The part Luke always hated the most was afterwards, when there was nothing else he could do to help. All that was left was waiting to hear how many people he hadn't managed to save today. No matter how fast he'd gotten there, no matter that no one else could possibly have made it faster, it was never fast enough. The first time he'd realized he couldn't remember how many people had died on his watch anymore, he'd gone through the records and made a list of names. Now, every time he needed to add to it, he made himself read through the entire thing so he wouldn't forget again.

  He stood a few feet behind the police line, his hands clasped behind his back in a practiced at-ease pose. It was important to always look in control, to reassure everyone that they could still rely on their heroes. A full dozen police cars sat in the mall parking lot, keeping back the nervously milling crowd. The ambulances had already left; at least there hadn't been too many injuries, and most of those had come from the stampede rather than the attack itself.

  "Dynamic?"

  He turned, offering a nod to the approaching officer and glancing quickly at his badge. "Sergeant McKinley. How can I help?"

  "We have the final casualty count. You asked to be informed?"

  Luke nodded. "How bad was it?"

  "Seven dead. Four minors, three adults. Not including the perpetrator, of course."

  He let out a small breath, hating that he felt a little relieved. Even brand-new magicals could kill dozens in minutes if they really cut loose. They often didn't; indiscriminate murder was easier to commit in twisted fantasies than it was in real life. Still, there were usually at least one or two attacks each year with upwards of twenty deaths. He was glad this hadn't been one of them, but that would be cold comfort to the families of those seven. "Thank you. Still no sign he was anything other than an independent actor, I assume?"

  The officer shook his head. "We'll forward any anomalies right away if they crop up, but I'm not expecting it. This one looks pretty open-and-shut."

  Luke allowed himself the luxury of a deep breath and a sigh. "If there's nothing else, then, I'll need to head back and make my report."

  "Go ahead. Watch out for the press, they're in a feeding frenzy."

  "I'll make a quick statement before I leave, hopefully help get them off your back a little. Am I authorized to release those numbers?"

  "Numbers, but no names, perp included. Ah, I'm sure you already know how this goes."

  "Yes," said Luke, nodding sadly. "Yes, I do."

  McKinley hesitated, then said, "Don't beat yourself up too much. The best we can do is the best we can do. A lot more people would've died today if you hadn't gotten on the scene so quick. Focus on them."

  Luke gave a tired smile in response. "Thanks. I'll try not to."

  He took off, flying over the crowd at a leisurely ten or twenty miles an hour. People shouted up at him, but he offered only brief nods in response. The police were better suited to helping people track down their friends or family members, or God forbid inform them that they'd been one of the victims, and he certainly wasn't going to sign any autographs right now. Instead, he headed over to the line of news vans parked along the street. They started gathering the moment they saw him coming; he had a reputation for always talking to the press at least briefly. A couple of the reporters, he even recognized by name.

  Holding up a hand, he waited a moment for the initial barrage of questions to die down, then said, "I have a statement to make." He waited a minute longer for the live stations to switch over to the feed. "I want to start by offering my deepest condolences to the families and friends of the victims and to the entire community for this awful tragedy that's taken place today, that claimed the lives of seven people here at Westside Shopping Center. Now is the time for all of us to come together and support those who have been affected, but please also remember to respect the privacy of the victims' families. With that said, I can confirm that the perpetrator of this attack has been neutralized."

  Everyone knew that 'neutralized' was a polite way to say 'killed;' otherwise, he would have said 'taken into custody.' Luke preferred taking black masks in alive when he could no matter what atrocities they'd committed, but he wasn't going to put innocent lives at risk by pulling his punches. Fresh as this black mask had been, a single full-power strike from Luke's chakram had been enough to inflict a lethal wound even through his transformation.

  "I know in the wake of tragedies like this, everyone always wants to know why this happened, what could drive someone to commit such a horrific act. But the truth is, it doesn't matter. Nothing can ever justify this kind of indiscriminate violence. Whatever grievances the perpetrator may have had, they've given up any right to have them recognized. Instead, I want to address all the kids and teens out there who might be watching. If you ever find yourself with the power to lash out like this, remember: It isn't worth it. Whatever problems you have, no matter how overwhelming they seem, I promise we can help. That's our job. Join ABRA, and things will get better."

