Back toward the central complex of the prison. Toward hallways and faintly uneven floors, moisture and people milling about. Toward prisoners who would attack us and guards who would stand by or help.

Once I was through the doors and the doors were shut, I had no escort. I was left to rely on memory to navigate, and my thoughts felt as tender as the most damaged parts of my body did after a physio session. Every road was a dangerous one, that could provoke pain or surges of emotion, and I had to remain calm. One foot in front of the other, every second got us closer to that release.

Closer to the raid, leaping into a bad situation.

Ashley found me, falling into step next to me.

“She’s mostly fine,” I told her.

“No she isn’t,” she replied. Her face was drawn, tense. “Emergency.”

“What?”

“This way,” she said.

She didn’t move her head, but she flicked her eyes up and over. With the special projection cameras removed from her eyes and her power not having seen recent use, her pupils were visible, and even her irises had some gray to them.

Camera.

In another hallway, a child screamed. Another child screamed back. Then there was laughter between the two. When I turned my head to look, I saw one of the attackers from earlier in the day. A guy with the ragged cloth decoration marking him as a veteran prisoner.

A kid ran up to him, smashing face into stomach, wrapping arms around pelvis. She peered through a mop of messy black hair to look up at him, then over at me. No older than eight, and she wore the same veteran clothing as the guy I was assuming was her dad.

This fucking world.

The team was assembled in one of the back hallways. Ashley leaned over my way. “This is contested turf, but we need it. They aren’t pressing us hard yet, but if the day got longer, I think they might fight us for it.”

“Why do we need it?” I asked. It was furthest from the plaza, and moisture had settled in the lowest point, where there was probably supposed to be a drain, except it had clogged. I wasn’t sure why it was so in demand.

“We’re mostly out of camera sight here, and the one camera has water on the lens, courtesy of my brother. They don’t want us leaving unscathed and we need privacy if we’re going to do something about it,” Tristan said. He kicked a scrap of cloth too small to wrap around anything into the water. “They want Armstrong.”

“What?”

“If we’d sent Natalie they might have gone after her, but Armstrong is worse for them, I think. Believes the opposite of what they do.”

“Start from the beginning,” I told him.