Legend was coming. She could see him rise. The Harbinger couldn’t.

A bit of hope.

“Turn around?” the boy asked.

The hope tremored, like a candle flame that might go out.

She turned.

No gun. No slingshot.

“No,” the boy agreed. “But something else did get through. It’s their plan, not mine. They want to kill you, and I’d like to help you.”

Legend loomed behind her. Cauldron-made, veteran hero.

More an ally to the Harbinger than to her.

“Thank you. I don’t know how much of that was on purpose,” Legend said. “But—”

“It was on purpose. It happened as it was supposed to happen,” she said, a little bitter. “As Contessa willed it.”

“Ah,” Legend said. He looked so tired, so harrowed. Smoke stuck to sweat, which made his skin, hair, and costume darker, his eyes comparatively brighter, because they were untouched. “Will you come down and help us with the next phase of the attack? I can carry you both.”

Sveta shook her head. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Any instructions for me?” Legend asked.

She shook her head.

“Thank the powers that be,” the hero said, in a voice that sounded older than he was. “You good?”

“I can come help you, Tress,” the Harbinger said. “If you’re willing.”

She started to answer, then stopped.

No guidance from Contessa on this.

She agreed with Legend. Thank the powers that be. As terrifying as it was.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s rendezvous with the others.”

Dying 15.y

The zombies jogged and marched all around them. Teams of zombies were deploying to set up heavy laser cannons, aimed at the walls of spiky black rock with amber veins running through them. Others were setting up other technology, including machinery mounted on tripods and one team of rather fit looking zombies who were gathered around what looked like a condom dispenser, only the display at the top showed fluid within, and there was a handprint-shaped indent in the lower half.

“Don’t,” Final Hour said, his voice deep as he laid an armored hand on a young woman’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She was part of the laser cannon team, and she was petite, wide eyed and innocent looking, doubly innocent because Teacher had stolen her willpower. Short and probably less than a hundred pounds, with only tattoos on her scalp that her hair had grown over to suggest she was over eighteen, she was a stark contrast to Final Hour. The guy was big, had a bodybuilder physique, and his tinkertech was focused on one side of his body: both eyes, the left half of the face, one arm, and one leg. The tech was heaviest around his left hand, which was writ large by the gauntlet that encased it. A series of clocks and dials were set into the back of the gauntlet, a little satellite dish in the palm.