It's a plumbing van, or at least that's what the slapdash lettering on the side says. "Ace Flow Solutions," or something equally generic. The Kingdom spares no expense on disguises, except they do, and this piece of junk rattles like it's held together with duct tape and prayers. I shift in my seat, grimacing as the movement tugs at the gash on my side.

Kevlar's good for a lot of things. Anti-material rounds ain't one of 'em.

"You're gonna rip it open worse," Jellyjam says, perched in the front seat like a queen on her throne. She's angled toward me, one hand on the headrest, her pink suit looking almost clean despite the chaos we just crawled out of. "Sit still, Blake."

"It's already open worse," I grunt, peeling the blood-soaked edge of my undershirt back from the wound. There's a shard of something metal lodged in there, glinting under the van's dim overhead light. "Not like I can make it worse-worse."

Mudslide chuckles from the corner, his paper bag mask crinkling with the motion. "Man's got a point. Besides, he likes this stuff. Probably makes him feel like a real action hero."

"Yeah, because action heroes patch themselves up in busted vans," I mutter, digging a pair of tweezers out of the first aid kit. The kit's a joke--like someone packed it for a high school field trip instead of a supervillain team. "Real glamorous."

"You wanna glamor, you join the movies," Mudslide says. "We're in crime, baby."

"Sure feels like it," I say, pinching the shard of metal with the tweezers and giving it a good yank. Pain lances through my side, sharp and hot, but the metal comes free with a wet squelch. "This, uh..." I hold up the shard, squinting at it in the low light. "This looks like it's from one of those anti-material rounds."

"Anti-materiel," Mrs. Laceration corrects from across the van. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharpening one of her knives like we're not all jammed into the same sardine can. "With an E. It's French."

"What's French about it?" I ask, glancing at her.

"The spelling," she says without looking up. "Materiel means equipment. Material means, like, raw stuff. Different words."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Mudslide says. "Why not just say anti-equipment rounds, then?"

"Because it sounds stupid," Laceration says, picking dirt and blood and metal shavings out from under her nails. "And this isn't stupid. It's precise."

"Precise," I repeat, dabbing at the wound with alcohol-soaked gauze. "Yeah, nothing says precise like shooting a dinosaur with a cannon."

"That cannon shredded your fancy armor," Yellowjacket chimes in from the back, his long blond hair falling over his shoulder as he stretches. "So maybe they're onto something."

"Fancy?" I snort, glancing at the torn remains of the kevlar plates piled in the corner. "That stuff's about as fancy as you, pal."

Yellowjacket grins, leaning back against the van wall. "It's all about the illusion, baby."

Jellyjam rolls her eyes. "You're all ridiculous."

"We're also alive," Doppelganger says, her voice soft and clipped. She's sitting near the back door, her legs crossed primly at the ankles, even with all the blood and grit on the floor. Her bandaged face is unreadable, as always. "Which is more than I expected after that mess."

"You expected us to fail?" Fulcrum asks, her tone sharp. She's perched on a toolbox, one leg bouncing with barely contained energy.

"No," Doppelganger says calmly. "But I don't make assumptions. Keeps me alive."

"Smart," I say, tossing the bloody gauze into an old takeout bag. "But you're forgetting one thing."

"And what's that?" Doppelganger asks, tilting her head.

I grin, sharp and toothy. "We're the Kingdom. We don't fail."

For a second, the van goes quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the soft scrape of Laceration's nail kit. Then Mudslide laughs again, loud and raspy. "Man, you really believe that, don't you?"

"Course I do," I say, leaning back against the van wall. "We just yanked two of ours out from under their noses. And now we're getting steak on Zenith's dime. That's a win."

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"Yeah, about that," Jellyjam says, turning to face the rest of us. "We're laying low in Lancaster for the night. Upper Management's orders. No phones, no contact. Just steak and silence."

"Lancaster?" Yellowjacket groans, throwing his head back dramatically. "What are we, Amish?"

"You're whatever Zenith says you are," Jellyjam snaps. "And right now, you're hungry and quiet."

Yellowjacket mimes zipping his lips, but his grin doesn't fade. Fulcrum rolls her eyes at him, muttering something under her breath about "drama queens."

I glance at the others--Laceration with her nails, Doppelganger with her unsettling calm, Mudslide fiddling with his bag mask, Yellowjacket being, well, Yellowjacket. Then there's me, still bleeding, still grinning.

"We're fugitives now, you know," I say, breaking the silence.

"More than usual?" Mudslide asks.

"Way more," I say. "This wasn't just a heist. We kicked the hornet's nest."

"Good thing we're good at swatting," Laceration says, testing the edge of her lacquered nails with her thumb.

