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  Everyone nodded, sharing looks of trepidation and eagerness. Byron cleared his throat, touched the screen to show a detailed map of the city, and said, "On to Team Three."

  "Why aren't we waiting for the twins to do this?" Dixie asked.

  "Because their part is relatively minor, Karl can convey it, and we need to get moving on this as all the pieces are finally starting to come together." He touched the screen, lighting up several points in red. "I leave the finer details of the distraction to you and the twins, Karl. But these are the best locations to cause them; they provide a good mix of people to scare and empty buildings to destroy, with no overlap—ideally, anyway. They're important enough locations the G.O.D. will have to respond and far enough apart it will spread them thin. Which brings us to what is possibly the most dangerous part of this operation…"

  "The Prince," everyone said together.

  Byron nodded and tapped the screen again, bringing up a dossier. "Cameron DeVine, aka the Prince, also once used the call-sign Kratos. Fifth child of Ainsley DeVine, current president and CEO of the DeVine Corporation, and his third and current wife, Minerva DeVine-Carter. He's a 6-level siren song and has zero qualms about how he employs his skills. Obvious tell: he glows, a side-effect of this class of manipulators. While his powers can be nullified by way of muting or obfuscating with other sound, those are both easily countered. He's highly trained in all manner of martial arts, from hand to hand all the way up to military-grade weapons. He prefers to kill first, explain himself later."

  "Ain't that all the G.O.D.?" Dixie asked.

  "Yeah, that's what got me here," Karl said quietly. "Watching Sunrise kill people and step over their bodies like they were nothing but rubble."

  Byron somehow managed to look even more grim than usual. "The Prince manages to be worse." He touched the screen again, and Leland's heart dropped into his stomach as he took in what now filled it. "He's the only hero to be officially reprimanded for the 'accidental' slaughter of civilians, though that reprimand was never made public. They covered it up like they always do."

  Dixie's mouth tightened so hard his lips paled. Beside him, Greg looked ill. "What in the hell did he do? How come I've never heard of it?"

  "Because it was hushed up hard and fast," Byron replied, and touched the screen to zoom in on a picture of several piles of rubble—houses, full of families that'd never hurt anyone or anything. "He was hunting down Devastater, rest in peace, and managed to wound him. When he landed on a street in the middle of Willow Grove, a suburb about thirty minutes southeast of the city, he was too injured to do much. The Prince should have secured him and called in, had Devastater taken away quietly, but they had history, the Prince was pissed, and he wanted to make a point to other 'villains.' So he didn't arrest Devastater—he convinced Devastator to obliterate himself, and the resulting explosion completely destroyed six of the ten houses on the block, and the remaining four were later torn down anyway.

  "There were no survivors. The most notorious of these was the Lopez family. The other houses had retired couples, families whose kids were high school and college age. The Lopez house, the one at the center of the destruction, was a young family, the parents having married in their teens. The parents and one child, their three-year old daughter, died in the blast. Scant remains were found and identified. There was also a son, age eight, whose remains were never found. Witnesses at the scene claim to have seen him standing in front of his destroyed house, but by the time emergency services arrived on scene, he was long gone—if he was ever there at all. Most believe he must have simply been closer to the blast than the rest of the family, and so nothing remained to identify him."

  Leland couldn't breathe. The back of his throat felt scraped raw, and his eyes felt like they'd been dipped in vinegar and sprinkled with salt. It shouldn't get to him so much after all these years, but he could still smell the smoke, could see the ruin, hear the creak of the stretchers as what little remained of his family was wheeled into ambulances to be driven, no lights or sirens, to the nearest hospital.

  Nobody had helped him. They'd all stood there in shock, staring and gaping, occasionally casting him pitying looks. But their awe—and fear—of the Prince had been greater. If he'd destroyed all those houses, then those people must have deserved it.

  A gentle use of siren song, followed by further persuasion from the G.O.D., had banished any misgivings. Leland had fled, had quickly stopped being Benito Garcia Lopez, and gone through myriad names before Leland and Minder had stuck.

