Even knowing that time is tight, I take a moment to stare at my reflection in the visor. Poking and prodding at my face to find any sign of a cut or bruise that my clothes won’t hide. Long sleeves and jeans can’t cover a black eye but luckily, it looks like I’ve managed to avoid anything worse than a few scratches on my neck.

  Likely a result of falling through the tree canopy although, one does look a bit like the mark a bird beak might leave behind. I glare up at the returning ravens as I swap my mask to my left hand, feeling certain that they’re laughing at me as they fly back to their spots above.

  “So! Did you find anything nice?”

  Uncle Owen’s question startles a laugh out of me and I grin back down at the phone before remembering he, thankfully, doesn’t like using video calls. Accidentally accepting one of those in full costume would’ve been very hard to explain.

  “No, ewythr it was all too expensive. I did a lot of window shopping though.”

  A smirk slides onto my face at the euphemism, heart picking up again as I dance closer to the actual truth while angling the visor like a hand-mirror so I can check my hair. I shift my head around to avoid moving the painful arm, reaching up to carefully pick out all the leaves, twigs and worse things from my light brown curls.

  Uncle Owens bark of relieved laughter washes over me like a warm blanket, even as I have to fight down a gag on feeling a few strands that I wasn’t quite fast enough to save from my vomit. With a sigh, I flick out what I can and wipe away the rest with some tissues that go back into my Pocket. No need to litter if I can help it.

  “Ahh, the mother tongue is coming out I hear. What are you after, ceinach bach?”

  “Can’t I enjoy connecting with my roots without wanting something?”

  “Not since you were twelve, no.”

  I snort another laugh at that, the sound dislodging something that I hadn’t even realised was stuck in my chest and leaving me feeling all floaty as I answer without thinking.

  “You mean the year where you were in charge of my birthday party and there was Welsh rarebit instead of cake?”

  “It’s a traditional food!”

  “You made me think I was getting a pet! You knew I’d always wanted one. And not to eat!”

  He laughs back to my complaint and soon I can’t help but grin along. I’d been furious at the time, even after he’d revealed the name was an old joke. Still, it had made the first birthday after losing mum a lot easier. We both let the conversation lapse into comfortable silence for a moment after that and I use the break to pull out some wet wipes for the blood before starting to change my clothes.

  The shade of the trees makes the already chill autumn day even colder but I’m thankful for its concealment as I finish pulling on the cream cardigan and jeans that I’d packed away for our escape.

  My mood turns heavy again as I think about how it might be a while before Legit could wear something other than orange. The stray thought calling his own change of clothes to hand as I stuff my jacket down the front of the cardigan. The stupidly big hoody, branded with his favourite hockey team, along with the shorts that I’d told him were a terrible choice for the cold. He’d told me not to worry about a second set of boots but I’d known it was just because he only had the one pair.

  I’d made a personal trip to a big outlet store so as to Pocket him some new one’s last week. I should have been giving them to him right now as a little end of debut surprise. I blink some moisture from my eyes, sucking down another sniffle while I pull out my own set of replacement running shoes.

  ‘This is ridiculous. It’s not like he’s dead.’

  “I’m almost there, Millie. You’re being very brave, okay? Is there someone nice looking around to sit next to?”

  “No, I’ll uh, walk on a little bit. Get to an intersection. Just, give me a moment.”

  I swallow down the last of my annoying sniffles, pulling on my sneakers as quickly as I can with what feels like every part of me hurting. Blowing my nose and drying my eyes while simultaneously trying to apply some light foundation to hide the scrapes, and possible beak wound, on my neck. Clean again, and very aware of the time slipping away from me, I pull out my now useless glasses and catch the reflection of my auburn eyes in the plain glass of the lenses.

  I’d spent literal years looking for the largest, roundest pair of glasses I could find and then, when I finally do find a pair wide enough that I can barely see the rims, I stop needing them just a few months later. It’s a petty complaint compared to some of the challenges that Thresholding could have caused and in a few months, I can probably claim to have stopped hating contacts. Still, I swear they never got smudged so easily back when I actually needed them to see things.

  “Just wait at the corner north of where you dropped that Pin if the bus-stop's empty. I won’t be more than another minute or three.”

  That lights a fire under my ass and I do my best not to let any of the pain of moving slip into my voice as I hurry over to the most overgrown part of the fence. Keeping the conversation going with more demands not to break traffic laws while I start looking for a route to climb up. Pretty soon, I have my path plotted out and then it’s just the rushed and painful process of climbing over an eight-foot fence covered in ivy with a recently dislocated elbow and a few fractured ribs.

  Again, I make myself let go and drop down once I’m on the other side, scared that someone will walk by and spot me climbing out of the lot. Or worse, that uncle Owen might arrive early and think I’d been spending time in the trap-house next door. Which actually seems rather minor compared to the truth.

