Supernova, page 30
Ruby swallowed and tried to put on a brave face, despite her shock. “My brothers,” she whispered, “are going to be so disappointed.”
* * *
Nova was halfway across the first lighting truss when she realized what was happening. She gripped the edges of the cold steel, peering down at the audience as their cries went from bewildered to horrified.
She pressed a hand to her earpiece, hoping that maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was misinterpreting the situation, unable to see clearly from so far away.
“What is going on down there?”
Honey’s voice crackled. “Can’t you tell? We’re finally winning.”
Nova’s hands felt clammy, but she was perched too precariously to wipe them off. Her jaw throbbed behind the mask. “Tell me that’s not Agent N … It was supposed to be Leroy’s poison! You were just supposed to paralyze them for a few minutes!”
“Stay calm, Nightmare,” said Leroy. “We need you to stay focused on your prerogative.”
“How am I supposed to stay focused when you change the plan in the middle of it?” She realized that she was practically yelling but knew that no one would hear her above the chaos below. She found herself scanning the stands for signs of Adrian and the others, but the seats were too crowded, too jumbled with identical Renegade uniforms.
“It was my idea,” said Honey, sounding very proud of this fact. “Why would we leave our enemies momentarily paralyzed when we could neutralize them forever? It’s nothing they wouldn’t have done to us.”
“But that’s not what we agreed on!”
“Because you wouldn’t have agreed!” Honey snapped back. “Because you’ve gone too soft for these superheroes. But they deserve what they’re getting, and you know it!”
Nova strangled the steel bars. How many bees had Honey unleashed? How many Renegades would no longer be prodigies?
And why did this fill her with fury when, not long ago, she would have been delighted by it? Would have even encouraged the plan herself?
“They were supposed to be paralyzed,” she repeated. “Do you know how much more difficult you just made this for me?”
“You’re resourceful. You’ll figure it out,” said Honey. “I did what was best for the Anarchists, what’s best for us. No more playing both sides, Nightmare. It’s time to choose whose side you’re really on.”
Nova flinched. Below, Renegades were spilling onto the field. Most of the bees had already been killed, and it was impossible to tell how many superheroes had been stung. Half? More?
While the Council barked orders, trying to whisk away the civilian journalists into the sublevels for safety, while simultaneously setting up a defensive perimeter, a second wave of bees surged in through the air vents. This time Honey didn’t bother with the disguise of the paper cranes. The swarm fanned out, hundreds of tiny black specks from Nova’s perspective, diving into the crowd.
Amid the chaos, Nova’s focus landed on Ace. He stood almost serenely in front of the platform, his wrists and legs still shackled.
She felt the weight of the backpack pressing down on her.
Though anger continued to surge through her veins, she tucked her chin and kept moving.
* * *
Adrian cursed when he saw a fresh swarm of bees flooding the arena. Captain Chromium’s voice boomed through the speakers, urging Renegades to protect the members of the media whose panicked cries were mixing with the loud buzz of the incoming insects, while trying to organize others into some sort of counterattack. No enemies had yet shown their face, though—only the bees, and they were so small and quick, most Renegade superpowers were useless against them.
“I know this goes without saying,” said Adrian, “but Oscar, Danna … try not to get stung.”
“Real sensitive, Sketch,” Ruby said. Her face was still stricken, but Adrian could tell she was trying not to show how devastated she was at the loss of her powers.
“I have a better idea than just not getting stung,” Oscar growled. His expression had a rarely uncovered ferocity as he lifted both hands and began to flood the stands and the arena with sweet-smelling smoke.
“What are you doing?” said Adrian. The smoke quickly changed from a fine mist to a thick fog. It wasn’t long before Adrian could barely see his own hands, much less his companions beside him—or the bees that he could hear buzzing nearby. “Smokescreen, is this supposed to be helpful?”
“They’re bees,” came Oscar’s voice. “Smoke tranquilizes them.”