  He stood hastily and fled the room, ignoring the flurry of noise that rose in his week, the attempts to call out to him.

  Stupid to reveal his past, especially so sloppily, pathetically, but if he'd stayed in that room one more second, he'd have lost control.

  Leland fled all the way to the roof, where he stumbled to a halt and simply stood there, taking in gulps of sharp, cold air, until he could breathe normally again, and wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. He dropped down onto a bench that was half-hidden by trees and plants that Byron grew in pots. The smell of flowers and herbs filled the air, warding off the general smog-and-garbage stench of the city below.

  When he heard the inevitable footsteps, he cringed inwardly.

  But it wasn't Greg like he'd expected, and all of Leland's words were forgotten as he stared bemusedly at Byron. "Sorry," he finally managed. "I didn't mean to cause such a scene."

  "No, don't apologize, especially not to me, not for that," Byron said, face flushing. "If you'll recall, I was the one who made a perfect fool of myself the day we met. At least you had a good reason for leaving in a hurry. I'm so sorry. I should have put it together myself. You're Benito. I always thought you'd died in the fire, and it was some other child that people saw that day."

  Leland swallowed the rock in his throat. "I went—" He coughed to clear it when it came out rough despite his initial efforts. "I went to get ice cream. I was so proud my parents let me go all by myself." He curled his trembling hands into fists and wrapped his arms around his middle. "I ran away. Someone eventually picked me up, but the G.O.D. had done such a good job erasing their mistake that nobody had a record of me, not one they could find in a half-assed two minute search anyway. I was given a new name, thrown into foster care. Eventually wound up on the streets. Nearly got caught by the Dogs at one of their damned soup kitchens. I've been super careful ever since. I didn't… I didn't expect to see that again. The house. I didn't know any pictures still existed."

  Byron gently touched his arm with his fingertips, and when Leland unfurled and held out a hand, Byron took it, held it gently but firmly, and rested his head against Leland's shoulder. "I'm sorry—for your loss and all you had to deal with alone in the aftermath."

  No one had ever said that. Not once in all the years since his family had been murdered had anyone offered their condolences.

  Leland pinched his eyes shut, but tears escaped anyway. "Thank you."

  Byron didn't reply, but a reply wasn't really necessary. They remained that way for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes.

  Eventually Leland pulled away and wiped his eyes, then offered Byron a wobbly smile. "Thank you. I think you're one of the kindest people I've ever met. Life and my telekinesis have made me rather standoffish, so I don't get kindness often."

  "You should be showered in kindness," Byron replied, then turned red in that adorable way of his and looked away.

  Swallowing his nerves, Leland said, "I can't…do things." When Byron's brow furrowed as he looked back up, Leland licked his lips and said, "Intimate things. I can't do them. It's easy to lose control of my powers when my emotions are up, that's the main reason people think I'm cold. Why I came up here to be upset. If I feel anything too strongly, I lose control and cause a lot of harm. I've… I've tried…" He drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. What was he, twelve? He could use words. "I've tried sex, but it's too much. I destroyed things. Hurt someone badly. Thankfully I fou
nd a way to hide what really happened, but it's not a risk I've taken again. So, you know, I'm… I'm not the best bet for anything, if…if that was the reason you get so flustered around me."

  Of all things, Byron laughed, but it was soft, gentle, and his eyes were so warm Leland wanted to get lost in them and stay there forever. "I won't deny I'm interested. I think everyone knows, given the perfect fool I've made of myself. But I'm asexual. That part of me didn't change when I turned myself into a human. I don't mind having sex, I've done so a few times over the centuries, but it's not something I seek out. I think you're beautiful, and distracting, and interesting, but sexual attraction isn't in my makeup. If you ever really want to try, I'm willing, but it's not something I'll ever need from a relationship."

  "Oh," Leland said.

