The shoes didn’t matter here. The fact was he’d been going at it too long. His legs were shorter, because he was still only fifteen. He’d chased down too many people, starting from one chance lead, and then following it, because that was the way this worked. Each lead was standalone. Each chance he got might be the last chance. So he had to follow it, catch the person who affiliated with the Snatchers, use that person to find more, to get locations of buildings, or get keys and ID from that person, to break into their homes, scare their families and dog, get their computers or notes, and bring those things back to the captive.

If he slept, if he slipped, the trail went cold, and he had to hope, pressing forward and picking off targets at random until he got a name, until people started hating the Snatchers because some kid in cardboard armor and rugby padding kept taking their gangsters apart and asking about the group.

Now he was here, this person looked important, and he was too tired to give chase.

The problem with a baseball bat was that it couldn’t reach any further than the tip of the bat itself.

So he threw it, with every intention of hitting the man.

The bat went through the wall, and it took out something vital. The wall folded outward, and then began to collapse.

He had to stop, watching, seeing the gangster scramble to get back and away from the falling section of wall and the bits of roof. Dust followed, flooding into the space.

And so did something else. Someone else.

Her skin was light brown, her hair long and straight, and she wore a helmet that covered her entire face. She was one of the few to wear a cape, and her cape was heavy, chainmail or something, rising up from the shoulders, then sweeping down to trace the ground.

She flew at the man in the blue suit, and grabbed him.

Then she looked at Relentless.

From the shock of my trigger event, to the anger.

From anger to the bargain. Would I join her? Would I fight for her cause?

“I thought I’d capture this man, and use that as clout to negotiate with you,” Alexandria spoke.

“Is it you?” he asked. “I know there are ghosts in this alien machine.”

“Yes. Alexandria,” she said.

It was an answer she’d given him a long, long time ago. Out of order of the replies she’d given back then. Was that because this was a dream?

“What was Fortuna drilling for?” he asked.

“Communication,” Alexandria said. Another fragment.

He shook his head.

“Sending a message—” she said. Stopped prematurely. That sentence had been about unity, about the Wards and the idea that he could stop more evil if he were part of an organized group than he could alone, swinging his bat at one particular gang of child-snatchers.