step away from the conflict and toward the crowd, like he hoped to escape this.

People closed ranks. Men stepped in front of women. Rain tried to circle around behind the guy with the knife, only for someone in the crowd to grab him, throw him to one side, and kick him in the hip. He rolled onto his back as a couple of people stepped closer to him. A mob.

I saw a glimmer of silver at his fingertips. He dismissed it before it took any form. It could have been mistaken for a trick of light through the snowy glass ceiling above the plaza.

Rain’s attempt to stand saw him wince, dropping to one knee. People looked ready to deliver another kick if he got close enough, but he couldn’t get closer to the knife wielder. Without his powers available, he remained where he was, one hand at his hip.

Every last one of them against us.

Because we were parahumans.

Fuck. Goals. What did they want?

They wanted to frame us. They wanted an excuse to force the issue with their trade deal. To get their people into our city, where they’d have their own kind of influence.

Vista backed away as the guard who had been holding her lost his grip on her arm. Toward Tristan, a little closer to the guy with the knife.

What had I said to Ashley, back on the train? Every little bit mattered. Every ally made, every reinforcement of positive expectations. It counted toward a greater something.