Revenant was gone when she woke up. Sabra lay there for a little while, filled with a solemn sense of inevitable surprise. It wasn’t her fault, wasn’t her choice, this she knew—but it still stung. And the fact that she felt bruised by it, behind her ribs, even when she knew it wasn’t anything Revenant had control over, just left her feeling vaguely stupid. And she hated feeling stupid.

  What was worse was that Revenant had done exactly as she had asked and left her with some files on her tablet—reading materials: dossiers and a note. Sabra read the note first.

  Kasembe, it began. I have good news and I have bad news. The bad news is that, between your imprecise intel and lack of footage, I was unable to locate your mystery woman. The good news is that, when I account for your imprecision, I’ve narrowed it down to five possibilities with varying degrees of confidence. Have fun. I’ll call you when I can.

  Sabra was not going to have fun. She’d never been a good student, but the fact that Revenant had assigned the task made the prospect bearable. She began going over the dossiers, checking against the IESA public register and what she could find across the Internet.

  Ursa Major and Thunderbird were easily discounted. The physical resemblance was there in the latter’s case, but both were members of the Imperium Republica and therefore subject to immediate detainment within any IESA member state. And Sabra couldn’t see what interest they’d have in her to make them risk it in the first place.

  Roadwork was the empowered code name of a construction worker over in the United States. She must’ve done something in the past that required the superhero name, but now she was just blue collar. Sabra noted that she had a rocking set of dreadlocks and several months of documented work that made for a solid alibi. That, and any ink she had was restricted to her left forearm only—not her.

  Fourth candidate, Extremophile, was all over social media. A surly daredevil with an adaptive physiology. She had the right skin tone, the right build. Sabra found a video of her submerging her arm into lava then chiseling off the stony cast revealing no burns, and no tattoos.

  Which left her with Avalanche. Unlike the others, she was a figure of significance. A geokinetic, and a strong one at that—an ability that should’ve put her in SOLAR—who had the record to back up her paper rating. A genuine superhero, a member of the defunct Guardian Patrol, and the IESA database had her listed as missing-in-action. But, like the others, Sabra couldn’t see why or how their lives intersected.

  But, the déjà vu. The sense of being there, on her couch, swiping through documents. Perplexing more than anything else, and it slipped through her awareness like smoke through her fingers. Then, her phone rang, and she didn’t even have that.

  “Good morning, Sabra!” Julian crowed.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  “Good something or bad something?”

  “An interesting something,” he said. “I have a lead on how our friend Andreas scored his explosives.”

  “Alright, lay it on me.”

  “What do you know about the Splatterpunks?”

  Sabra frowned, thought that over.

  “They’re some kind of empowered activist group?”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Julian replied. “They’re something of a Genevan institution. A motley group of rich kids who think throwing paint over the masonry is enough to disassemble the master’s house.”

  “I’m sensing some dislike,” Sabra said.

  “Sabs, that implies they’re on my level. Back in the day, yes, I might’ve whipped them into something useful. But these days, they’re just useful idiots for the IESA. A way for scions and debutantes to evade the unimaginable pain of Swiss conscription. Oh, the humanity!”

  “Julian. Come on, man.”

  “Sorry. Old habits. On the outside, the Punks are artist-activists who turn empowered crimes into art installations. Positively Golden Age.”

  “But on the inside?”

  “They deal in everything from drugs to weapons. Not everything they steal ends up recovered, and not everything they steal is meant to be recovered.”

  “They’re like a front,” Sabra said. But how would Blueshift put it? “A deniable asset. They launder that stuff.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, what—they blew up the station, they let Andreas buy a bunch of explosives?”

  “See, Sabs, that’s about where my thought process gets stuck. Blowing up a train station is not their style, and I can’t see why they’d sell enough explosives to level a building to someone.”

  “Then how do you know they’re involved?”

  “I’m a radiant presence, Sabs,” Julian replied, self-approving. “People talk to me. People like talking to me. But to be honest, I don’t. This is where you come in.”