  "That's all. Please try to be patient, let the officers do their jobs, and direct all your questions to ABRA public relations or the office of the chief of police. Again, let's all keep the victims and their families foremost in our thoughts. Thank you."

  Inevitably, there were a few shouted questions anyway, but Luke had already taken off. Accelerating to his top speed of a couple hundred miles an hour, the trip back to ABRA headquarters took just a few minutes. It was a large building in downtown Portland, six stories and taking up a full city block, the murals on the walls only partially disguising the fact that it was essentially a bunker; the outer walls were two feet of solid reinforced concrete with very few windows.

  Luke landed on the roof next to the helipad. Sophie was already waiting for him by the exit, in costume as usual. She immediately ran up and hugged him. He hugged her back, standing in silence for a few seconds. "Sorry I still can't fly fast enough for emergency deployment," she said eventually.

  "You don't have to apologize. My magic's just well suited for it, is all. We all know how hard you work."

  "I know. I just wish you didn't always have to be the one to see that awful stuff," she said, still not letting go. "How bad was it?"

  "...Not as bad as it could have been."

  She was quiet for a little while longer. "It's not fair, is it? That 'not as bad as it could have been' is the best we can hope for."

  "No. It's not."

  If there was one… person, for lack of a better word, who Luke could claim to truly hate, it was Virgo. He was one of the rare magicals who'd met her more than once. She'd appeared to him three years ago, after the first time he'd put down a freshly empowered black mask on a murderous rampage. He'd raged at her, demanded to know why she gave magic to people who would do things like that with it. Far from being shamed or cowed by his anger, she'd seemed to relish it. Arcturus had been blandly apologetic, offering nothing but platitudes and excuses. Whether or not the creature was telling the truth about his inability to further constrain his charge, Luke was certain that the deaths they were ultimately responsible for didn't bother him the slightest bit. He didn't know if there was a way to harm those beings or banish them from this universe, but if there was, he was absolutely determined to find it.

  "I need to go make my report," said Luke eventually.

  "Yeah, okay." Sophie kept hugging him for a few more seconds before reluctantly letting go. "Icecream and movie night?"

  "Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks."

  "Uh huh!"

  He patted her on the head as he stepped passed her, and she giggled a little. Despite being nearly twenty and no more innocent than Luke himself, it was impossible for him to think of Sophie as anything other than his kid sister. Over time, all magicals would unconsciously shape their body into a more idealized version, including staying at their ideal age. The ones who stayed young, like Sophie, tended to keep at least some of the mindset or mannerisms of that age as well. Privately, Luke thought it was probably a coping mechanism, but God knew they all needed one.

  Inside, the ABRA headquarters resembled any office building, at least up here. The hallway had beige walls and linoleum tiles, with regular doors leading off on both sides. The labs and testing facilities for the research magicals and the scientists who studied them were much further down, largely underground, as were the facilities for the strike team trainees. Luke stopped outside a door labeled Robert Forrester, Director of Operations. Opening it, he stepped into a small waiting room, four chairs and a woman in her mid-thirties behind a desk. "Go ahead in, Dynamic, the Director's expecting you," she said as he entered, waving him through.

  The Director's office was large rectangular room, paneled in wood. A few fancy wooden cabinets stood against the walls, but the only actual decorations were a handful of books and a case displaying a variety of medals and ribbons. A pair of couches sat on a patterned rug facing a coffee table for less formal interviews; Luke stepped straight past those, approaching the desk instead. He stopped in front of the desk, adopting the same at-ease pose he had before, and gave a respectful nod. "I'm here to make my after-action report, sir."

  Technically, the correct form of address was director rather than sir, but Colonel Robert Forrester, US Army (Ret.) was still military to the bone. He was approaching sixty, his short hair graying and plenty of lines on his clean-shaven face, but no one would ever accuse him of letting himself go soft. He didn't respond directly, instead switching on the tape recorder on his desk.

  "This is Robert Forrester, Director of Operations for the Abhuman Registration Agency, Portland, Oregon branch, debriefing registered abhuman Lucas Turner, code-name Dynamic, on the 15th of August, 1998, regarding the incident at Westside Shopping Center in Beaverton." Only then did he finally acknowledge Luke directly. "You may begin your report, Dynamic."