  Either way, I don’t want to be seen anywhere near the spot Pocket fell. Just in case there’s someone with the interest to plot where I would’ve fallen and then ask around for sightings. I’ve heard too many horror stories about what happens when a Supe gets unmasked.

  I land better this time. The tarmac not being nearly as uneven as the base of the tree I’d landed on before and my new running shows not being nearly as distressed as the pair of trainers now sitting in my Pocket. Given the creases and vomit, the only way they’d be coming out would be to go straight into a fire.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  I hold in a sigh at the future expense of replacing most of my costume, glancing down the street to make sure that no one’s around before quick hobbling out of the road. Another hair tie coming out of my Pocket as I go, putting my curls up into a messy updo that better hides how some of the strands are still a little slick with sick.

  It was Pocket who had been thrown across the city, but its Millie Carew who walks away from the abandoned lot that the villain had landed in. Or at least does her best to. I stifle a hiss of pain as I try to find a gait that doesn’t send jarring agony up through my legs and into my arm and ribs. I’m really starting to wish that I got a Power that let me regenerate or just made me straight up invulnerable. Like Arcadia.

  “I’m circling the block now. Wave when you see me, alright?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Uncle Owen’s question interrupts my daydream of waking up with God-like power, the poorly hidden worry in his tone making me suddenly very aware of just how little I fit in around here. Even if the houses to my left aren’t mostly derelicts like the one that I’ve just left, few of them look cared for.

  In fact, I can’t see a single one without graffiti or at least some trash outside and none have more than a small patch of dirt or close-cut grass beside the front door. The houses themselves are flat roofed bungalows, identical faux wood walls and felt tops all slightly warped in that way Power created structures are unless great care is taken. Likely, they’re also missing all but the most basic of foundations and utilities as well.

  That though would have more to do with this whole suburb likely being a relic left by the failed initiative of some mayor elected before I was born. Temporary housing almost certainly meant for the endless stream of immigrants. Buildings promised to be demolished in five years but still being lived in after almost twenty. At least. I might never have heard of this part of the city before but it wouldn’t be the first time that Powers were looked to as an easy solution.

  “You doing okay, Millie? Keeping an eye out? Remember not to get tunnel visioned.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

  I keep my eyes on the houses while I continue up the sidewalk, peering at the windows that butt right up to the street and the small poky rooms behind them. A flash of movement from one further up draws my eye and I just have time to spot an old Mediterranean women twitching back behind the curtain with a phone held to her ear. My heart pounds as I catch her frowning gaze, feeling certain that she disapproves of me being here and is now speaking to someone about it.

  I stop looking at the houses and keep my eyes on the street where uncle Owen’s old truck should be appearing. Not looking back as I hurry on towards the corner where he’d said to wait for him. Wanting to keep talking to him but too worried I’ll distract him from looking for me or make him drive slower. The sound of heavy music gets louder as I approach the intersection, fidgeting with my sleeves and wishing the whole time that I’d chosen something with pockets that I could dangle my arms through.

  ‘Yes, because a girl with her arms disappeared up to the elbow wouldn’t be suspicious at all.’

  I make the mistake of checking left and right as I get to the road, walking all the way out to the crossing before remembering that I’m not meant to keep going. The row of largely overgrown gardens continues on my right while the left cuts away towards another part of this likely failed housing project. The next street appears even worse than this one, a handful of houses burned down and the road torn up in places where it looks like someone’s taken a giant spoon to the tarmac. Damage from a Supe fight that no one’s bothered to fix. It’s not the sign of the cities neglect that has my heart beating though, but the group of twenty or so young men and women all lounging around the worst of it with expensive cars and pounding music.

  “Uhm. I’m at the intersection, uncle Owen. You almost here yet?”

  “Just approaching it now. I can hear music through the phone and out my window, so just stay right there.”

  I nod absently while my eyes are busy checking over each member of the similarly dressed group for any sign of one wearing a mask. Most are shirtless, with golden bangles on their wrists and half togas around their waist. The red and white cloth appearing to be artfully, and precariously, arranged even though I know it is just a pre-bought shape clipped onto a hidden pair of shorts.

  Still, the vibrant patterns of deeper reds, yellow or gold cut through by streaks of black does draw my eye. The sound of clinking metal carried to me by the wind as the young gangster’s movements shift the many pins and icons they have attached to the folds.

  I blush furiously as I pull my eyes away from the toned caramel legs of one man as he gets ready to wrestle another. Not finding it any easier to watch his back as he flexes and sends ripples through the interlocking slabs of what must surely be synthetic muscle. No one can be that big naturally. I remember why I’m looking at them in the first place as the slap of flesh meeting flesh has me flinch away. Focusing back on the men’s heads and finding nothing but necklaces of corded gold and the occasional visor or garish vanity plate.