  Sabra frowned. “I’m not much of an investigator.”

  “Which is convenient, because I’m auditioning for a doorkicker. Two of the more notable Splatterpunks, Pick and Choose, are hosting a bit of a shindig tonight. I have other commitments, you understand. So, if you wouldn’t mind...”

  “Hey, it’s what you’re paying me for,” Sabra replied, shrugging. “You think they’ll just spill, just like that?”

  Julian laughed. “Oh, not at all. You may need to lean on them. I have a contact in the Swiss Army who says some military-grade equipment was passed to the Punks on the sly about a month ago, including a few kilos of phasmite.”

  “Is that the bomb?”

  “Almost certainly, although I’d say the middle of Geneva was not the intended destination. It doesn’t make sense to me, but cloak-and-dagger never did. Look, Sabs, if they’re not involved, then they’re not involved—and we have a much more interesting problem.”

  Sabra nodded, and thought of her dossiers. “Hey, Julian, speaking of interesting problems. I might have one for you.”

  “Give it to me, Sabs.”

  “Do you happen to know anything about Avalanche?”

  “The superhero?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not much. We never ran in the same circles—why?”

  He sounded about as perplexed as she was.

  Sabra said, “She’s listed as missing, right?”

  “After a fashion. IESA protocols call for all empowered not explicitly confirmed as dead to be listed as missing. Heroes never die and all,” he added, and the wry mockery was as clear as a siren.

  “So, she’s dead.”

  “That’s my understanding, yes. A few years ago, when The Archon struck Sweden. But they never found the body—which, trust me, is not unusual where the Seven are concerned.”

  Sabra nodded and chewed at her cheek. She didn’t have to trust him, not really. In Melbourne, the Engineer’s panoply of war had left nothing but ash and echoes. The viridian flashes were seared behind her eyelids.

  She just said, “Okay. But here’s the thing—someone who looks a lot like her is asking about me. Even went and tracked down my father.”

  “And I thought I was popular! No one’s ever crawled out of the grave to find me.”

  “You think it’s her?”

  “I’m willing to entertain all possibilities. Want me to look into it, Sabs?”

  “Sure, if you’ve got the time.”

  “For you? I’ll find time.”

  Sabra nodded. “Thanks, Julian.”

  “Oh, the pleasure is all mine. I’ll forward you the details of this Splatterpunk party. It’s an old water treatment plant they’ve turned into a rave club. I can’t imagine anyone there will give you any trouble, but don’t burn the place down.”

  “I handled Taurine,” Sabra said. “I think I can handle a few rich kids.”

  “I’m digging the confidence, Sabs,” Julian replied. “Let me know what you find out.”

  He ended the call. Sure, she’d beat Taurine—but she’d left out the part where her victory was closer to a double knockout. That she’d almost died in the process and had lost her first suit. How it’d been the moment where her prescience had stopped whispering to her through dreams and nightmares and deepened into waking hallucinations and phantasmagoria. How it was a hole in her mind and how, when she focused on that gap and what little she could recall, she wasn’t sure if it was her doing at all.

  Then, the prep work. She hadn’t taken her hardsuit out for a spin for some time, and if she was potentially going to end up in a fight—and something dark lurked on the abyssal horizon, like a churning storm front on the cusp of breaking—then she had to make sure that her baby was up to spec.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  If only it was her other baby.

  Her power armor stood in the far corner of her apartment like a headless sentinel. The X19 Palatine powered combat exoskeleton was the latest of Dynazon’s suits of powered armor. So cutting edge that it was limited to evaluation runs by elite operators in actual combat operations—and her. As Sabra understood it, Revenant had ensured it’d fallen off the back of a truck just as they’d left Asclepion.

  The armor—her armor—reminded her of an ancient knight, if his armor had been crafted with the sleek, aggressive aesthetics of a supercar. Gunmetal plates protected her from anything short of an electron lance and even the flexible sections—joints, obliques—could shrug off a gunshot. It didn’t quite let any regular person slug it out with the premier empowered, but it was Dynazon’s best attempt to close the gap between man and demigod.