  "At slightly before 2pm, I received a report of an ongoing Code 90 and was immediately authorized for emergency deployment," began Luke. A Code 90 was the police code for a magical attacking civilians, the code dispatchers dreaded hearing more than any other. "I departed immediately, arriving on the scene roughly four minutes after receiving the dispatch. Civilians were in the process of fleeing the mall, with the largest group on the north side. I approached and made a general request for information on the hostile m- abhuman. The reports were vague and disjointed, as expected due to the nature of the situation, but I gathered that the hostile had begun their attack in the cinema lobby at the north side of the mall, and was likely moving deeper into the mall from there."

  "After roughly one minute, I proceeded into the mall, entering at the cinema lobby. There, I discovered the first four victims. The first, near the center of lobby, was a boy around the age of sixteen. He had been killed via massive blunt force trauma to the chest, likely by a blow from a magical weapon. The second victim was located roughly thirty feet from the first. Their age and gender was impossible to determine, as their body appeared to have been melted or liquefied in some fashion. However, their clothing was intact, allowing me to identify them as a cinema employee. Near the second victim was a circular patch of warped floor, roughly six feet in diameter. I excavated the section of floor by cutting around it, then disassembled it, discovering the other two victims buried inside, perfectly encased in solid concrete."

  "Based on this, I judged that the hostile abhuman possessed some type of physical magic allowing them to temporarily turn solid matter into a liquid state. I further speculated that the first, third, and fourth victims had initially been a single group and had been targeted specifically. After killing the first victim, the hostile had likely hesitated for several seconds, allowing the third and fourth victims to flee for some distance before the hostile acted against them. The second victim likely attempted to interfere while the hostile was in the process of entombing the third and fourth victims."

  "One of the glass doors leading to the mall had been smashed through, likely from the hostile attempting to open it while running at full speed. Another patch of warped floor was located roughly twenty feet beyond that. I assumed that one or more additional victims were encased beneath it, but given that the previous two victims had already expired, I didn't stop to excavate the section. Proceeding further into the mall, I heard a disturbance coming from the east at the first major intersection. Moving to investigate, I discovered a small group of fleeing civilians who informed me that the hostile had entered a large clothing store and taken hostages."

  "Entering the indicated store, I proceeded more cautiously, hiding my approach. After searching for approximate thirty seconds, I heard loud speech coming from the far left corner. Observing from behind cover, I found the hostile holding a group of ten to twenty civilians hostage, primarily employees but also a handful of customers. The hostile was male, age estimated between fourteen and sixteen, with a costume consisting of a black vest and trousers over a gray dress shirt, somewhat historical in appearance, and a bronze mask with goggles and many decorative gears. He appeared to be demanding that the hostages tell him where a specific individual could be found, certain the the individual was in the store in question. One hostage had already been killed in a similar manner to the second victim, their body apparently having been liquefied."

  "Given the immediate danger to the hostages, I judged that the use of lethal force was appropriate. I attacked the hostile with my chakram at range, while simultaneously pulling the hostages away and hopefully out of danger. The hostile reacted to my attack, summoning his weapon in time to block it, which took the form of a sculptor's hammer slightly more than a foot in length. The force of my attack still knocked him through several stands of clothing, entangling and disorienting him. With the hostages out of the line of fire, I attempted to bind him using the stands and clothing. In response, he began liquefying the matter holding him. However, he was sufficiently restrained that he was unable to block the second strike from my chakram. When I cleared the debris, I found that his transformation had already broken, and he had suffered a deep wound roughly from his left hip to his right shoulder. He expired approximately fifteen seconds afterwards."

  "With the hostile neutralized, I moved to provide assistance for the hostages. None of them had been physically harmed save for the fifth victim, but they were in varying degrees of shock. I spent several minutes escorting them out of the store. By that time, emergency services had arrived on the scene. I handed over the hostages and informed the police of the situation. They requested my assistance excavating the section of warped floor outside the cinema, which I provided, discovering one additional victim. After that, I made a circuit of the mall, helping to reassure civilians that the danger had passed. I waited an additional twenty minutes after that to be sure law enforcement didn't require any further assistance, then departed after making a brief statement to the media."

  Director Forrester waited a couple of seconds to make sure Luke was done talking. "Does that conclude your report, Dynamic?"

  "It does."

  "Very well. Let the record show that registered abhuman Dynamic's use of lethal force is officially approved, and no protocols were violated during his deployment. For further details on this incident, consult the accompanying written reports." He reached out and shut the recorder off. Then he asked, "I suppose you gave the press your usual spiel?"

