“A lot of us report dreams or vague flashbacks about being experimented on, pursued, captured,” Shamrock said, as she found a spot walking beside Gregor, his heavy arm around her. “I can speak from experience, there were things done to us.”

Egg wanted to say something to that, to challenge her, but he bit his tongue. Gregor was here and Blackforest was counting on him, and that made him want to be more adult.

Instead, he spat. A glob of yellow and blood on the side of the walkway.

“I’ve seen too many of those autopsy tables to count, and I still get spooked,” Bijou said.

“Too many of us for them to do anything,” Whippersnap said. “Stick together. Watch each other’s backs.”

They passed through the doors. Egg held it open for Hexie, Chantilly, and Blackforest, until Gregor took it over.

The area they were entering was a gymnasium, the kind of area that could be used as a basketball court, volleyball field, or anything else. Now it was a makeshift lab. People stood on the one side, tinker and scientist, representatives and doctors.

Egg could see the fear on their faces. Like they hadn’t expected this many. That they had an inkling of how dangerous some of the Case Fifty-Threes were.

Many of us break out of the nice, tidy box that other parahumans are kept in. It’s part of why Cauldron wanted us. The power they stuffed in us sits ajar, and that sometimes means the cupboards don’t close all the way.

There were multiple stations, each one with a purpose, but there were more Case Fifty-Threes than stations. One by one, they filed in. Sitting on tables, in chairs, or in front of whirring machines that had tinkers standing by.

One of the stations was being cleaned, Egg saw. It caught his eye because he was used to being cleaned up after. He couldn’t go to a restaurant without some goop getting on a table or chair. He tried to clean it, but he always felt a stab of guilt when he saw a concerned looking employee trying to wipe up after him anyway, or going to talk to the manager about biohazards and clean up protocols.

A man approached, and he looked nervous. His attention went to a woman standing off to the side, who looked less afraid than some of the others. She was pretty and professional looking, with light brown skin, her hair in an afro that had been pressed back by a hairband. She wore a suit dress.

“I don’t know—which am I handing out?” he asked the woman.

“Form A and form B. They’re in separate packets,” she said.

“For those who are waiting,” the guy said, looking between them and seeming to have trouble figuring out where his eyes should land. “We have forms for you to fill out.”

“Are these committing us to anything?” Engel asked.