Adrian tried to blink back the smoke as it stung his eyes, but soon his annoyance dimmed. True enough, the buzzing noise grew quieter as the smoke filled the arena.
“Okay, good thinking,” he admitted, even as he heard a number of their colleagues starting to cough.
The smoke offered one other benefit. Now concealed, Adrian reached for the zipper tattooed over his sternum. With a hiss and a series of clanks, the Sentinel’s armored suit unfolded from the nonexistent pocket beneath his skin, extending over his arms, down his chest and back, enclosing his arms and legs, and finally pulling up over his head. The visor came last, dropping down over his face.
“Oh dear, that’s not very bee-friendly, my smoky friend,” came the thunderous voice again. “I suppose that means we’ll have to resort to plan B…” He cackled.
What followed was pure pandemonium. With everyone disoriented by the smoke, it was impossible to tell what was happening throughout the arena, but Adrian could sense from the yelling and grunting that it wasn’t good. He saw flashes of light from the field below, and caught a glimpse of Thunderbird’s wings churning through the smog. He felt the boom of an explosion under his feet. Danna dissolved into butterflies and swept toward the field. Slowly, the fog thinned. Bees were crawling across the backs of chairs and along the rails, but they seemed disinclined to attack anymore. Something soared past Adrian’s helmet—an arrow? A spear? To his left, he heard the ricocheting clang of metal. To his right what sounded like the roar of a feral beast.
One thing was clear: They were under attack; and it wasn’t just bees anymore.
Adrian waited until the mist had cleared enough that he could see vague shapes on the arena floor so he wouldn’t crush anyone beneath his weight. As he prepared to launch himself toward the stage, movement above made him pause.
He squinted at the shadow making its way across the scaffolding near the high, arched ceiling. He waited until he was absolutely certain of what he was seeing.
His gauntlets clenched into fists.
Nightmare.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
NOVA WAS NEARLY to the center of the arena’s lighting system when the truss she was on trembled from a jolting impact. She cried out as the scaffolding rocked beneath her.
Taking hold of a steel safety cable, she glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
The Sentinel was perched precariously on the scaffolding, his armored hands holding the bars of the truss as he tried to get his footing. He lifted his head, and despite not being able to see his face, Nova could practically feel his hatred hit her like a wave.
She pulled herself to her feet, using the cable for balance. Her other hand hovered near her belt.
“Didn’t expect to see you here today,” she said. “What are you doing, crashing a Renegade party?”
“Could ask you the same thing,” he said as he tried to stand. But the scaffolding swayed from his weight and he quickly returned to a crouch. “Except, I think I know. And it’s not going to work.”
“So far, so good,” she spat.
Maintaining a hold with his left hand, the Sentinel raised his right fist. The gauntlet began to glow white-hot.
She sneered. “Not this time, toy soldier.” She pulled a gun from its holster on her hip—one she’d designed for precisely this moment.
They both took aim.
They fired.
The Sentinel’s concussion beam struck Nova in the left elbow. She stumbled back and for a moment there was empty air beneath her, before her flailing hand caught hold of the safety cable again. She dangled from the rafters, her right hand on the cable, one knee looped over the thick bars.
She exhaled in relief.
The Sentinel was not so lucky. The projectile struck him square in the chest, magnetizing itself to his suit, before releasing a powerful electroshock. Nova, dazed from her own hit, barely registered his yelp of pain. Then he was falling.
She heard the impact as he landed on the field below, along with startled cries from those around him.
Nova grunted. Her left arm had gone numb from the blast. She cursed, sweat beading on her neck as she struggled to haul herself up one-handed.
“That jerk,” she muttered, with a few curses, before she finally had both knees securely planted on the truss again. A quick survey of the scene below showed her the Sentinel’s prone body splayed out on the ground. She wondered briefly if the shock had killed him. She hadn’t had time to test its effectiveness.