  "I did, sir."

  He grunted. "Image will be happy, at least. Anything else you want to add?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then you can proceed to your post-combat evaluation. Dr. Clemson is ready for you. As per protocol, you're on half-duty for the next week except in emergencies. Dismissed."

  "Yes, sir."

  Turning, Luke walked out of the office. The Director hadn't made a single criticism of his performance, which was the highest praise he ever gave. Luke did his best not to resent it; the Director's job wasn't to be nice, it was to protect civilians from people like Luke. It was hard to fault the Director for his poorly-hidden belief that the world would be a better place if magicals didn't exist when Luke himself agreed with him.

  The problem wasn't magic itself, of course. When a child shot someone, you didn't blame the child or the gun, you blamed the adult who gave it to them. Humans weren't ready for that kind of power, couldn't be trusted with it, and Luke himself was no exception. Sure, maybe he knew he wasn't going to snap and go rogue, but no one else could know that, so he never complained about the scrutiny he was always under even when it wore on him. It was no worse than the scrutiny put on the people responsible for handling nuclear weapons, or at least he assumed it wasn't. The only difference was that he could never retire, because he was the weapon.

  Dr. Clemson's office was on the same level, a quarter of the way around the building. When Luke had been much younger, before he'd gained magic, his parents had taken him to a couple of different therapists once or twice. The ABRA psychologist shared at least the aesthetics of those offices; couches, plants, art in warm, muted colors, and even a little miniature fountain on the table to provide relaxing white noise. Dr. Clemson, or one of his colleagues, had even helped Luke work through some of his issues a time or two. But their main job was to watch him like a hawk for the slightest sign of instability. The tape recorder on the table, identical to the one on the Director's desk, buried any notion of confidentiality.

  "Good afternoon, Dynamic. Please, have a seat," said Dr. Clemson as Luke came in. He was younger than the Director, in his late forties, wearing just a button-up shirt rather than a full suit and holding a clipboard for notes. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, water?"

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  "Just water, thanks."

  "Of course." He rose, pouring a glass from the cooler in the corner, and handed it to Luke. "So. I know these unscheduled meetings are always the hardest. Would you like to start by telling me about the attack today?"

  Luke shrugged slightly. "Seven dead. The perp had some sort of personal grudge, he seemed to only kill specific targets or people who somehow got in his way. I'm just glad he wasn't one of the indiscriminate killers."

  "Still an awful tragedy, even if the damage was limited. Does the seven include the perpetrator himself?"

  "No."

  "I see. I'm sure Director Forrester already approved your use of lethal force, but I can I ask why you made that choice?"

  "To protect the civilians. I wasn't sure of the exact specifics of his magic, what constraints it might have on its range, for example. If it operated on line of sight, he might have been able to kill someone just by looking at them."

  "And do you regret that necessity?"

  "...I regret that he made it necessary. But I guess that goes without saying."

  "I suppose so. You still believe it doesn't matter what the perpetrator's motivations were?"

  "No. I have sympathy right up until the moment you start killing people. There's always a better solution."

  Dr. Clemson jotted on his notepad for a moment. "If you could choose one word to best summarize how you feel right now, what would it be?"

  "...Frustrated. I wish we could do more."

  "Do you think there are changes that could be made to ABRA's policies to make you and your squad more effective?"

  "No. It's not a problem policy can solve. Without any way to predict who will draw Virgo's attention, let alone when and where, we'll only ever be able to react. Today was a best-case scenario in a lot of ways. The perpetrator wasn't killing indiscriminately, and the entire attack lasted barely ten minutes. Seven people still died. Even if we could have perfect coverage of the entire country, it wouldn't be enough."

  "But you still don't believe there's any point in studying the motivations of these killers?"

  "You're welcome to study them, and I sincerely hope you do succeed in finding some sort of pattern. But with respect, Doctor, you've never spoken to Virgo. In my opinion, the only pattern is the lack of a pattern. She collects us like trading cards. The variety is the entire point."

  "Yes, some of my colleagues have also started taking that point of view, in my opinion unfortunately," said Dr. Clemson with a slightly irritated sigh. "Low probability of success is no reason not to try at all. Regardless, research isn't your concern. I take it your animosity towards Virgo hasn't lessened at all, then?"