  It enhanced her strength and, what’s more, had articulated gauntlets that allowed her to employ the full force of the suit without breaking her hands. Jets in her boots and back allowed her to fly, even if only in the sense of a brick through a window. And, with the underlying softsuit and kinesthetic AI, her mobility was only barely hampered. Looking at it now, it was enough to make her giddy. Perhaps even megalomaniacal.

  Problem was, all that performance came at a cost, and it was why she hadn’t taken it out since they’d brought down Monkey. The maintenance requirements were, as Revenant surmised, less than optimal for extended use. She had gifted Sabra with a future ‘hangar queen,’ if only because she hadn’t counted on it being such a permanent gift at the time.

  But now it was.

  Sabra was still set on painting it, but she wasn’t sure what. So far, she’d settled on the tricolor of old Sudan running down her left arm, with the pauldron in bright green. Once, she’d asked her father what the colors meant. He had said the red stood for the blood of martyrs, the white for peace and love, the black for the land of Sudan and the flesh of its people, and the green for hope and humanity.

  All in all, it seemed as good a symbol as any to present on her leading side.

  The last thing was her helmet—full comms suite, a heads-up display with more information than she could dream of using, a visor that could flip from opaque to translucent, and an ability to blast her tunes. The worst part was that it wasn’t the helmet Revenant had made for her.

  That one, Sabra couldn’t wear. Not again. Revenant, perhaps guessing why, perhaps knowing it was linked to the knot of qadar, never asked why she didn’t wear it. Didn’t even display it. Why she kept it in a locker underneath her bed. It was the most beautiful piece of equipment Sabra had ever seen.

  And the most terrifying.

  The old treatment plant wasn’t far. That night, in her armor, alternating between sprinting and leaping from roof to roof, Sabra made good time. It was almost like being home again.

  She heard the music before she saw the plant itself. Outside, a line of revelers led from the front doors, across the parking lot, and back along the street. Sabra contemplated waiting in line while in full kit, tasted the currents, and then made for the second door—the VIP entrance.

  If there was one thing Sabra enjoyed about her suit—beyond the enhanced strength, the tough-as-nails armor, the extra inches of height, and incredible jumpjets—it was the sound. Every movement was like the waking sigh of a mechanical titan. Every step made it clear she was coming, definitive without being loud. Vehement was the word Revenant used. People heard her coming, and they got out of her way.

  The bouncer stepped between her and the entrance. A big man, an Islander, who reminded her of her old friend Jamar. His chest and arms and face were covered in a riot of bright colors, and he laid one big hand on her chest plate.

  “Back o’the line, Tin Man.”

  So, he either took his job seriously, or he was empowered enough that he liked his chances against her armor. Good to know.

  “I’m not here to make trouble,” Sabra said, “but I’m looking for Pick and Choose.”

  The bouncer muttered something into his mic. Then, to her: “Got a name?”

  “Defiant.”

  Another murmured half of a conversation.

  “Right,” he said, stepping back. “They’ll be waiting above the dance floor. No trouble, or you’re going into the Rhone.”

  She gave him a big smile behind her helmet. One he couldn’t see. She wasn’t sure if it was a taunt or not. “Thanks!”

  Inside, the place was about as wild as any party she’d been to in Asclepion. Booze and drugs and sex, pulsating music and pulsing lights. People pointed at her, gaped, gasped. Short of some of the men, she was the tallest person there, and the only one who partied in a suit of power armor. She moved through the throng without issue—if someone thought she wasn’t supposed to be there, they weren’t game enough to stop her. And if no one tried to stop her, then no one thought she wasn’t supposed to be there.

  Past the dance floor, there was a set of old metal steps that led up to the second level, and she took them in twos. It had all the feel of a private clubroom and a series of windows looked out over the Rhone. On a long couch at the back of the space sat the two Splatterpunks. Pick and Choose, and it struck Sabra that they were identical twins. Both of them were surrounded by a bevy of women in various states of undress.

