“That’s not very surprising though,” they said. “I can see where you’re going with this. I’ve been at this a few years. Some of the workarounds and tricks are getting old by now.”

I shifted my grip so I held the vest by the shoulder.

“The bus is back. Are they capes in disguise too?”

The bus was back? I couldn’t see without looking past Blindside, and I didn’t want to lose my bearings.

They were watching then?

Well, I imagined Blindside made it hard to watch.

I swung, using the vest as a bludgeon. My arm stopped, but the vest continued.

I felt hands against my back, gripping the back of my top. Another move, judo or aikido, stepping into arm’s reach, too close for the vest to hit me, trusting their power to keep my arm from hitting them, and throwing me to the ground.

I used my forcefield, and I used its strength to arrest the movement, stopping myself. A bit of my flight.

With Blindside directly behind me, I drew my gun, and I turned to the right this time, swinging out with gun in hand.

“Nope,” Blindside said. “That won’t—”

I dropped the vest, my hand going to my ear, and I fired the instant my arm stopped moving. I shot the stone wall of the community center eight times.

The volume of it was such that I only barely heard Blindside’s exclamation of pain. My ears rang—but the gun had to have been right next to the villain mercenary’s ear.

This was how I operated. Even if I was trying not to be too blatant with others watching. I was trying to consider more before I acted and took this route, moderating myself.

Shock. Shake them on a sensory level.

I stooped low to pick up the vest, then swung it as I had before. Blindside stumbled forward, much as they had before, into my reach, both forearms pressing against my back.

I’d had to moderate my aura, back at the hospital. My mood darkened even thinking about that time, much as it had darkened when I saw myself in the mirror and remembered what I had been.

It took all I had to not let that darkness affect how I handled the aura. I’d told myself, so many times, I wanted to be better. Regrets weren’t worth anything if I didn’t let them drive me to do it better in the future.

For two months my aura had been one of the only real communication tools that I had, that didn’t require rounds of blinking and interpretation, or fumbling at a special keyboard with hands that didn’t map to how my brain thought my body should move. I’d had some practice with the nuance of it.