Her tone was cavalier, casual Ashley. No sign of the shocked, lost Ashley I’d seen before everyone had regrouped and gathered here. But of course there wouldn’t be. I’d made the mistake before of thinking there was a villainous Ashley behind the mask of the hero or a heroic Ashley behind the mask of the villain. There wasn’t. Morality was an aesthetic and that aesthetic came second to her drive to ascend. To look behind the mask meant to find the times that drive wasn’t front and center. Times she was with Kenzie. Times she was vulnerable, whether it was because she’d just accidentally killed a woman or because she’d cast off her hands in front of a crowd to make a point.

Siren didn’t help me with the breastplate, instead focusing his effort on getting his medical kit back in order. I finished around the same time he was clipping the kit to the side of his belt.

“Thank you for the checkup, and looking after my hand.”

“I’ll say this: if you keep abusing it, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t lose that skin altogether, or even lose the hand.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m sure you said that before,” Siren said. “Then you made other things a priority. Yes?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“Then do something about it. Don’t make it a consideration.”

“You’re a bit of a hardass, huh?”

“I’m backup medical and team doctor for a team of sixty full-cocked, aggressive capes with four tertiary teams, who love to get themselves hurt. I have to be. Put something over that hand.”

“We have someone who can do that,” I heard Sveta say, from the other side of the door.

Everyone’s eavesdropping, huh?

I stepped into the hallway, and found it wasn’t everyone, but Swansong and Tress.

“How are we doing?” I asked.

“The Heartbroken are drying off, Lookout is in regular contact since we patched into Saint’s mech, the boys were talking about the game plan.”

I nodded.

The mood in the hallway was subdued, all business, few smiles. We’d pulled a lot of people out of the water with injuries. We’d gone to rescue a few people and found corpses.

We passed Balk’s group, who were sitting, crouching, and standing on either side of the hallway, with just enough room between them that we had to pass single file. Balk was dead, and they were figuring out their new leadership structure. Sarah was with them, floating in a sitting position beside a guy who was honing his sword blade with a whetstone. Her injuries were bandaged, and she seemed to be okay. She watched me as I passed, with eyes that weren’t anything like my aunt’s.