The four squared up, each facing the others, a huddle without closeness. Secondhand was the smallest, the closest to being sleek, except he wasn’t that thin. Purely average. Last Minute was burly and barrel-shaped, muscular but not tall, loaded down with his throwable trinkets. Final Hour was muscular, of a similar frame to End of Days, who distinguished himself with the curling mustache, the lighter distribution of tinker gear, and his tinker gear. One of End of Days’s arms had a fresh tattoo on it, an old fashioned demon harlot, surrounded by a band of religious verse.

Their only aesthetic concession to counting themselves among the Fallen was a change to red lenses and glows for their tinkertech, and black cloth and leather.

“Hitting them hard is cleanest. We shouldn’t give them a chance to fight back,” Final Hour said. He adjusted something in his gauntlet.

“If your blast doesn’t take them out, Secondhand is dead in the water,” Last Minute said, thick arms folded across his chest. “We know the one in the goat armor is there, because he’s making the walls. Two of them can kill him before he can react. A third can come close. One is invincible. Best he could do would be to take the kid hostage, and we don’t know if she’s there. She might be camouflaged.”

End of Days nodded along with Last Minute.

“Hmph,” Final Hour grunted. “Okay.”

“Clean is using our powers as they’re supposed to work. Plan for this to be messy, keep our tricks up our sleeves for later.”

Both looked at Secondhand.

“I’ll scout. Don’t load me up. It makes it harder to get back into the zone. I might use tech if it looks like I can.”

He reached to his belt and pulled out a small explosive. Lightweight, like all of his tech.

“Camera?” Final Hour asked.

Secondhand considered.

“I know you don’t like it, but…” Final Hour trailed off.

“If the kid is with them, a camera is a weak point,” Secondhand pointed out.

“Unplug it and go black if you have to. But it would help the soldiers and it would help us.”

Secondhand grumbled for a bit, debating mostly with himself.

“We’re ready, sirs!” a man by the nearest laser cannon called out.

Sirs?

Well, Secondhand had been called everything under the sun, recently. One more for the list.

Final Hour reached out with his ordinary, gauntlet-free hand. “We tough it out through today, we go home to obscene orgies, girls with zero morals, drugs, and luxury. This is what we’ve been working for all this time. Now we pay our dues once in a while, keep the plate spinning.”

“And if the plates all fall,” End of Days intoned, in a mellow voice that suggested he had taken his drugs recently, “we’re in the best position to rule over whatever things look like after.”

Secondhand nodded.