It was almost inconvenient, that people in little Miss Webb’s way met unfortunate ends so often. It rushed her into power, and put her on a playing field with the likes of… well, Valkyrie.

The most powerful woman in all of the realities and, look at that, poor thing lost her powers right when she needed them. Connection cut, leaving her nothing more than a tall, athletic, ordinary woman on a battlefield defined by its monsters.

She got in Miranda’s way, and look at that. She was removed. Someone who had really scared her when they were locked up in that dismal prison with its dismal people and its poor selection of good men.

It was almost enough to make Miranda think there was something about little old ordinary-but-charming her, that Valkyrie was out and Ingenue was standing.

“Problem, Ingenue?” the Black Goat asked.

“No problem, except that I’m here and not taking care of Chevalier,” Miranda turned around. She stretched, aware the flared sixties style dress she wore was so short that stretching her arms fully overhead would lift it too high. She saw the Black Goat looking and hoping when she faced him. He was gentlemanly enough to look away after being caught, embarassed.

Christian boys were always the hungriest.

“Good,” he said. “Understandable. But I think Teacher wants us to keep level heads, keep us away from our rivals, enemies, and… I don’t even know what Chevalier is.”

“Tempting,” she said. She smiled.

“Uh, sure.”

Black Goat was surrounded by thralls who had bloody or ragged outfits, but no injuries themselves. Her personal collection of capes were the same. Fresh, handsome, whole, and wholesome. Three thralls stared off into space, bearing the entirety of the wounds her entire squadron had suffered. They were puppets, dolls that were anything but playful or adorable, so devoid of emotion and awareness they didn’t realize how hurt they were. Chunks missing and bandaged, burned, melted, one had parts of his belly turned to glass.

The Black Goat was looking after thralls, asking about injuries. He had been Scapegoat once, a hero with a mercenary streak. Gold Morning had helped him get over his illusions. He’d gone full mercenary. Now he stood there, shirtless, a tattoo across his back, a helmet miming a goat skull over his upper face. He wore an ornate belt with black cloth draping down.

He wasn’t quite her type. A bit of a slouch, too down on himself. But he was muscular, he took care of himself, that Fallen tattoo excepted. There was worse company to keep, like the Speedrunners. Creeps.

“Three dolls?” she asked.

“Dolls?”

She indicated the thralls with the injuries.

“Mm. I have one more body,” the Black Goat said, indicating an obese man sitting with his back to the wall. “I can transfer wounds to him, then we need to think about refreshing.”