“We can’t keep doing this, Zeke.” The PRT officer in question did not reply with words, and his helmet hid any reaction he may have had, but his continued, steady march towards the APC parked further down the alleyway was reply enough. The clouds and the long shadows of the towering buildings obscured the moonlight, but there was enough illumination to see the path ahead was clear. “I’m serious. You could lose your job. Hell, I could lose mine too for helping you.”

“They’re my family,” the man—Zeke, apparently—simply replied, voice level and brooking no argument.

“And how much worse are they gonna have it if they lose your paycheck too?” Zeke’s partner paused for a moment, expectant. No reply came. She was not dissuaded however, pressing on with the dogged determination. “What about the other people, huh? We’re supposed to be dispensing supplies uniformly. Don’t you think—?”

Whatever Zeke was supposed to think went left unsaid as a bar of lead smashed into his partner’s gut at an angle, leaving her doubled over in agony. Zeke snapped to attention, already reaching for the rifle secured around his shoulder—exactly as expected. Elena dropped from atop her walkway of blades over the officers’ heads, arm already wrapped around Zeke’s neck by the time her feet hit the ground.

Standard PRT-issue armor used a lightweight chain mail variant that afforded officers better head mobility, but likewise presented a readily accessible weak point. In the past, she had taken advantage of its greater vulnerability to piercing. On this occasion, she settled for choking him while lashing out with the heel of her boot, first at the other officer’s helmet then her neck, exposed by the first kick. Zeke struggled against her hold as his partner, hacking and coughing on the ground, tried to squirm into a better position to draw her own weapon. Too little too late, whistling air heralded the barrel being shorn off by a blade falling through it at high velocity.

Not dissuaded, the downed officer swung at Elena’s legs with the ruined stock of her rifle, but the blow was cut short by the air in its path hardening into a plate of steel mid-swing. Zeke finally slipped to unconsciousness in Elena’s arms, and she wasted no time dropping his limp body to dance around the steel, her fist lancing forward for another throat blow. Having expected it, the officer tried to duck back, but in the heat of the moment, she failed to consider that Elena might repeat the same trick. Her head met suspended steel, and her retreat blocked, Elena’s fist smashed into the woman’s trachea. Her momentary incapacitation was all the opportunity she needed to secure her arm around the woman’s throat as well.

“Well that was brutal,” Spitfire remarked, pale as she trudged down the alley. “You… you didn’t kill them, right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear,” Elena rejoined, this time more careful as laid Zeke’s partner at Spitfire’s feet.

Spitfire sighed with relief as she began to struggle with removing the uniform on her, and Elena more deftly set about accomplishing the same task with Zeke. “Good. That’s… that’s good.”

Silence hung over the mismatched pair as they set about their task. It was readily obvious to Elena that Spitfire was uncomfortable with it yet stubbornly ignoring her discomfort. She could guess at the source. Anyone would be nervous in the presence of the Teeth, but there was more to it than that. ‘Spitfire’ was an unknown in the cape world; further, she had seemed surprised during planning when Gregor warned her that wearing a PRT helmet would hamper her power use if the plan went off the rails. She was a recent trigger then, with a job or two with the rest of the crew at most. Taken together with the abrupt, all consuming fire that broke out New Year’s Eve when some of the Teeth attacked a group of party-goers… Yes, Elena could most certainly guess why Spitfire was uncomfortable around her.

It reaffirmed what she needed to do.

“This is going to go pear-shaped,” Spitfire groused as she finally finished securing the armor around herself, catching up to the already finished Elena. The fit was visibly ill-fitting on the younger girl as she started towards the APC, helmet in hand. “I just know it.”

“Of course it is. I am counting on it.”

“What—?”

The helmet in Elena’s hand met Spitfire’s head with a crack mid-turn, surprise writ on her face. Elena slipped behind her and brought the girl to the ground with a tap of her boot to the back of the knees. Forcibly hunching her over, Elena firmly applied pressure to the girl’s carotid and jugular veins.

“I am no gambler, Spitfire. I cannot risk your betrayal,” Elena told her, the words soft but resolute. Spitfire managed to push a few spurts of napalm past the force around her neck, but they dribbled ineffectually to the ground, never coming close to Elena’s arm. “Please know I do not make this choice lightly.”

It did not take long. She carried Spitfire to the APC first, careful and apologetic as she securely locked the girl in the vehicle’s rear transport. She did the same for the officers with some struggling due to the increased weight. Her power afforded her no special strength, but no one survived a decade and a half among the Teeth if they were weak. Once she was confident none of them could unexpectedly escape, she climbed into the driver’s seat. She started the engine and shifted the vehicle into gear, the headlights banishing the darkness as she pulled forward into the streets and towards the PRT building.

“By hook or by crook.” Elena did not like leaving things to chance, but some things were behind her ability to control. She could still try. “The rest is up to you, Elle.”