The fluid cell at his chest powered the suit’s movements so he could bring his limbs around in time, with a thrust that made him feel like he had little rockets attached to elbow, knee, ankle, and wrist, pushing his hands in the same directions he moved them, pushing the metal that he’d shaved down in weight by the gram. That same fluid cell pulled him into the ground, driving titanium compression springs he’d lubricated with his ‘red juice’ folded into themselves in a way that defied conventional physics, storing up potential energy. Every step was a tiny lurching feeling as everything gave more than his gut felt like it should, even as his tinker brain told him it was fine. The finer adjustments were made by way of Nitinol-strand muscles; a shift in posture, position, and weight using memory metal as fine as spiderwebs, safely ensconced within metal shells.

The sensation of rising and falling with each bounding step was made more dreamlike by the unintentional illusion he’d crafted for himself. The fluid cell generated heat through chemical reaction. That heat ran through the frame, drawing in cold outside air and pushing it out through his suit. Warmed air flowed between fabric and skin, a sensation of wind at all times, out of sync with his movements.

Catch up, he willed his team. I don’t want to do this alone.

I can’t be alone again.

The foot that had come down a moment ago now unfolded with the force of a gunshot, nearly silent. Nearly, because his goggles were unnecessarily registering the tremor at his R-0-1 connector at his shoulder, and his L-1 at his other arm. Unnecessary because he could feel it. He’d lost weight, or he’d worn this frame over his jacket enough to crush the sleeve down in size. At those points where things weren’t fine tuned enough, metal rattled against his bicep and shoulder like someone was shaking a cage.

The people were doing their own shaking and rattling. They pushed against the ‘line’, where Patrol and a scattered few capes stood behind waist-high wooden barricades. The barricades scraped and shuffled, back ends digging into snow. One picked up briefly, tipping back because there was enough forward pressure and enough snow at the base of the feet that there was nowhere else to go. A cape put his foot on it and slammed it back down into position.

Withdrawal didn’t even know how to handle this. His whole thing was movement, and this demanded the opposite of that.

To look at him from a distance, he bounded more forward than up, but he still bounded, moving through the air in loose, acrobatic leaps.