He stared at her.
“I know, I know. You’re thinking … so why is Nightmare actually dead, then? And why am I giving up our villainous plan now, when we almost got away with it?” She staggered forward, and though she didn’t seem to be in pain, she wasn’t moving as gracefully as normal, either. Adrian wondered if creating a bomb that size had drained her. “It’s too bad, really. I liked Nightmare. Always have. She was a lot like me in a lot of ways—always willing to do what had to be done. But I could see the writing on the wall. It was only a matter of time before she betrayed us, betrayed all of us. And I couldn’t have that. So … she had to go. Problem solved.”
Adrian was still frowning, still confused. “Is this…，” he started, dismayed, “a villain speech?”
Ingrid laughed. “Maybe so. It’s horrible to go through all this plotting and have no one around to appreciate it. Besides, you’ll be dead soon, too, so it’s not really going to matter.”
Adrian reached for the gun, but he had barely gotten his fingers around the handle when a glowing blue marble smashed into the ground at his feet, blowing a small crater into the earth and knocking him onto a pile of splintered siding and wooden studs. A sharp pain tore through his tricep and he cried out, tearing his arm away from the nail that was sticking up through one of old trim boards.
Hissing, he scrambled to sit up.
The Detonator sauntered closer, gathering more power around her hands. “It’s time to finish what we started at the library.”
Adrian snarled and clenched his fist, drawing on the power of the cylindrical tattoo on his forearm. Within seconds, his arm from fingers to elbow had begun to glow molten white.
The Detonator paused.
Before Adrian was entirely sure this would work without being in the Sentinel’s armor, a long metal cylinder emerged from his skin. He fired, striking the villain in the chest with a single bolt of blinding energy. She was blown back, smacking hard into the puppet theater. The mannequins trembled and clacked together.
The cylinder retreated into his flesh and Adrian clambered to his feet, trying to find purchase on the shifting piles of wreckage beneath him. He staggered forward, retrieving his gun.
The Detonator coughed and placed a hand over her chest, where the beam had hit her. Her breathing was raspy and labored as she met his eyes.
“Fine. Let’s finish what we started at the library,” said Adrian. “No—actually, let’s finish what started ten years ago.” He came to stand half a dozen feet away from her and raised the gun, confident that even he could hit her from this distance. “Nightmare knew who killed my mother, and you just took that one lead away from me. But you’re an Anarchist, so maybe you have some answers too.”
In response, she began to laugh again. Dazed and maniacal. “The Sentinel,” she gasped. “You’re the Sentinel. Oh, that’s rich.”
His eyebrow began to twitch. “Who killed Lady Indomitable?”
Her cackle turned to a wheeze as she studied him. “You’re going to threaten me into submission with … what? A tranquilizer? Life imprisonment?” She smirked. “I seem to recall you were eager to negotiate with the Librarian. Don’t I get the same treatment?”
He held her gaze, considering, trying to discern if she really had the information he wanted, or if this was just her trying to play him again.
And even if she did know, could he really bargain with her, after everything?
“No,” he said. “The Renegades are done negotiating with Anarchists.”
Stepping forward, he dug the handcuffs from his pocket and yanked the Detonator’s wrists forward, binding them together. He could just see the amused twinge enter her eye when he pulled out his marker and began to draw lines crisscrossing her hands.
“What are you doing?”
Rather than answering, he finished his work, then pulled the chains from her skin, securing her hands and fingers tight enough that she would be unable to produce any more explosives.
She peered up at him, her lip curling. “And how do you plan on keeping me silent about your little secret?”
“I don’t,” he said. “The Sentinel’s mission was to find Nightmare. With her dead, it no longer matters who knows the truth.”
He didn’t entirely mean it—his secret had turned out to be more complicated than he would have imagined when he’d first concocted the idea. But he wouldn’t allow this Anarchist to lord the knowledge over him. He wouldn’t allow her to have any power over him at all.