  "I think we're picking the worst possible time to discuss this," Byron said. "You're grieving for your family, and we're plotting to kick the G.O.D. right in the nutsack again."

  Leland gave a shaky laugh. "Will there ever be a good time? We're going to war with the G.O.D. There's never going to be a perfect, happy, stress-free moment. Hell, the G.O.D. could be down the street and we'll be dead in five minutes."

  "True," Byron replied softly, staring at him with those eyes the color of new spring leaves. "Still, I think you should have time with your family. I suspect you never really had that before. Is there anything I can do?"

  Eyes stinging, Leland said, "I—I'd like to build them a proper altar. An ofrenda. I never got to honor and remember them. Never had a place to build one. Can I do that here?"

  "Of course. I'll clear a whole room where you can do whatever you want. I'll get the proper flowers too, whatever you need."

  "Thank you."

  Byron squeezed his hand, brushed a whisper soft kiss to his temple, and then left as quietly as he'd arrived.

  Leland pulled out the picture of his family, clipped from a newspaper article regaling how they'd been killed by Devastator, and held it close as he finally cried for his murdered family.

  *~*~*

  After spending most of a week setting up the ofrenda and paying respects to his family, Leland set to work practicing. Thanks to Byron and Dixie, he had a whole empty warehouse and piles upon piles of dirt to practice with.

  Not just dirt, either. It wasn't fancy, refined, fit for suburban gardens dirt. It was taken directly from construction sites, disaster areas, and other such locations. It was full of rocks, debris—on one particularly pleasant occasion, human skeletons—and more. Difficult to get proper hold of, even harder to control.

  But Leland had never been a quitter, despite all the times the universe had seemed determined to convince him that was the best recourse. So he kept at it, learning to pull the dirt in thimble-sized pieces first, then in fist-sized chunks, until he could shovel it with his mind as easily as with his hands. Then he worked up and up and up. Once he got relatively comfortable, he switched to closing his eyes partway through the process, on the chance his lamp failed. He'd only be able to get so far, but every second, every shovel of dirt, counted.

  He worked until he could handle dirt, rocks, bigger rocks, tree roots, other roots, random bits of trash, bone, and more. He started out working without assistance, then added the uppers in incremental doses until he found a level that worked.

  When it was all over, he wouldn't be doing much of anything for at least a month, but Ariadne would be safe.

  He was trying not to think about the children nobody had mentioned.

  After two weeks of working solo, he finally felt it was safe enough to bring in Greg. They only had three more weeks before it was do or die time. Not much time at all, really, not for what they were doing.

  Greg, as ever, was a completely different person once he was in work mode. The adorable, clumsy goof he seemed to be ninety percent of the time was replaced by a deft, quiet and graceful man who could steal the wings from a hummingbird. While Leland had been running his own private drills, so had Greg.

  "So your max is twenty feet? I know you always said you suspected you could go pretty far, but you posed half that at best," Leland said, shuddering. The idea of being able to phase through twenty feet of concrete, constantly wondering if the power would fail, was the stuff of nightmares. He'd always thought people were crazy for believing telekinesis the crème de la crème of super powers. Moving through stuff, or going invisible like Matt, always seemed infinitely cooler than just moving stuff around. At least those powers didn't ruin their chance to live a normal life.

  Making a face, Greg said, "Yeah, and let me tell you, it's exactly as not-fun as I always assumed it would be. But I can do it, and Dixie and Byron are working on something that can phase with me and provide light. Dixie said it'll probably require nano-implants in my eyes. I'm excited and want to throw up at the same time."

  "Yeah, I imagine so," Leland said, and motioned across the warehouse, where a veritable mountain that was actually a maze of sorts, sat waiting. It had been built up with cinder blocks, cement tunnels that had some purpose Leland was clueless about, and enough dirt to build an actual mountain or two. "Byron had some guys make us an obstacle course. I don't know how he has all these people that just do random things for him, but it's handy. It's packed tightly, as close to the real thing as possible, and filled with I have no idea what. We have to find and pull out three wooden boxes, each about a foot square in size, and reach a small five by five hollow. We have to do it all in an hour."