  Julian had briefed her. Pick was a telekinetic whose power and control was inversely correlated to the range of his target. At a distance, he could punch through concrete. Within the range of his arms, he could pick any lock—or make you have a stroke. As for Choose...

  Well, Choose gave him cover.

  Pick or Choose tapped Choose or Pick on the shoulder. The latter, whoever it was, leaned forward theatrically and sighed. “Defiant, was it? What's this about?”

  Sabra had friends in the Asclepion underworld before she’d finished high school, and they’d let her in on the rules of the game that’d governed the interaction between lawkeepers and lawbreakers. It’d be interesting to see if the people who played at being sinners knew how the game was truly meant to be played. She doubted the local rules were different to the ones she’d grown up with.

  “Ladies,” she said, ignoring him. “Which one of them is Pick?”

  A lady with vibrant purple hair pointed to the one who’d spoken. Good, that’d make things easier.

  “Thanks,” Sabra said. “I just wanted to get that sorted so we’re not here all night. Guys, I know how this goes, and you know how this goes. I have better things to do and so do you, so, let’s not fuck with each other.”

  This is how the game is played: it’s not about slam dunks but keeping points on the board. The good guys have quotas and better things to do. You play nice and give them a finger or two when they come knocking, so they don’t decide to take off your whole arm.

  Pick said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Sabra almost-laughed. Okay then. She flexed her hands, and felt the minute adjustments as her armor matched the slightest changes in her posture and stance. Like it was flexing, as eager to get to the fight as she was. It wasn’t exactly do-or-die for the sake of the world, but it was better than nothing.

  “Guys, look, that explosion downtown? Rumor has it that the bomb passed through your hands on the way there.”

  “Bullshit,” Pick replied. “Who are you? Why do you care?”

  “The name’s Defiant, and I care because almost a hundred people are dead.”

  “It wasn’t us. It wasn’t anyone in our group.”

  But there was something here, she could feel it. Like a shadow about to fall.

  “You got a single fact to back that up?” Sabra asked.

  “How about you come back with a warrant?”

  “What’d you get from the military about a month ago?”

  “Fuck,” Choose muttered.

  Sabra nodded. “There’s two ways we can do this, boys. The first is that you honestly tell me whether or not you’re involved, and either way give me the proof I want, and I leave you to your night.”

  “What’s the second?” Choose asked.

  “The second is that I make you cry in front of these girls, and then you tell me whether or not you’re involved.”

  “Yeah?” Pick asked, standing up. After a moment, Choose followed. “Third option is we throw you in the river. We didn’t have anything to do with that bombing.”

  Sabra snorted. She stretched her fingers, then clapped them twice against her palms to engage the systems to boost her strength. Her fingers were tingling, and her body felt like it was borne on the wings of a butterfly.

  “Guys, you’re not exactly making me think you weren’t involved here. All I want to know is about those explosives. Just gimme some scraps from the table, so I can go and tell my boss I’ve got a three-course meal.”

  But that was the problem, Sabra knew. These two had never had to give up anything. Instead of being conscripted, they got to play radical artist. It wasn’t even a game to them, not really. Games could be won or lost. These two were less than that, just two kids playing pretend.

  The currents shifted. Sabra inhaled as Choose replicated himself into enough copies to circle her shoulder to shoulder. Had Julian not warned her, she might have been worried. The tactic was simple but presumably effective. Choose covered for Pick, and once Pick got his hands on you, it was over.

  So, Sabra couldn’t let that happen. She took a breath in as the girls laughed and cheered and let her awareness flit through the skein of currents, finding the one that led to—

  Sabra hopped to the right and punched the fifth clone square in the face. Choose fell, and his clones vanished, and she leaped to the left, swiping with a left backhand to knock Pick’s telekinetic blast wide, bringing him in, so she could meet his nose with her visor. The ladies, who realized about when the Punks did that she wasn’t playing the same game as they were, screamed and fell over the couch and flew apart into individuals.

