Here, that something wasn’t in play. Here, a small, powerful group led by a small, powerful person had frittered away any and all currency they had with the public, turning to force instead.

Every time a parahuman pulled out a gun because it was easier, or crossed lines, or went after families, or threw away all pretense of showmanship to go hard at the efficient, rational route, they were edging us collectively toward this.

Could we win, if we went all out? Probably. But would that lead us to a world we wanted to live in?

No.

Needed to find a way out, when surrounded by hundreds who hated us on principle. By authority and institution that had no reason to take it easy or to tell the truth.

“We stopped Goddess, damn it,” I said, through pants for breath.

“We stopped her!” Tristan raised his voice, far louder than I was. “Any of you speak English? Tell them!”

Nobody translated for us.

Too angry. Too riled up. This wasn’t a prison like I was used to seeing on television or in movies, but it was a prison with its own pressures and influences. People needed an outlet, after months or years of having their lives on hold.

They needed blood. Punishment.

“Vista,” I said.

“Mm?” she responded with a sound, not a word.

“They want us to bleed.”

The guy with the knife came after her.

“Fuck it,” Vista said.

The guy tripped, his foot finding no traction, and he sprawled. Vista walked up to him, stepped on the back of his neck on her way to step onto the wrist of the hand that held the knife.

She drove her heel down, grinding the back of the hand until the knife was released. A good old prison shiv, instead of some razor wire bola bullshit.

“You want blood?” she asked, turning to face the crowd.

The guards didn’t look impressed, and looked wholly ready to come after her.

She cut the back of her hand, a single slash.

“How’s that? Satisfied? Is this what you want?” she asked, raising her voice. “Blood? These guys gave you enough blood when they put their lives on the line to stop your tyrant!”

Someone in the crowd translated this time.

Vista grabbed the blade and snapped it off. I suspected she had used her power to thin it enough it would easily break. She threw the blade to one side and the handle to the other.

Ashley wasn’t too bloody, but she hadn’t really fought, except to drop to the ground, a guy looming over her, her eyes narrowed at him. Kenzie had a bloody nose. Sveta had been cut, and the wound around the cut was zipper-flesh, her new ribbons, no longer meeting around the injury. But it was a small cut.

Tristan and I had the worst injuries, objectively.