heal. To speak on my own behalf and maybe, someday, on the behalf of kids who were like me. I am so sorry for the hurt I’ve caused. I may never be able to make amends to the many children I used as puppets, but I do hope to make amends in as many ways as I can. I can’t say that other prodigies who are neutralized will feel the same way, but as for me, I am not sorry to be free of my powers.” He took Hettie and set the doll down on the floorboards of the stage, then held out a hand toward Captain Chromium.
The Captain stood and lifted the tall chromium pike that had been leaning up against his chair. The Silver Spear. He handed it to Winston.
Winston stood back, gripping the pike in both hands. “I am no longer a victim!” he yelled. With that, he swung the pike down. The flat end crashed into the doll. It shattered from the impact—its head caved in, one arm flew off the stage, a leg skidded off beneath Tsunami’s chair. Winston hit it again—two times, three.
He finally stopped after the sixth time, rendering the doll little more than broken pieces and battered clothing. Panting from the exertion, Winston handed the spear back to the Captain, then he craned his head one more time to the microphone. “But even more important than that,” he said, his voice full of emotion, “I am no longer a villain.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EVEN ABOVE THE buffeting wind, Nova could hear the crowd inside the arena erupt over her earpiece. She flinched from the noise—a thunderstorm of applause.
She used the moment to catch her breath. She wasn’t exhausted from scaling the exterior wall of the arena. Rather, she felt like she’d hardly breathed during Winston’s speech. She was supposed to be focusing on the job ahead, but instead she was caught up in his story. Her throat was dry. Her heart felt like it was strapped into a vise. She wondered how it was possible to live beneath the same roof—or, in the same subway tunnels—with a person for ten years and still know so very little about them.
As the cacophony within the arena quieted, Nova heard Phobia’s voice rattling in her ear.
“Traitor.”
She flinched. Though she knew Phobia was talking about Winston, it felt like an accusation of her and her sympathy, too.
She didn’t respond.
“Let him choose weakness and mediocrity if that’s what he wishes,” said Honey. “We need to focus on getting our Acey back.”
“Precisely,” said Leroy. “Nightmare, what’s your status?”
Shaking away the lingering feeling of heartbreak, Nova double-checked the reading on her laser measurer. “Almost in position,” she said, marking the exterior outline of her entry point. Precision was important. Cut the entry point too far afield and she’d end up with a hundred-foot free fall, right into the waiting arms of the Renegades. “Thirty more seconds,” she said, her own voice muffled behind the metal face mask.
“No rush,” said Leroy. “They’re just now bringing out the prisoners.”
Honey sighed heavily. “And knowing Captain Chromium, he’ll be droning on for at least another twenty minutes before anything exciting happens.”
Nova hoped the Captain was feeling particularly verbose.
Calculations complete, she hooked the laser measurer back to her belt and retrieved the diamond-bladed electric saw. She waited until the Captain’s booming voice filled her earpiece, being fed to the group by Cipher, one of Narcissa’s allies who was unknown to the Renegades and had no trouble getting entry to the event, along with sixteen others from their growing group, after Millie concocted fake media passes for them. They would be positioned around the arena, waiting to help Nova and the Anarchists complete their mission.
Nova’s objective was simple.
Get the helmet to Ace.
The curved roof of the arena vibrated beneath her knees, both from the buzz of her saw and the thundering speakers inside. She paused each time the Captain did, trying to sync the noise she was making to the times his speech grew particularly impassioned.
With one hand gripping the suction cup she’d attached to the roof, she finished the last cut. She gave a hard tug and the piece of roofing popped upward. She slid it away from the hole.
Exactly eight feet below her hung a platform for one of the lighting and sound system operators. She could see only the top of the woman’s head, covered in large headphones, her attention on the huge spotlight she was aiming toward the field below.