I was trying to be careful to preserve the forcefield. I kept my flight speed controlled to grab the rusty little post-G.M. car instead of just punching it. To partially push, partially pull, but mostly just to get it from where it sat to Mockument.

I wasn’t going full-bore, so he had time to react. He tried to get out of the way, and he wasn’t quite that fast. He put his mis-proportioned arm out, and he managed to exceed the strength of the forcefield.

Well, for the most part. The forcefield didn’t get tired, and every fraction of a second that passed, Mockument was losing ground. But he did manage to bring feet up and out of the way, so being caught between two cars wouldn’t sandwich and pulverize his legs. Flexible, strong, he had the ability to create minions and the ability to gather information from those minions, because they reflected deeper things about the targets.

I saw his eyes, and I saw the trick. Irises of a different shape beneath that jester mask. That would be Trophy Wife.

I twisted around, saw her looking, and moved my hand, fingertips grazing a car’s side-view mirror. Multiple hands slammed the side of that car, indenting it a half-dozen times.

In another time and circumstance, I would have berated the Wretch. I would have cursed it out for the unnecessary property damage, for not doing quite as I wanted.

But I was pissed, hurt, sad, sick, and a little door had opened before, back in Teacher’s headquarters. Once opened, it didn’t close quite the right way again.

Hands gripped the side mirror, and I twisted as the Wretch did the same. The mirror was flung so fast I had trouble tracking it with my eyes. It hit Trophy Wife, hard, and flew off with enough speed still driving it that it shattered a car window, striking ragged side first.

Trophy Wife was tough, and we’d hit her where the trophy rack was attached to her back. But that was a hit that would have been bone-breaking without the armor, if not purely lethal. Backwoods started to run to her side, but the Huntsmen fired bows and crossbows, one using a net that was thrown at least two hundred feet.

Backwoods started producing more outgrowths to act as cover so he could get to his partner’s side. She was leaning over a car now. He helped her straighten.

Behind me, the Wretch pushed the car. Mockument was still there, one hand sealed to the roof of the car by Capricorn’s power. With one leg dangling while he fought to get leverage, the movement of the car pinned that leg.

“I hate your power,” I told him.

“I hate it too,” he replied. He smiled wide, but his eyes were cheerless. “The person who had it died, and I’m the mess they left behind.”