  "It hasn't," said Luke flatly.

  "Well, I see no sign that you've let it compromise your judgement, and I can't say it isn't directed at an appropriate target. I assume you plan on writing letters to the families of the deceased, as usual?"

  "Yes, as soon as the police release their names."

  Dr. Clemson nodded. "I won't try to dissuade you, but I'd like to speak with you again after you've finished. I believe our next regular session was next weekend anyway, why don't we just move it up a few days?"

  "If you want."

  "I know you say it helps, and you're most likely right, but it is my job to make absolutely sure it isn't negatively impacting your mental state. Anyhow, I think we're nearly done for today, and I'm sure you'd like some time to decompress. How's your latest project going?"

  One requirement for every member of an ABRA strike team was having some sort of entirely mundane hobby, preferably one that involved interacting with civilians, and spending a certain number of hours on it each week. Sophie did figure skating, and refused to be embarrassed by being so on the nose. Talia was active in the LGBT community, although that was at least partially a way to phrase "hooking up with lots of girls" as an acceptable hobby. As for Luke, he did woodworking, selling pieces at local markets and taking custom orders to fulfill the social requirement. "An armoire. The carving's almost done, and then I'll be ready to start assembling it."

  "Good, that's good. And you haven't been cheating with magic at all, I hope?" he asked with a small chuckle.

  "No, all old-fashioned," said Luke. He had experimented with using magic and made some quite impressing carvings that way, but he did actually find more enjoyment in making things honestly.

  "Well, I'll let you go, then. I expect I'll see you in a couple of days."

  "Of course," said Luke, standing and nodding to Dr. Clemson. He let out a single, small sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him, then started towards the strike team quarters.

  Being on a strike team meant living in ABRA headquarters. Partially it was so they were always immediately available in the case of an emergency, partially it was to give them a safe place to sleep in case any black masks ever learned their civilian identities, and partially it was another way to keep a constant eye on them. But for all the surveillance they lived under, ABRA did offer some significant carrots as well. Each of them had their own suite, as luxurious as any high-rise penthouse in the city. They had their own full size bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms, kitchens, and an extra room or two for whatever they wanted, and ABRA was happy to remodel any or all of it to their specifications. In Luke's case, he'd dedicated most of his extra space to a fully equipped carpentry workshop. The only thing he really missed were windows, the rooms being buried in the center of the bunker-like building.

  There was also a common area between all of their rooms, filled with the same complete entertainment suite each of them had in their living rooms. It felt a little wasteful sometimes, but Luke knew ABRA asked a lot of them even if he would've done it anyway. If the luxury convinced even a single magical to join up, or prevented one from deciding it wasn't worth it and going rogue, it was worth every penny.

  He finally dropped his transformation as he stepped in. Talia was sprawled on the couch, also in civvies, playing some video game on the room's big-screen TV. "Hey," she said, looking up. "Heard you had a Code 90 while I was gone."

  "Yeah."

  "You get the fucker?"

  "I got him."

  "Good," said Talia, nodding. "I assume it's an icecream and movie night tonight, then?"

  Luke smiled slightly. "Of course."

  "I'll be there," promised Talia. As much of a pain-in-the-ass loose cannon as she could be sometimes, Luke hadn't ever doubted her loyalty to him and Sophie for a single second. He was sure she'd been planning on hitting up some bar or club tonight like always, but she'd never once complained about changing her plans to watching cheesy kids' movies instead. She never pushed or tried to get either of them to talk about anything, she was just there. That quiet confidence and support meant a lot in the face of the neverending suspicion from his superiors, even if they had good reason for it.

  "So what was going on with that Code 92 down in Franklin last night?" asked Luke, changing the subject. A Code 92 meant two or more magicals engaged in combat with each other. Potentially, it could be even worse than a Code 90 if some serious heavy hitters got into it in a densely populated area, but that was thankfully rare. Case in point, the fight Talia had been sent to investigate had already been over before the police even got on the scene.

  "Oh, someone offed that little shithead Firestorm. You remember his casefile?"

  Luke scratched his head, recalling. "First appearance was in Sacramento, right? Lemme see… Murdered a pair of classmates, motive was likely jealousy, fled the scene before the local strike team could respond. Vanished afterwards, there was some suggestion that he annoyed the Golden Empire Cartel and got run out of town. Showed up in Franklin a month or two later with a new name and started trying to form his own gang. The local office tipped us off once they got a match on his ID, we were just waiting for the cops to track down his place of residence before we swept him up."

