Chevalier fired another cannonblade shot. The ringing in my ears that followed joined in with the scream. I watched as the blade was raised high, then brought down, cleaving into the Simurgh’s already damaged shoulder.

With my forcefield, I did what I could to help lift Torso up, crushing the jutting portions of poured concrete floor to allow him to slide freely up. It was mostly a brute from Foresight that did the lifting part.

“Torso,” I said.

He turned his eyes toward me, mismatched, painted on the surface of his oversized head.

“Can I try flying you?” I asked.

He gave me a thumbs-up.

Okay. Here was the trick, then. I disengaged from my forcefield, visualizing and forming the cocoon shape, the ribcage splayed open so I could fly out. Then I turned it toward Torso. Forcefield arms reached out, grabbing him under the armpits, where his arms stuck out of the heavy armor that covered head and upper body only. I lifted him into the opening in the forcefield—

His head lolled back, smashing into the forcefield. I felt it go, dashed to smithereens.

For what felt like three, four, maybe even five seconds, my forcefield didn’t come back online. A problem that had only ever occurred with Scion-level hits and Ashley’s blasts.

“Don’t move your head,” I told him.

He turned that stupid fucking face my way, an uneven, shakily-drawn smile on the lower face, dull and oblivious.

“Please,” I told him. “This is important.”

Again, I repeated the exercise. Lifting him, hands reaching inside to brace his head.

The area shook. He flinched, his head moved to tear free of the bracing grip, and he bashed my forcefield into oblivion with a small tap of the back of his head against the ‘shoulder’ of it.

I clenched my fists.

“Losing battle, Antares,” Disjoint called out. “Torso’s a professional fuckup. Whatever clever plan you’ve got for him, he’ll fuck it up.”

Torso awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, like he was slightly embarrassed or abashed by this.

“Fuck it,” I said. I used my forcefield, disengaging from it, but this time, instead of giving him a ride, I used six hands to pick him up. Two at the armpits, two at the wrists, two at the thighs. I held him like I would a battering ram.

“Don’t move, let me try this, I’ll do my best to keep you safe,” I told him. The guy felt more awkward to hold than my twelve tons of gun, and I couldn’t even get to grips with how or why. It wasn’t that he was heavier. It was that the weight was weird.

“Won’t work,” Disjoint told me.

“It’s worth a shot,” I told him.

“Godspeed,” Disjoint said. “But it won’t work.”