“Nobody move! Or the kid's head goes splat.”

For a second, Mandy's face twisted into a mix of rebelliousness and aggravation at being called a kid, before settling back into barely hidden fear. It was understandable, I thought, considering that a man three times her age and size was holding her in front of him as a human shield, with a hand on her throat and a gun at her temple.

It was understandable, but...

It was difficult to point out just what exactly about this situation rubbed me the wrong way. There was the fact that a grown man was threatening a young girl, of course, and a blatant disregard for both the letter of the law and the spirit of the Game, but...

It was clear from the sheer attention to detail, from the lovingly crafted adornments and perfectly fitted colors that Mandy put a lot of thought into her cowled persona. It was in the way she talked, in the way she walked, in the way she attempted – and usually succeeded – in taking control of any conversation she was a part of. Million was not just a costume Mandy put on to have fun and stuffed into the closet when she was done, it was something with a life of its own, a statement to herself and the rest of the world. To see someone break and ruin all of that in such a brutish fashion...

I didn't like it.

“You don't want to do that, bro,” said Roughhouse, landing in-between and just to the front of myself and Ruthless.

Bobby did not cut a very intimidating figure. Though he put on some muscle since the last time I saw him – something that did not remain unnoticed, judging by the way Ruth's eyes darted to him before guiltily sliding away – he still very much looked like an awkward, gangly teenager. His braids were too short and flopped all around his head, his face was too pale from many a day spent inside, the fuzz on his chin entirely failed to make him look more masculine, and the sleeveless furred tunic openly hung off his frame. Despite all of that, there was just something about him in this moment, something indescribable, that gave me pause and made me realize just why he was the leader of this band of merry lads and ladies.

“I very much do, bro,” scoffed Sergeant. “Stand down.”

Roughhouse shot a glance at Million Mandy, and she had the presence of mind to subtly shake her head. Her phantoms were neither tough nor strong, but they could last for a while and she could create an entire army, if given the time to prepare. Unfortunately, it didn't look like the mercenary intended to give her that time.

It was up to us to save her.

“I'm not comfortable with this, Chris,” Airstrike was the last to join the conversation. “Taking little kids hostage is going too far.”

This time the annoyance on Mandy's face stayed for a few moments longer, and I shot her a reassuring smile. It was important, I thought, that she manage to reassemble herself on her own. Otherwise, even after being saved, the feeling of being a victim was the kind that would stay with you for the rest of your life.

“This is a war,” Sergeant growled. “There's no too far.”

“The war ended years ago, chief,” Airstrike replied quietly. “The military was disbanded.”

“The war never ended!” Segeant barked, his teeth bared. His hand shook, and Mandy stood stock still, trying not to get her throat crushed. Her face once again displayed little except heart-wrenching fear. “Look around you! Look!”

Sergeant waved his pistol over the parking lot, indicating rubble and bodies and bomb craters. I tensed, but before I could take advantage of his distraction, the mercenary returned the gun to Mandy's head.

“We live in a jungle! It's open warfare in the streets, and no one, no place is safe! Every day, every hour we get new reports that somebody's been injured, that some factory's been demolished, that supplies have been stolen. Even if nobody wants to acknowledge it, ours is a city under siege.”

In another situation, I think I would have been amused. I've never seen anybody miss the point of the Game so badly.

“No, a siege implies that we're holding them back – and we're not! The monsters are already past the gates. The terrorists, the criminals, the beasts, they have banded together into an army that sees no end, and we dismiss them because they wear a funny uniform.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

For a moment, I was seized with the bizarre desire to protest that out costumes were anything but uniform. That was the entire point.

“That's why we lost, isn't it? You underestimated the enemy. How else could we have been defeated by seven children and a clown? With my military experience and your powers – powers I have personally hand-picked – we had everything necessary to win this fight, we had the training, the equipment, the skills... Don't!” Sergeant barked as Doombringer's staff lantern flashed yellow. “Don't try anything.”

Dimka lowered both his staff and his head.

I stifled a grin.

A lowered head looked contrite, saddened, even defeated. It also obscured the fact that there no longer was a head, no face or body underneath the hood, merely solidified roiling darkness. The very second his staff flashed, he was no longer Dimka – just a shadow that Dimka switched places with.

It was as I've thought back at the beginning. The battle was fought – and won – based on the information available.

Now it was merely a matter of waiting for the right moment.

“Enough lollygagging,” Sergeant scowled. “Where's the van?”

Bobby stiffly nodded toward the end of the parking lot, indicating an empty space in front of the unfinished structure's entrance.

“Do you think you're funny, boy?” Sergeant's eyes narrowed, and his hand tightened on Mandy's throat, causing a choked whimper to leave her lips.

Ruthless let out a low growl.

“Sinister Sam hid it with one of his glyphs,” Roughhouse replied hurriedly.

“Oh?” Sergeant tilted his head. “And would those 'glyphs' be hiding any other surprises?”

Bobby hesitated just a second too long before his denial. Surprisingly, the mercenary did not seem particularly upset about that.

“Get it over here yourself,” he ordered. “And remember, if you try to be clever – take out the goods or sabotage the van – it will be your little girlfriend that pays the price.”

Without even waiting for acknowledgement, Sergeant turned toward his last remaining ally.

“Airstrike, gather the bodies of our men. I don't want anyone left behind.”

The mercenary shot us one last look, nodded and complied with the order.

“You can't truly think that we would harm unconscious opponents?” There was a quiver in Mandy's voice, but I was glad to hear it nonetheless. An attempt to assert control over the conversation was a return to the norm, and that was important in a situation like this, important to her.

“You're a bunch of teenagers and petty criminals,” Sergeant snorted. “Neither is particularly well-known for their common sense.”

“We're villains,” I interjected softly, seeking to draw his attention.

“And you think that's better?” The mercenary glared. “People like you are the worst. Over the past years you've leeched on the lifeblood of this city, cowardly hiding behind masks and false names to escape the consequences of your actions. There's nothing tolerable or redeemable about villains.”

“And people like you are obsolete,” my voice grew bland. “For the last decade of its service, the military did little except act as enforcers for a tyrannical regime. It's little wonder you were dismantled the moment the old government was overthrown. There's nothing you can do that the heroes can't do better.”

He outright snarled at me.

“We were the protectors of this realm!”

“And now you're dust. The advance of history has rendered you impotent and pointless.”

His teeth clenched and his temper fraying, Sergeant pointed his gun at me.

“ You - ”

{Now.}

Mark dropped onto the mercenary with all the wrath of a thousand furies.

There was a clear snap of bone, and Sergeant staggered back, cradling his broken arm. Kindly One did not waste a second. A moment later, he had already snatched Mandy and was rising back into the sky. Sergeant raised the firearm in their direction – and dropped to the ground with a hoarse scream, twisting and turning and twitching.

Shadow Dimka finally got his opening.

And with that, the battle was over.