Damsel hurried toward the car. Not her underlings, exactly, but they were hers. The mercenaries she’d bought with the money she hadn’t spent on the house. People with equipment, some training, some background.

But in the midst of the light, a shadow loomed. Brandish hurried her way, weapon held high.

To an extent, it made sense. A person who manipulated fire often had protections from fire. This woman created weapons out of light—and she’d bounced back faster than some.

Damsel was left with a moment to decide.

Her power lanced out, twisting, reaching, pointed at the woman with the weapon who threatened to take everything from her. Aimed with the intent—

No, not the intent.

But the willingness to kill.

The woman reacted. She condensed down into a sphere, and the dark, rending energy lanced out, swiping and grasping through the air.

Damsel couldn’t be sure if it grazed the orb or just barely missed it, but by chance more than anything else, the lunges and surges of Damsel’s power missed their target.

Brandish didn’t give further chase. Ashley reached the car, glancing back at the other blinded heroes, the scene with the money she hadn’t been able to claim.

It had been the right decision after all.

The energy and restlessness she’d missed was back. It had been with her as she stepped off the bus. It had helped propel her forward as she made her initial moves in Boston.

This was closer to the feeling she had on the bus, but it was a darker feeling.

☽

It was an unfamiliar feeling.

It had been a long, long time since anything but her fingers or her power had run through her hair. One or the other was usually sufficient to deal with tangles and keep it neat.

When she had been little, her mother had counted the brush strokes out loud, but there were no words. And there were more than fifty brush strokes.

Her hair was moved aside, and a warm hand touched her shoulder. It might have been moisturizer that was rubbed into her skin. There were no childhood memories to touch on for that. This would be a first.

There was a rhythm to this, like there had been for the brush. Almost a minute of rubbing, avoiding the burns, giving attention to knots. There would be a pause, and there would be a soft sound as he rubbed his hands together. She surmised it was so the moisturizer wouldn’t be cold or cool on application.

Everything careful, everything measured out. It would be so easy for this same situation to feel like the inverse of what it was. Her in his power.