“You hear what those guys said?” Ava leaves the circle and becomes visible again, army-crawling to the lip of the gully so she can watch the Body-Snatchers go. “Callin' my wagon shitty. Like they could do better or something. Assholes.”

“They stole the horses,” says Ellie, “the fuck are we gonna do now?”

“We'll just have to walk.” Ostby crawls over beside Ava to spy on Big Traffick.

“How long will it take?” she asks, “is this gonna screw things up?”

“Assuming we don't have any more run-ins with H.R.,” Ostby begins, “and that's a big assumption – we should still be able to make it to Markus' shortly after dark.”

They march in single-file, following far behind the dust storm kicked up by Big Traffick, keeping a safe distance so they don't appear in their rear-views. And they march in silence. Either there's not a lot to say or they're all just lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Ostby must be wondering how his son is holding up out there in that terrible caravan.

And it seems all Ava can think about are these awesome class-specific abilities she lacks. The things she can't do. She can't charm animals and she can't vanish and reappear a distance away. She can't connect to the Overmind to enhance her psionic abilities—

Come to think of it, I haven't performed any psionics at all, ever.

Despite having 'unlocked' a number of powers, Uri has never offered to train her. He even seemed to refuse her offer to help back when he and Uma healed Ellie's fractured skull.

What was up with that?

She'll have to ask him sometime.

But there's a word for all of this: she's 'gimped'. It's an ugly slur but it fits in this case. She has nothing but the most basic of stolen abilities at her disposal. Do the others see her as gimped? She's felt like the hero of destiny so many times before—like the world has been created solely for her to overcome its obstacles—but is she actually weak? Are the others carrying her?

The sun sets and her mood is darker still. Obsessing over the powers she lacks has her feeling insecure and anxious. She concentrates to make her hand glow so the party can see in the dark but Ostby is quick to correct her:

“No!” he barks, “it's too bright. We'll be seen. And worse still we might lead them to Markus.”

“Sorry, I wasn't thinking.” She ceases her concentration and the hand returns to its dull, normal state. There you have it. Even when she's simply acting as a light-source her powers are often counter-productive.

Like the time you tried to summon bows for the people of Cripple Creek but couldn't do more than tease them.

Or the time you ruined their entire apothecary.

Her build is a mess. There's no synergy between her abilities.

Thankfully the party arrives at a tall chain-link fence before her ruminations can get any darker. Ostby leads them around the perimeter. It's topped with razor-wire and flood lights but the lights aren't on at the moment.

On the other side of the fence there are heaps and mountains of crushed cars and trucks. Rows of small boats and motorcycles and—squinting—Ava can even make out a helicopter! Finally they arrive before a gate wide enough for one of H.R.'s tanks to pass through. It's locked.

Ostby finds a little comm box beside the gate and presses a button.

“Markus,” he says into the box, “it's Ostby. Let me in.”

For a moment it's quiet and Ava wonders if Markus is even here, and then a staticky voice comes on out-of-breath and asks, “who's that with you?”

“They're friends,” he says, “let us in. We need guns. And we need a ride. We're going to Dia.”

The box laughs at them.

“You've always been nuts,” says the box. “But what in the hell could have you thinking it's a good idea to go to Dia?”

“Because they have Darby.”

The gate clinks and comes open automatically, sliding aside by some rickety mechanism. Lights flicker on down the center row of the trashed cars, showing the way. And Ava understands something and feels sick with guilt:

Whatever she lacks pales compared to that which Ostby is missing right now.

“Hello old friend,” says Ostby. Markus nearly tackles him with the force of his hug.

“It's good to see you, aside from the shitty circumstances. What happened?” He turns to the others before Ostby can answer and identifies himself as, “Markus, but everyone calls me Skid Mark – or just Skid, for short.”

“Yeah,” laughs Ostby, “I'm never calling you that.”

“Good to meet you.” Ava says but she's distracted, studying their surroundings. It's a lot of junk. But it's all under bright fluorescent lights, making this dump seem oddly civilized after their time spent in primitive Cripple Creek.

“So is this it? Just the five of you?” Skid looks them up and down. At Bach's amputated hand he raises an eyebrow. “No offense but this is a suicide mission, Ostby.”

“This is us,” Ostby adds, “they're all more capable than they might look.”

Skid comes close and whispers, “two of 'em are kids, Ostby. That other feller has no hand. And the woman—“

“You got something to say?” Ellie snarls in her Classic Ellie Snarl. Skid just shuts up and smiles.

“Nope.” He raises his hands a little bit, saying 'my bad' without so many words.

“We need a ride. We need it fast.” Ostby paces a few steps away, looking at all the junk piled up around them. “We're looking to hit Dia while they're sorting out the most recent arrival of Big Traffick.”

“Strike while they're distracted.” Skid nods. “I mean it's as good a plan as any, I guess.”

“Darby is on Big Traffick right now.”

“Guess we'd better do our catching up some other time, then. Let's see what we can dig up for you out in the yard.”

He leads them around to inspect their options. It's all junk. Broken windshields and flat tires and rusted fenders.