  My hearts rapid beat slows only a little on not finding any sign of a Supe amongst the group. Calmness prevented as I instead spot a collection of long knives, rocket javelins and guns spread out amongst the cars or partially hidden in the folds of their toga’s. Their dress and weapon choice confirming my suspicions that they’re likely descendants of refugees from one of the many times the Romans have warred against themselves.

  The cultural dominators of the most war-torn of the three worlds held together by the Nail. Their many nations and free cities prone to periods of great peace and terrible conflict both. Depending on if they were in a period of interregnum, civil war or stability. This lot would be the children of refugees from some conflict in the last forty years. Styling themselves after the empire or republic whose troubles, or collapse, would have forced their parents here. However they divided themselves, they’re all just one more street gang now.

  My mind decides now is the time to pull up scenes from a hundred different movies and shows of what thugs do when they find a pretty girl all alone on their turf. The hero of the flick always needing someone to save and bad guys to beat after all. Even though I know those are all just stories and stereotypes, it feels quite hard to remember that when I’m staring at the glint of the sun off a blade as long as my arm.

  I pull my eyes away after getting a good look at the group, starting to turn as I go to walk back the way I came. A memory of the angry looking old women has me freeze and instead consider just crossing the street to where the next row of houses will block me from sight. My hesitation costs me as I glance back towards the circle of low-slung cars and meet the golden eyes of one of the young men. Breath catching and heart rising to a fever pitch as I see him smiling at me. He looks about my age.

  I start walking across the road before I can think about what I’m doing. The houses on the other side feeling closer and safer than the street behind. Head down and eyes flicking rapidly from the gang members to the tarmac around my feet and not really seeing either. My pace quickens to just short of a jog when I spot the smiling boy nudge his friend and point towards me. My left hand, pulled as far up my cardigan sleeve as it can go, grows cold in my Pocket where it grips tightly to the handle of my stolen revolver.

  “Uncle Ow-”

  The sound of a car horn directly to my right has me flinching what feels like a foot into the air. Head whipping around and hand pulling the gun from my Pocket just as I realise that I have no idea how to fire it beyond, ‘point at bad guy then shoot’. Thankfully, it’s still mostly hidden by my cardigan’s long sleeves and I drop it right back where it came from. My wide eyes focusing enough to see uncle Owen’s bearded face frowning at something behind me.

  He looks away slowly, meeting my own startled look with a wave of his chrome arm as I hurry around the side of his old truck to climb up into the passenger seat. I can feel my cheeks reddening at the thought of just how embarrassing it would have been to survive getting thrown across the city only to be hospitalised by walking in front of my own uncle’s car.

  “You told me you were driving with both hands.”

  “Thanks for picking me up, Uncle Owen. You’re my favourite Uncle in the whooooole world.”

  I just frown at him as he does his best impression of my voice from back when I was almost a decade younger. It doesn’t have any effect on his grin as he reverses the truck with sharp movements before starting to drive back the way he came rather than continuing down the blockaded street.

  “You’re also my only uncle.”

  “Yeah, but ten-year-old you didn’t know that.”

  “She didn’t know a lot of things.”

  I regret the reply before I’ve even finished saying it, voice trailing off as I look away awkwardly. My words kill the light mood uncle Owen always brings with him and I close my eyes to avoid having to look at anything as a new wave of embarrassment fills me. Unsure how to salvage this, I just rub my hands together in my lap to try and ward off the chill still filling my bruised and broken bones. Only opening them slowly when I feel uncle Owen’s hand reach across the console to grip mine.

  “You’re so cold, little hare. Grab my coat from the back and I’ll show you what I spent yesterday fixing.”

  I keep my eyes down as I reach back into the jumble of tools and work gear to grab the thick winter coat. Decades old grit and cement encrusted along its edges adding a smell that I’ve almost come to like over the last few years. It settles over me with a heaviness that does more to heat me than the pilfered blankets in my Pocket ever could.

  A sigh slipping free as the trucks eternally breaking heater starts to blast lukewarm air into the cabin and I lean over to push my head into uncle Owen’s side. My cheeks grow colder as I lean into the bare metal of his arm, the cyberware built only for functionality and ruggedness rather than comfort. Still, I do start to feel warmer as I lean more of my weight against him and whisper back almost too quietly to be heard.

  “Diolch am ddod I’m casglu, ewythr Owen. Ti yw’r eythr gorau erioed.”

  A rolling chuckle starts beside me, the slight shaking of uncle Owen’s chest shifting me where I’m leaned against him before I feel his hand rubbing the top of my head.

  “Two hands on the wheel.”

  The hand pulls away as if stung before the chuckle becomes a laugh. The bumps in the road and the warmth in my chest working together to quickly lull me into a mid-day nap of total exhaustion.