  "Well, that's not gonna be necessary. Apparently the dipshit didn't learn his lesson the first time, cause it's looking like he managed to seriously piss off the Columbia Syndicate as well."

  "Ah, yeah, that'll do it. What happened?"

  "It's all second hand, but word is that he crashed an underground party they were hosting, tried to throw his weight around and shake down their dealers. I guess he thought they didn't have any magicals in town. Then Huntsman showed up and proved him wrong."

  "Jesus. How the hell did Huntsman take him down in the middle of a party with no civilian casualties? He's good, but he's not that good." Luke himself wouldn't be confident in his ability to do that, he'd only make the attempt as an absolute last resort.

  "That's where it gets interesting. There was definitely no fight at the party itself. It sounds like Huntsman was just gonna run him out of town again, or at least that's what he said at the time. The fight happened a couple of hours later, at this house a mile or two outside the city limits, cops are pretty sure it was a meth lab. Only pretty sure, though, cause the place looks like it got hit by a bomb. They were just getting started digging through it when I showed up, I gave 'em a hand. There was this bigass crater down in the basement, smashed right through the concrete, with the absolutely shredded remains of a car in it. Wasn't even sure what I was looking at until I found the license plate, apparently it was a van that got reported stolen a few days ago. The forensics guys say it must have been going at least three hundred miles an hour when it hit."

  "Three hundred?" demanded Luke. Not even he could throw something that fast, and he was one of the strongest telekinetics in the country. "Huntsman didn't do that. There's no way." Telling Firestorm they were letting him go, only to follow him and ambush him at his hideout was certainly something Huntsman could and would do, but if he had, he hadn't been alone.

  "Exactly. There were a couple more cars thrown around during the fight too, one of them got shredded almost as badly, but there was no crater for that one, it looked like it just kind of exploded in midair. Not sure exactly what we're dealing with, but I don't think it's just a straight up telekinetic. Maybe someone like Impulse over in Chicago, you know, that girl who can charge things up with momentum and then release it all at once? But the important thing is that the Syndicate isn't supposed to have anyone with magic like that."

  "Yeah," agreed Luke, mentally running through the list of known Syndicate members. Surtr could certainly blow up a house and then some, but not like that. "So the Syndicate's picked up another new member, then, a pretty strong one. And they're also a lot more interested in Franklin than we thought they were, if they committed two magicals. They must be getting ready to make a move on the other local gang, ah, what was their name?"

  "Surf 'n Turf. Stupid fucking name, honestly."

  "Right. Obsidian and Barracuda. It's weird, though, cause Surtr's definitely still up in Seattle, and everything suggests he's still pretty much at a stalemate against the Grizzlies. You'd think that's where he'd want any extra muscle. Maybe he's getting ready to give up and pull out? Or maybe the Grizzlies are a lot closer to collapse than we think they are."

  "Yeah, maybe. Or maybe we just don't have the whole picture, and something else is going on. Could always just ask 'em," said Talia, grinning.

  "Talia, for Christ sake, you know you only got away with that stunt last time cause the tip from Lilith was key to bagging Bloody Mary. If Director Forrester thinks you're starting to cozy up to the Syndicate even the tiniest bit, your ass will be reassigned to Florida so fast it'll leave skid marks."

  "Oh chill out, I'm not actually gonna do it. Not without a way better reason than this, at least. Besides, I don't care how hot Lilith is when she's such an absolute turbobitch."

  "Not helping," said Luke, rolling his eyes.

  "Sure I am. You're not moping anymore, are you?"

  He gave an exasperated sigh, doubly irritated because she had managed to successfully distract him. "Grieving is not the same thing as moping, Talia."

  "You don't have to feel guilty for getting used to it, you know," said Talia. "It doesn't mean you don't care anymore."

  Luke didn't answer, and she didn't press any further. Every time he caught himself just casually going about his day only hours after witnessing another life-shattering tragedy, it felt like a betrayal. To see a dead child was horrifying; to have seen so many dead children that they all started blending together in his memory was an entirely different kind of horrifying. It was why he kept his list of names, and insisted on personally writing letters to the families of every victim he hadn't managed to save. It was supposed to hurt. Those families would be grieving for the rest of their lives; the least Luke could do was force himself to share the tiniest fraction of their pain for a couple of days.