“These will all run.” Skid gestures at a grouping of vehicles which hardly look less like scrap than any of the others. “Don't worry about the bodies and glass and whatnot. We can fix all of that up in the shop when we're adding the guns.”

“Guns?” asks Bach.

“Or electrical fields, oil slicks, vehicle caltrops,” Skid continues, grinning, “maybe a flamethrower? You look like a flame-thrower kind of dude. I've got some rockets and landmines, too.”

“Say no more.” Bach mimes a chef's kiss.

The choice boils down to one between a luxury sedan, a pickup truck, a trio of dirt bikes, or a mini-van. They all have their pluses and minuses.

“Bikes could be a real advantage,” Ostby explains, “they'd let us split up if we needed to – we wouldn't be relying on a single vehicle to get us there and back.”

“Versatile and elusive, too,” adds Skid.

“But weak armor and structure,” counters Bach, “and not a lot of firm points for armament.”

“Death traps.” Ellie scoffs. “And what – am I supposed to drive one of those things?”

“What about the truck?” Ava asks, “wouldn't that be the toughest ride we could get?”

“Yeah, can't beat the pickup's durability,” Skid continues, “and it'd give you the most torque and clearance – could come in handy if you need to go off-road.”

“Who's going to ride in the back?” Ellie peeks over the rear fender into the bed. “Actually forget I asked. Calling 'shotgun' right now – you all heard it.”

“No that's a good point,” Bach says, “there's only room for three at most in the cab. So what if we do need to go off-road? Whoever's in back is gonna get bounced out.”

Ostby asks, “what about a camper or a topper or something?”

“Nope,” Skid says, “none in stock at the moment.”

“I kinda like the Caddy,” says Uri, wiping the window with his sleeve to have a look inside.

“Handles the best,” Skid recites the vital statistics, “frame is decent on it – and without a doubt this is the most comfortable whip in the yard.”

“Nope.” Bach sounds like he's made the decision for everyone. He stands admiring the minivan with his hand and his stump on his hips. “This is the one. We can tank it out. Ain't the sexiest, but we're going into battle here – we ain't cruising the Miracle Mile.”

The others trade a series of quick glances and nods. He's right.

“Alright then,” Skid assesses their mutual understandings, “let's get her into the shop.” He hops in and cranks the starter and the minivan fires right up. The engine hums and more than a little it ticks.

“Not much of a growl.” Bach complains.

“Might be better,” Ostby adds, “to come in real quiet-like.”

Skid Mark's Garage is like the nest of some giant corvid, a tangle of salvaged trinkets. Mostly guns and metal scraps cast off during vehicular surgery. Fenders and firearms. Headlights and hand grenades. Other, diligently organized stacks of random technology; computer cases and car stereos and kitchen appliances.

Skid maneuvers around the workshop as just another of its parts, crawling and burrowing headfirst into heaps of junk and re-surfacing with some new gizmo or deadly weapon. This time it's a gnarly-looking spear.

“You guys want a harpoon gun? Could toss in a winch, too.” He stares off dreamily, fondling his harpoon. “Shit how cool would it be to hook a couple car batteries up to it and—”

“Skid,” Ostby interrupts, “let's just get the basics out of the way, first. We should hit the road A-S-A-P.”

“Alright, alright. Maybe we'll do the electrified harpoon thing if we have time.”

The three grown men get to work. Skid sets Bach to task attaching steel reinforcements to the minivan's frame using an arc welder. Then he and Ostby drag out a huge machine-gun and start debating where it should go.

Ellie and Uri sneak off like they always do and Ava is more or less left to watch. Bach is struggling some to accomplish his work with only one hand. But she's not really strong enough to help him in any way, either. Still, she doesn't want to just stand around.

“Can I help?” she asks.

He flips his welding mask up and says, “naw I don't think so.”

She wanders around. Half treasure-hunting and half eavesdropping on Ostby and Skid:

“The van is going to weigh a lot more when you take into account all the armor and weaponry,” Skid explains, “so be careful when you're cornering. We slap this gun in a turret and stick it on the roof and you're gonna come out top-heavy. And you ain't got time for me to build a roll-cage.”

“But you think it'll still drive, right?”

“Yeah, but you're going to top out around fifty. You won't be out-running anybody.”

It's not the type of concern she wanted to overhear but at least it's better than horseback.

Even while Bach installs the armor, the other two start cutting holes in the roof. The bench seats in the back come out. A boxy turret is welded to the roof and Skid and Ostby affix the heavy machine-gun facing backward. And some sort of anti-tank rocket-launcher faces forward.

When Bach is done installing the armor plates his next task is to cut gun-slits in the sides of the van. He works at it with a cutting torch. He's abandoned his welding mask and his face is slick with sweat. His focus is intense.

This is your chance.

Ava slides up next to him, trying not to be noticed. And she looks up at his face, and his eyes, and:

It's like she thought. He's some sort of meat-shield. A tank. And the 'path' must be connected to his class abilities. He's made a choice – whether he knows it or not.

When do I get to make a choice?

She sighs and Bach looks down at her and winks.