Her attention turned up to the television screens that were scattered around the room, hanging from the ceiling or attached to pillars. Most were tuned to a variety of news stations, both local and international, but some offered internal messaging. ANNUAL RENEGADE POTLUCK THIS SUNDAY, BRING THE WHOLE FAMILY! Or, NEW ENFORCER NEEDED FOR NIGHT PATROL TEAM—APPLY AT SECURITY DESK. Or—
Nova’s feet stalled on the last step as one of the messages on the screens was replaced with something new. A hazy photo of her.
WANTED: “NIGHTMARE”—REPORT ANY INFORMATION TO THE COUNCIL.
Her back went rigid and she felt that sickening swirl of anxiety in her stomach again, the same sensation she’d had all night and all morning. What was she doing?
She would be found out. Surely someone would recognize her.
Except—two of the Renegades who should have recognized her already had seemed oblivious. Surely, if she could fool Red Assassin and Smokescreen, she could fool anyone.
She looked hard at the image on the screen. Costumed as Nightmare, there was nothing to give her away. You couldn’t even see her eyes in the photo, just the glint of her mask beneath the overhang of her black hood. No one would recognize her, not by looks at least. It was her mannerisms that threatened to give her away, those little things that one did subconsciously. The way she walked, or where she put her hands when she was standing still, or even how she fought in hand-to-hand combat. And, perhaps more than anything, the way she despised the Renegades and the Council, and the way that hatred could overflow from her mouth at any moment.
She would have to take care to smother those instincts. To play the game. To be one of them.
She reached for the pin attached to her T-shirt, the one Adrian Everhart had drawn at the trials. Her fingers ran over the sharp corners of the R, traced along the letter’s curve.
Today she was a Renegade, so that someday she would be their downfall.
She approached the information desk, where a portly man with impressive sideburns was typing at a computer. He smiled when he looked up at her, but Nova couldn’t quite bring herself to return it.
“Hi,” she started. “I was recruited at the trials. I’m supposed to—”
“Insomnia,” he said brightly, launching to his feet and holding a hand toward her. She stared at it for a long time—pinkish-red skin and neat fingernails and a braided leather bracelet around his thick wrist. Though it was an innocent gesture, a normal gesture, everything about it felt uncanny.
Here was a Renegade, maybe a prodigy, maybe not, but either way, he was offering his hand to her. Contact. Skin.
Even the Anarchists didn’t like to touch her. Not because being put to sleep was such a great tragedy, but because sleep left you vulnerable. She made people vulnerable.
She waited too long.
The man—Sampson Cartwright, according to the tag on the desk—awkwardly closed his hand into a fist and reeled it back. “I saw you at the trials,” he said, snapping his fingers as though this could make up for the awkward moment. “You were great. The look on Gargoyle’s face…” His eyes glinted, almost merrily, or perhaps with mocking, and it was a strange realization for Nova to think that not every Renegade got along with one another.
Sampson cleared his throat. “Anyway, you’re on Sketch’s team, right? I don’t think he’s come in yet, but I can check and see if…”
Nova’s heart lunged into her throat. Sampson kept talking, but the words dulled to an annoying hum in her head.
The Council had just emerged from one of the elevators behind the information desk.
No—not the whole Council. Just Captain Chromium and Tsunami.
Nova’s mouth went dry at the sight of them. They were talking to each other, easy, carefree. Tsunami was laughing, politely covering her mouth with her fingers as she did. The Captain’s eyes were twinkling, with a hint of something like mischief. Unlike the rest of the Renegades, they did not wear the typical gray-and-red uniforms, but their own iconic costumes—the Captain’s shoulder pads and leggings, Tsunami’s billowy skirt.
They strolled across the lobby. Not toward Nova, exactly, but not away from her, either. Neither looked at her. Neither noticed that a villain was in their midst. Neither could have any idea that her hand had traveled to her belt at their arrival, fitting her fingers deftly around the pen she’d picked out from among her trove of weapons that morning. The one with the secret compartment behind the ink refills. She had one poisonous dart already loaded.
Her pulse stammered. She was there. She was inside Renegade Headquarters, mere steps away from two members of the Council, and no one had any idea that she was a threat.