No matter. It was clear that she had lost the element of surprise. Multiple sets of eyes turned her way. Thunderbird’s burning glare fixed on Nova. She prepared to launch herself into the air, a lightning bolt crackling in her fist, when Cyanide appeared from the fog and jabbed something into her back. Thunderbird howled in pain and swiveled to face him. Within seconds, the bolt in her hand sputtered, flashing brightly, just once, before dissolving in the air.
She dove at Cyanide with all the fury of an enraged thunderstorm.
Nova tore her attention away, searching for Ace. No longer standing stoically beside the platform, he had slumped to his knees, his head bowed and one hand clutching his heart. Debris was scattered around his feet in a perfect circle, and Nova could tell he’d been using what little ability he still had to protect himself from flying objects and shrapnel.
His powers were enough, just enough, to keep him safe amid the carnage. But his strength wouldn’t last. She could only guess at what it had cost him to deflect whatever weapons and projectiles had been flung his way since the onset of the battle.
It was only a matter of time before he was targeted, despite his frailness and the shackles.
Nova had hoped to lower herself as close to him as possible, but as she considered the trusses stretching out before her, she knew it would take her too long to traverse the rest of the way with her injured arm. She’d be faster on her feet, even if there were more obstacles below.
Adjusting the backpack, she fumbled for the clip at her belt and hooked it around the safety cable. Her lips contorted as she measured the distance. She’d never rappelled one-handed before and she didn’t relish the opportunity to try it now.
Opening a pouch on her tool belt, she wriggled out one of her gloves and used her teeth to pull it onto her hand. She shook loose the nylon rope, watching it cascade to the ground, then secured her ankles around it. Her hand took hold, she sucked in a deep breath, and dropped.
The rope hissed between her boots. Despite the protective glove, she could feel the friction burning hot in her palm. Her left arm began to tingle.
A few seconds later, she let go, landing in a crouch in the midst of a battlefield. She peeled off the glove and shoved it back into the pouch, then started in Ace’s direction. She weaved through the melees and wrestling matches, the glinting weapons and projectiles and blasts and screams. She saw Locksmith moving down the line of prisoners as sneakily as he could, undoing their shackles one by one. She saw Leroy pinned to the ground by a dark-haired woman who was trying her best to strangle him, even while he pressed his acid-oozing fingers into her face. His expression was wild and manic, almost as if he was enjoying the brawl, and it occurred to Nova with a shock of surprise that it was Thunderbird who had him by the throat. Thunderbird … without wings.
He had neutralized a member of the Council.
A whip lashed around Nova’s ankle, yanking her to the ground. She grunted from the impact. A second later she was being dragged through the dirt. She flipped onto her back, facing the Renegade—Whiplash—with a snarl. She snatched a throwing star from her belt and hurled it at her attacker. Whiplash yelped as it caught her in the arm and dropped the handle of her whip. Her distraction gave Nova enough time to untangle her leg, and a second later she leaped for the woman, who bared her teeth and lifted her hands to meet Nova’s attack.
Her bare hands.
Big mistake.
The moment their skin met, Whiplash’s eyes widened in realization, half a second before they rolled back into her head and she collapsed into the dirt.
Checking the security of the backpack, Nova started running. Though her attention was focused on getting to Ace, she couldn’t help scanning the faces of Renegades as she bolted past, wondering if Adrian was near. But the only member of her team that she saw was the occasional glimpse of a monarch butterfly weaving in and out of the thrum.
When she spotted Ace again, she was startled to see him watching her. He was still bent over his knees, panting. His eyes carried an unfamiliar desperation. A pleading.
“I’m coming,” she whispered, as much to herself as to her uncle. “I won’t fail you. Not this time.”
Nova ducked out of the way of a barbed tail—Stingray?—then launched herself over a suspicious puddle of inky-black goo. Her feet touched the ground again, just in time for an enormous wave to crash into her, knocking her onto her side. The water eddied way, leaving her spluttering as the dirt floor thickened into sticky mud. She cursed Tsunami and climbed back to her feet, preparing to fight, but the Councilwoman was already fending off an attack from one of the freed prisoners.