  Pick fell, Sabra caught him, then shoved him down. She one-hand-clapped her hands five times, disabling the enhancements in her suit, and straddled him, pinned his arms. She shoved his cheek against the metal floor, her fist against his face, and let her armored knuckles grind him against the metal. He cried out and spat blood, glowering at her, eyes wild.

  “You fucking bitch, don’t you know who my father is?!”

  “Yeah?” Sabra said, driving her knuckles in further. “Do you know who mine is, asshole?”

  It wasn’t about the explosives or the mission, not really. It was that these pricks were wearing her clothes, were aping her culture. That they were pretending to be in Geneva what, in Asclepion, she and her friends had to be. And for what, so they could get laid? So they could pretend to be sticking it to the man before they went off to suck his fucking cock for the rest of their lives?

  “Tell me!” Sabra snarled. The anger boiled up in her, so powerful that her tongue tasted electric. “Tell me about the bomb! Tell me or I’ll throw you over that fucking railing, asshole! I didn’t bring a warrant because I don’t want any fucking witnesses!”

  Something happened. That knowledge, the déjà vu—it swallowed her like a shroud. Her body felt like it was sinking, down toward some infinite depth. She was aware, on some level, that Pick was crying. That his lips were moving, but she was tonguing her upper lip, and she could smell ash and taste blood, but she heard nothing but a piercing ringing in her ears, knew nothing beyond a distant sense of terror.

  “Look up,” Pick said, although it didn’t match his lips, “Look up.”

  She didn’t want to. She knew what was there. Knew that to see it would be to never see anything ever again. Alarms on her visor—hypoxia, tachycardia—before they flickered into color and noise. She had been here before. She had done this before. She had thought these thoughts before, these feelings.

  Sekhmet spoke, “Look up.”

  There she was, the vision from her nightmares, the bloody-handed martyr. She might as well have been looking into a mirror, if not for the overbearing hate that kindled in those eyes. She wore the same armor, but it was dented and scarred and scorched, with that leonine helmet under her arm.

  “How close you are, and yet still so far away.” Was that a flicker of pity in her eyes? “Yet I’m early, aren’t I? Not by much, but enough.” She sighed, the sound as deep as her grave. “Breathe, Kasembe, just breathe—this is all new to you, I know. Christ and Allah, if only you knew. Well, we have time to figure this out: you’ll see me two more times before the end.”

  Two more times, Sabra thought, teeth grit. Then that’s two more chances to fucking kill you.

  Sekhmet cocked her head, smiling like she’d heard her words in the distance. “Is that so?” she remarked, before she bent down and took Sabra’s jaw in her gauntletted grip, growling: “Then, listen very closely—”

  The world skewed away from her, and Sekhmet receded beyond the liminal horizon, and the first realization Sabra had that she’d been hit was when she slid across the floor, her armor throwing up sparks. She rolled over and pushed herself up. The bouncer was helping Pick to his feet. The pair of them let her get up. Her arms felt heavy. Her neck and head ached.

  Pick wiped at his mouth. “Deadlift,” he said, spitting, “show this bitch out.”

  Deadlift charged, leaped into the air, and planted both of her feet on her chest. The kick sent her crashing to the ground, sliding across the floor, and through the windows at the back of the room. There was the brief sensation of floating, and then she plunged into the waters of the Rhone.

  Light shimmered against the surface. Sabra lay there and enjoyed the view. There was no fear, no anxiety. Her armor was airtight, sure, but after what had just happened she welcomed the sudden tranquility. It was like she had forgotten something. Something important. A vision from her past? Or a shadow of her future?

  Remember perspective, Blueshift had said once. You must always keep things within the proper perspective, temporal or otherwise, Miss Kasembe. When your goal is to kill gods, then it’s important to keep your mind on the present.

  But what if you couldn’t?