“Why did you come?” Tress asked, as the boy advanced. “Wait, don’t—”

The boy stepped forward, two weird stuttering steps like he was dancing or feinting, before he lunged forward, closing the distance, and struck the Wasp Commander.

The world spun as the Wasp Commander stepped back, found no footing, and fell into the hole.

His head cracked hard against concrete, and he felt his special knowledge flee him, his regular thoughts scattering into darkness and brightness, stillness, and noise. He tried to lift his arms and legs and found them too heavy.

The boy smiled, looking down at him.

“Why did you come?” Tress asked.

The Wasp Commander struggled to listen. If it came down to him needing to justify the use of extensive medical skills and resources and needing to justify keeping his position, it would help to have information on the enemy to barter with.

“Are you coming with us?”

“With you, yes.”

The Commander heard footsteps, and with his head unable to move without stunning pain, he had to guess who it was. Dripfeed.

It was Swansong.

“All okay?” Tress asked.

“I took his leg. The other fell into my blast,” the heroine said, head turning, white eyes showing nothing and staring into nothing. A concerned look crossed her face. “Do you have water?”

“No, I drank the last Capricorn gave me. Why?”

“It’s not important.”

“Didn’t he give you a bottle? I saw you drink just five minutes ago.”

“Yes,” Swansong said. She made a face.

“She might have blood in her mouth,” the Harbinger reported.

The Wasp Commander saw it wasn’t that. A wistful look crossed Swansong’s face, that the others couldn’t see, because they weren’t looking.

“No thanks to your recklessness,” Swansong said, a note of anger in her voice, her expression hardening. “There are more elegant ways to do things, little brother.”

None of this suited anything. Why had he lost, with his elite soldiers? Why a fucking Harbinger? One of the worst potential threats in the list of enemies he’d been briefed on.

“We’ll find some on the way. We’re splitting up soon, right?”

“Your forehead,” Swansong said. Tress had approached close enough for the women to see one another.

“My brain isn’t behind my forehead. It’s cosmetic. It’s really shitty, awful cosmetic and I have no idea if it will heal.”

“It should. And we have Lookout for the little things,” Swansong said. She flicked one corner of her eye, causing the smoke there to flare.

The Wasp Commander closed his eyes, and found it to be a Herculean effort to get them open again. He considered that he might have blacked out for a second in the process of relaxing his focus.