  "I think I'm gonna go get a little work done," he said eventually. "I'll see you tonight in Sophie's room."

  "Sure," said Talia. She didn't say anything else, but she didn't unpause her game until he'd left the room, either.

  Luke retreated to his workshop, the pieces of the armoire he'd been working on still laying on the table where he'd left them to respond to the Code 90. The feet were the only thing he hadn't detailed; he'd already shaped them roughly with power tools, and was now working with a chisel. When he was finished, they'd have the form of lion paws. Picking up his mallet, he couldn't help but compare it to the weapon of the young magical he'd killed today. That was good; it'd help him focus on anything at all he could have done different, done better, so fewer people would have died.

  But despite his best efforts, he still found his thoughts drifting to his conversation with Talia instead as he worked. Partly, he had to admit there really wasn't anything he could have done differently, not without taking unacceptable risks. He still felt guilty for letting his thoughts drift, but a seed of worry had been planted in his head, and he couldn't stop it from beginning to sprout.

  ABRA had a very delicate and very unspoken truce with the Columbia Syndicate, and other similar large organizations of black masks across the country. There were a total of thirteen magicals in the four strike teams spread across the Pacific Northwest, in the region where the Syndicate operated. The Syndicate only boasted nine known magicals, although that number apparently needed to be revised upwards again. In theory, ABRA wouldn't even need to bring in reinforcements to destroy the Syndicate, although they certainly would. But the cost would be hideous, and not just in terms of the destruction those battles would cause in major cities.

  Luke knew his team was good; strike teams were rightfully held to high standards. But even with a heavy numerical advantage, even if they brought in Cynthia's team to further tilt the scales, there was simply no way they were taking down the Syndicate without suffering casualties of their own. And what happened then, when all the other syndicates and cartels and families started wondering if they might be next on the chopping block? What happened if they started making alliances? What happened if they decided to strike preemptively?

  Of course, none of that would help the Columbia Syndicate be any less dead. So there was an understanding that as long as they stuck to drugs and white-collar crime, as long as they kept their fights with other gangs minimally destructive and avoided killing civilians, ABRA and other law enforcement would quietly look the other way. They'd spend their time and effort cleaning up the smaller, less well-behaved gangs instead, and of course the neverending stream of lone mass killers. It kept the peace, such as it was. But it had also allowed the Syndicate and their ilk to grow virtually unchecked, easily keeping pace with ABRA's own aggressive expansion over the past six years, and thus made the problem even worse.

  Maybe the situation would last. Maybe the Syndicate would eventually become a kind of accepted institution of its own. As little as Luke liked the thought, it was better than the entire country going up in flames the way it nearly had back in '92. But maybe it wouldn't, and any time the Syndicate seemingly changed its behavior or did something inexplicable, Luke got worried. As much death as he'd seen, he'd never actually lost a friend. It felt selfish; everyone was someone's friend, after all. But just imagining Talia or Sophie lying on the ground with a giant hole smashed in their chest evoked more horror in him than the actual memory of the kid it had really happened to today. Hell, it might even be him laying there. Luke was tough, but he knew he wasn't a match for Surtr one-on-one.

  Eventually, six o'clock came around, so Luke tidied up and headed over to Sophie's rooms. She greeted him at the door with another hug. Unlike his rooms, which still had the default off-white drywall, Sophie had covered all her rooms with light blue wallpaper patterned with white snowflakes. Her living room had three full huge couches in it, piled high enough with stuffed animals that he still had to push some out of the way to sit. Talia was already there, with a full-size carton of rocky road icecream already in her lap. Luke found himself sandwiched between her and Sophie, with a carton of strawberry in his. It was a good thing they were all basically immune to both stomach aches and weight gain.

  He always had complicated feelings about these nights. He knew Sophie did it to make him feel better, and it worked. Maybe he wasn't the one who really needed the support, not like the real victims did, but it also felt like a form of paying respects. It acknowledged that something horrible had happened, something that should affect him, that he should need time to recover from. Tonight, though, all he could think about was how glad he was the two of them were here with him, safe. And selfish or not, as they all yelled "INCONCIEVABLE!" together, he promised himself he would keep them that way, no matter what it took.