Arm tingling as sensation returned to her muscles, Nova pushed the sopping-wet bangs back from her face and readjusted the weighted hood over her face. Between the mud and the drenched clothes, it felt like every step toward Ace was becoming more and more of a struggle.
She had just caught her breath when her own name pierced her ears.
“Nova! NO!”
She spun in time to see Winston Pratt throwing himself at her.
Nova reeled back, bracing herself for a fight.
But Winston didn’t attack her. Instead, he gasped and stumbled to one knee, gaping up at her in shock.
It took Nova too long to understand what was happening. It took her too long to notice the stain of red spreading across the front of his shirt. It took her too long to see the clear glass shard jutting from his chest, slicked with blood.
Distantly, she heard someone cursing. She looked past Winston and saw Genissa Clark gripping a crossbow. She dug out another projectile from a small cooler at her feet and loaded it onto the crossbow’s track. Not glass, Nova realized. Ice.
Genissa’s face was red with fury, her teeth gnashing as she lined up the sights with Nova’s heart.
Nova dove to the ground. The icicle whizzed past and shattered on something behind her. Nova pushed herself up and lunged at Genissa. The girl had another icicle in hand, but no time to nock it into the crossbow before Nova tackled her. They fell to the ground. Genissa swung the icicle, trying to stab Nova with the tip, but Nova grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the ground.
Nova’s body was aflame with anger. Her blood pumped with adrenaline as she replayed Winston’s panicked voice shouting her name.
In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to murder Genissa Clark.
Instead, she screamed, as loud as she could, the contempt tearing at her throat—“You are so lucky I don’t have time for this!” Then she pressed a hand to Genissa’s forehead and released her power like a sledgehammer into the girl’s skull. Genissa’s head dropped limply to the dirt, her lips parted, her pale skin coated in dust and muck.
Panting, Nova ripped herself away. Mere seconds had passed since she heard Winston call her name, and he had not moved. He was still kneeling in the dirt, his back to her, the white shard of ice prominent against the red stain on his clothes.
“Winston.”
She collapsed beside him, a hand on his shoulder. He met her gaze, and she could see him already losing the fight to stay with her. His skin was as pale now as when he had been the Puppeteer. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay. I can’t take out the ice just yet, because … the bleeding…” She sniffed and scanned the arena, wondering if there had been any Renegade healers in the audience. She knew none of the Anarchists’ new allies had healing abilities, but if they really saw Winston as one of them now, then maybe the Renegades would take care of him. “I’m going to find someone. Just hang in there—”
“Nightmare,” he said, with a bit of a cough. He sagged, sitting back on his heels, grimacing at the movement. “I’m sorry. I … called you Nova … before.”
“It’s okay. I don’t think anyone’s paying attention. Can you walk? We have to get—”
“Nightmare…” He took her hand, and she realized he was crying. In that moment, she realized that she was, too. “We were friends, weren’t we?” He coughed. A bit of blood sprayed across his bottom lip. “I know I wasn’t always … a good friend … but I … I liked having you around, back then. When you were little. It was nice to be … a kid … again.”
Her breaths started to come in erratic gulps. “Of course. Of course we were friends.”
He smiled, but it was laced with pain. His eyes were losing focus. “I wanted to tell you…” He coughed. The ice in his chest jostled with each movement. “I’m no longer sure … I was meant to be … a villain.” His gaze softened affectionately as he squeezed her hand. She wasn’t sure when he’d started holding it. “I’m not sure you are, either. Maybe … none of us…”
A nearby explosion made Nova jump. She threw her arms wide, as if to protect Winston from the blast. A dozen steps away, a cloud of smoke was spreading outward, sending Rejects and prisoners and Renegades alike scrambling to cover their faces.
“Winston, I need to get to Ace. And then I’ll get you out of here, okay?” She faced him again. “Ace and I will…”
