I landed in the midst of one of the concrete ’hedrons, in a cubicle with a fucking filing cabinet and Post-its. I hunkered down by the door to the space, grabbed a black file folder, and stuck it past the gap.

The bullet hit, striking the rounded-off metal frame my hand was close to. Another shot hit, then a third a second later. I could see the vague indent where it deformed the metal. Each shot landed at the same spot, aimed not at the file folder, but at the palm of the hand that was holding the file folder up.

Hitting the exact same spot in the metal until they could punch through. I dropped my hand, and I heard more gunshots landing. Aimed at a different part.

Filing cabinet, then. With Wretch-strength, I dragged it back.

With Wretch-strength, I heaved it, lobbing it into the air. A guess.

From the air, a flier hit it with something, changing its course radically. I looked up, expecting a threat, and I saw Balk. One of Stonewall’s squad in the Wardens. He had other fliers with him.

“Up!” he called out to me.

I flew up to him. I looked down, and saw the filing cabinet had struck home. There was more blood visible around the filing cabinet than I could see gunman.

“That’s my fault, not yours.”

I didn’t have any response to that. Instead, I asked, “How long have you been here?”

“Hours. We were the defensive base camp, our offensive team went ahead. All communication died, our thinkers are struggling, and a remote trump-class keeps turning our powers off.”

“Powers?”

“Strategic blackouts. Anyone does too well, they lose their powers.”

Balk held up his hand. A sphere of metal returned to his hand with a violent impact, faster than the eye could see. He wore the bodysuit with armor, a little heavier than I tended to appreciate, but the armor was stylized to use negative space well. Circles and spike studs, red costume, silver armor. Nice hair.

“Antares. Do you know PRTCJ formations?” he asked. “The ones for flying?”

“Some, and only the flying ones, but I’m not practiced,” I told him. Crystal had actually helped with those.

“Help us? Two of ours are injured.”

“I can help for now,” I told him. “My team’s coming, I’ll have to direct them some.”

“Section.”

There was another gunshot. A slower-moving projectile. One of the fliers with us swatted it aside with a flash of forcefield. She was a woman with a purple and black costume, her eyes altered so the whites were black and the irises and pupils bright purple and white respectively.

“Ace angel,” the forcefield cape said.