Hookline’s hook was out, and Kitchen Sink had a machete in one hand and a gallon tank of probably-kerosene in the other. He kept the large red plastic can, tossed away the machete, tossed away the textbook, tossed away the manhole cover—

I was guessing, hoping they wanted to count coup, injure and disappear.

It didn’t seem terribly bright. I didn’t want to let them count coup or do worse. We’d made a pledge to Houndstooth’s group.

Sveta’s hands appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Hookline by the ankles. He fell hard on the initial tug, and was then dragged beneath a parked car.

The hook moved, lashing out. It caught on the corner of a building, Hookline’s attempt to haul himself free.

My focus in the moment was on Kitchen Sink.

I landed so I was a foot behind him, pushing out with my aura.

“Run,” I said.

He turned, wheeling around with hand drawn back, a rather large, full bottle of alcohol gripped by the neck—

I smashed my forehead into his nose. When he didn’t immediately go down, I did it again. I didn’t give him a chance to recover from there. My forcefield was down throughout the process, as I stayed within a foot of him, my aura buzzing with the range pulled closer to me, active and focused on him.

I could fly, so I didn’t need footing. I used it when I had it, to give a little more oomph when I punched him in the stomach, but at the times I would have needed to pause to get my feet in the right places under me, flight drove me forward. Punch, knee to his stomach, a shove against his shoulder, as he drew the connected arm back to swing with the bottle or use his power to throw it point-blank.

He realized he couldn’t draw either weapon back, and dropped the plastic jug, jabbing at me instead. He hit me in the ribs, and it hurt.

I hit him in the nose, and I was willing to bet it hurt more.

He realized what was happening, and compensated with an exaggerated step back, anticipating he’d be pushed away, the foot would arrest that movement.

I brought my hand close to his face as I flew up, and he shielded it.

He was trying not to fall down, but with his feet planted far apart—

I flew down, my foot striking on his thigh, close to the pelvis. It forced him into awkward almost-splits.

My hand on the back of his head, I pushed his face down toward the road. He didn’t try to stop the movement with his arms out, instead folding his around his face, to shield it.

The impact was hard, elbows striking the road, and from the sound he made, his nose hit the arms that were around his face, and that hurt enough.