  "Easy, peasy," Greg said, and blew out a breath. He flexed his fingers, encased in one of his many different pairs of well-fitted gloves, then rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck.

  They moved to the start of the course, and Leland popped one of his uppers. They took about ten minutes to take effect, and lasted about two hours, which should be more than enough time to see the test course through.

  He hated how jittery they made him, though. The way his control became so much more fragile as the uppers provided juice his body simply didn't have. They weren't legal, save for 6-levels and up, and only with doctor permission. Leland wasn't really surprised that Byron had illicit—borderline illegal—drugs amongst everything else he possessed. There were reasons he was a priority level zero on the G.O.D.'s Most Wanted list. The most remarkable thing about that list, though, was that only four people were on it, and of them, only Dixie had anything resembling powers; two others were normal, and there was no real information on the fourth.

  Dixon Mountebank, aka Turncoat, notorious G.O.D. traitor and the only known fully-functional bio-computer alive.

  Scones, real name unknown, powers unknown, wanted for the assassinations of several G.O.D. heroes.

  Karl Akerman, aka Countdown, exceedingly dangerous terrorist.

  Byron Valentine, aka Fortune, digital bank robber and mastermind behind several terrorist attacks on the G.O.D.

  Though now that Leland thought about it… "Why is Byron's designation Fortune? It seems so innocuous, not nearly as condemning or mocking as the other designations."

  Greg gave him an amused look. "Stalling, or is it time to chitchat about your boyfriend? Because I've been dying to say that you two are adorable."

  "Shut up," Leland muttered, cheeks flushing. "He's not my boyfriend."

  "Could have fooled the rest of us. Even Oberon thinks you're a couple, and he has Opinions on things like falling in love."

  "From what I've seen, Oberon has Opinions on everything," Leland retorted. "Do you know or not?"

  "What?" Greg blinked. "Oh. Why he's called Fortune. Yeah, it's not a secret. Byron has so much money because the job that put him on the Most Wanted list was stealing a cool twelve and a half billion dollars in a single job from the G.O.D., and to this day no one knows how he did it. I'm pretty sure Dixie does, or could figure it out, since those two are like, thick as thieves when it comes to computer stuff, but the rest of us…" He shrugged and spread his hands. "Way beyond me, even if someone explained it, probably. But when he did it, he lef
t behind a card that said 'thanks for the fortune' and signed his name and everything."

  "Of course he did," Leland said, because Byron was smart, thorough, and careful, but he was also at least as much of an arrogant brat as Oberon when he wanted to be. "So he's called Fortune just because he took theirs?"

  "No, because the place he took it from was the Dog's Good Fortune Charity, one of their many fronts for funneling money into their secret research labs and stuff. They called him Fortune to remind everyone he shamelessly stole money from a charity that claims to help sick children." Greg gave a small smile. "He actually funnels a lot of the money through shell corporations and donates it to actual, real charities that help children—and others. Of course that kind of money just makes more money, so I think by this point he has like, more billions than even a bank could count. Who knows with Byron. Dixie likes to say he's a dark faerie."

  That was an apt description, between Byron's brilliance, beauty, unusual origins and knowledge, and his old soul.

  Greg laughed. "You've really got it bad."

  "Shut up," Leland said, and shoved him. "Let's get to work."

  "Yeah, yeah," Greg said, still grinning, as he slipped his communicator into his ear. "Comm check."

  "Copy. Get to work, Whiskers."

  "Shut it, Minder." They started their timers, and then Greg vanished into the hardpacked dirt.

  Leland gave him a few minutes, then set to work. Though he didn't need to use his hands when he used his powers, it had always helped him refine and sharpen his movements. Extending his arms, wrists crossed, palms out, he yanked them out, and the first measures of dirt pulled apart and fell to the ground, where he moved them well out of the way before going on to the next, miming shoveling as he worked through the mass.