Nova wasn’t sure what had possessed the Council to accept the offer, when they could easily have rounded them up and put them in prison that day. Maybe whatever sense of righteousness driving them had faded as soon as they watched Captain Chromium emerge from the ruins of the cathedral with Ace Anarchy’s helmet on his pike. Maybe they pitied the Anarchists who had lost everything so suddenly—the battle, their leader, their home.
Or perhaps they simply figured that, without Ace, the Anarchists were no longer a threat.
The Renegades still visited them on occasion—raiding the tunnels to ensure they weren’t harboring illegal weaponry or “causing trouble,” but otherwise, they were more or less left alone.
Nova wondered how long that would last now, after Winston’s debacle at the parade. If it had just been her, the Renegades might never have traced the assault back to their group. She could have been working alone for all they knew. Of course, once Phobia and Ingrid had announced themselves, they would have given the Anarchists away, but by that point the Council would have been dead and it wouldn’t have mattered.
But the Council wasn’t dead, and while Nightmare’s alliances might still be a mystery, the Puppeteer’s involvement would lead the Renegades straight to them.
She shouldn’t have gotten into that balloon. That choice was just one more piece of evidence linking them together.
If it hadn’t been for that new guy … the Sentinel … things might have ended very differently.
Nova hit the bottom level of the subway station and made her way across the platform. Rats scuttered nearby as she jumped down to the tracks and headed into the tunnel. She sent the beam of her flashlight over the walls until she found the switch that she’d helped Ingrid install a few years ago. With a flick, a string of dim bulbs brightened and flickered along the ceiling, guiding her home.
Nova clicked off the flashlight and tossed it into her bag, which felt fifty pounds heavier than it had that morning. Her arms burned from exertion. Every muscle in her body was making itself known—each one sore and tired and voicing its complaints.
A few hundred feet down the tunnel, she found Ingrid on their central platform, loading crates of food and supplies into a rusty shopping cart.
Nova dropped the duffel bag on the rails. Ingrid spun around, eyes wide, but relaxed when she spotted Nova.
“You left me there,” said Nova, fisting a hand on her hip.
Ingrid flurried a hand toward her and turned back to their shelves, grabbing packs of sardines and cans of chili. “Help me load these up, will you?”
“Like you helped me?”
Groaning, Ingrid turned back and fixed a scowl on Nova. She was still wearing her Detonator uniform—tall boots, slim khaki pants, a blue cropped top, and those metallic blue armbands that spiraled across her dark brown skin, from shoulders to wrists. The only difference from her usual tough villainess look was that she’d tied back her coiled black hair beneath a rhinestone headband, no doubt stolen from Honey.
“Time to build a bridge and get over it, Nightmare,” said Ingrid. “You knew the risks of this mission, you knew there’d be no rescue attempts if things went haywire. But, look … you’re fine, I’m fine, Phobia’s”—she gave an exaggerated eye roll—“I don’t know, hosting a séance or something, the creepy deadbeat, but whatever, he’s fine, too. We’re all fine.”
“Winston’s not fine.”
“Winston deserves what he got. To stage an attack like that, right in the middle of downtown! He almost got us all killed. He’s the one you should be mad at right now.”
Nova’s lip curled. She was mad at Winston, too, but it was overshadowed by her guilt, knowing he was caught in part because of her.
“And now we have more pressing things to deal with than that cretin,” said Ingrid, “so stop sulking and take this cart down to the storeroom under the yellow line.” She started throwing goods into the cart again.
Nova hopped up onto the platform and tossed the duffel bag on top of the goods. “You think there will be a raid tonight?”
“Bet on it. The Renegades will be looking for trouble.” She set a few boxes of instant rice on the bottom rack of the cart. “There. They could light up the tunnels, but at least we won’t starve.”
A faint wailing reverberated off the walls. Nova turned her head. “Honey?”
Ingrid huffed. “Been like that since we got back. Not sure what she’s got to be so upset about. Maybe a drone died. I don’t know. Ignore her. Here, I’ll help you lower the cart down to the tracks.” She nudged the cart toward the edge of the platform, its tired, uneven wheels squealing in their ears. “I swear, there are days when I wonder what I’m still doing here with you has-beens. Honey’s a lost cause. Leroy’s killed off one too many brain cells with all those chemicals he’s always sniffing at. And Phobia—he gets weirder by the day, have you noticed that?” She hopped down onto the tracks and held up the front of the cart as Nova eased it toward her.