“Didn’t go into that conversation thinking I was going to quit and leave them. But I know some of them well enough to match it to what I was seeing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” he said. He smiled, but it was tight, a bit forced. “Maybe I won’t be teaching hundreds of kids and helping them all a little, but I can be here, screen for unwitting traitors. I can… let’s get through this. I’ll help a few dozen, I think, who might not have ever gotten help if it weren’t for me.”

“We’ll get through it,” I told him. Or die trying.

He smiled, and it wasn’t as forced.

Defiant was shouting orders.

“Need a team to go to the sixth floor! We—” Defiant called out, stopping as Torso tripped and landed on his face. “We need any capes who aren’t feeling confident to escort civilian groups out, be aware she’s above us, she may break free of the facility to attack and demoralize!”

My team was sorted.

“I should go,” I said.

“Victoria,” he said.

I met his eyes. I almost winced at the weariness there, that I’d never seen even when he’d been dealing with the troublesome kids like Cami or Tom B.

“It really is good to see you. I don’t mean that in an inappropriate way. It’s… every way I can think of phrasing it makes me sound like an old man.”

“You’re not that old, Gilpatrick.”

“Too old and weary for you, Victoria. All I mean is, and I don’t want to put too much weight on this, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, and my eyes feel very sore, tonight.”

“Thank you,” I told him.

“Be safe.”

“You too,” I told him.

I felt a measure of guilt. I remembered how Gilpatrick had emphasized holding back. He’d argued for avoiding violence and lethal measures wherever possible. ‘Five pounds of gun’.

Five pounds of gun. Twenty pounds of armor and costume. However many pounds of additional gear, medical stuff, supplies… metaphors for the amounts of attention we should pay toward violence, protecting others, supplies…

I hefted my twelve tons of gun, doing my best to avoid bludgeoning anyone as I returned to my team.

The gun wasn’t even the fucking irony, here. Twelve tons of gun was nothing compared to the weight of the countless lives I was preparing to take. I looked over at Chris.

“Defiant!” I called over. “Are the labs clear?”

“Only if you help to clear them! Sixth floor, feel free!” he barked. He looked like he was going to say something else, then stopped.

He turned, raising his head to look up.

The ceiling caved in. A plume of dust, concrete—

Simurgh.

I thought at first that it was just a psychological tactic. Telekinetically controlled dust, to scare us, remind us we weren’t safe anywhere here.