"Yeah," I say, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. "Good thing."

"You're sure about the steak, right?" Yellowjacket pipes up, pulling a rubber band from his wrist and twisting it around his long hair. "I'm not wasting a night in Lancaster for some greasy burger."

"Steakhouse," Jellyjam confirms, her voice clipped. "Zenith said it's one of ours. Nobody's gonna ask why a bunch of bruised-up weirdos are eating filet mignon at two in the morning."

"Filet mignon," Yellowjacket repeats, stretching the words like they're magic. "Now we're talking."

"Not for you, though," Fulcrum snaps, shooting him a look. "You look like a flank steak guy. Overcooked and covered in ketchup."

Mudslide cackles, his whole body shaking with the sound. "She got you there, Jacket."

Yellowjacket waves her off, grinning. "Say what you want, but I'm getting the biggest steak they've got. Medium rare. Maybe a lobster tail on the side."

"Lobster?" I groan, shifting in my seat. "Christ, you've got expensive taste for a guy who probably rides a bike with a gas leak."

"Hey," Yellowjacket shoots back, mock-offended. "First off, that's custom tuning. Second, we just risked our asses to pull this job. If I'm getting a bonus, I'm eating like a king."

"Kings don't eat steak in Lancaster," Doppelganger mutters, her voice cutting through the banter like a scalpel. She adjusts her tie--perfectly straight, of course--and leans back against the door. "They eat it in Paris. Or Tokyo. Somewhere civilized."

"We're not kings," Mudslide says, folding his arms and slumping against the van wall. "We're working men and women. Well, some of us." He throws a pointed look at Fulcrum and Yellowjacket.

"You calling me lazy, baghead?" Fulcrum snaps, but there's no heat in it.

Mudslide smirks, lifting his hands. "Nah, just saying some of us got the scars to prove we're here for the work."

That earns a low whistle from Laceration, who hasn't looked up from her hands once. "Speaking of scars," she says, flicking her eyes toward Mudslide. "What's with the bag, anyway? You ever gonna tell us why you hide your face?"

The van goes quiet. Even Yellowjacket, who usually can't shut up, leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. Mudslide stiffens for a second, glancing around like he's weighing his options.

"I don't hide my face," he says finally. "It's a uniform."

"A bag," Fulcrum says, deadpan. "Is a uniform."

"Exactly," Mudslide replies, nodding like that clears everything up.

"You gotta explain that one, buddy," I say, leaning forward despite the pain in my side. "What kind of uniform is a paper bag? You some kind of mascot?"

"No," he says, his tone sharpening. "It's a statement."

"About what?" Jellyjam asks, turning halfway around in her seat to look at him. "You're not exactly marching in a union protest, Muddy."

"About us," he says, jabbing a finger toward the rest of us. "About people like us. We're not the rich guys, or the geniuses, or the ones with fancy tech or perfect teeth. We're the ones who scrape by. The ones who make do with what we've got. And you know what? That's enough. The bag says, 'Yeah, I'm just a guy. But I'm still here. And I'll still kick your ass.'"

For a second, nobody says anything. Mudslide leans back, crossing his arms like he's proud of his little speech.

"Okay," Yellowjacket says, breaking the silence. "But it's still a bag, dude."

Mudslide groans, throwing his hands up. "You don't get it."

"No, no," I say, holding up a hand. "I get it. It's, uh... symbolic. Like when people wear those pins for causes. Only yours is recyclable."

Mudslide glares at me, but there's a hint of a smirk hiding under it. "Yeah, laugh it up. You're just mad 'cause your whole thing is a suit and bad cigars."

"Hey," I snap, pointing at him with the bloodied tweezers. "These cigars are imported."

"From Newark?" Fulcrum quips, and I feel Jellyjam shaking with silent laughter up front.

"And the suit is everyone's thing," Jellyjam reminds us.

"At least my uniform doesn't get soggy when it rains," I shoot back, leaning against the van wall again.

Mudslide rolls his eyes, but there's no real malice in it. "Whatever. I'll get a new bag when we stop. And when I do, you'll all remember why it works."

"Sure," Laceration says, testing her nail against her thumb. "I don't get it, man, you're too pretty to hide your face. Could've been a movie star. You've got, like, that mafioso face. Very dignified," she says, making a fake camera rectangle with her pointer fingers and thumbs, framing him in it.

"Been there, done that," Yellowjacket quips.

"You work community theater, hoss, that is not the same thing," Laceration retorts.

The van erupts into low, tired laughter, the kind that comes after too many close calls and not enough rest. Even Doppelganger cracks a small smile, though it's gone as quick as it came.

"Hey, at least we're alive," I say, pulling my jacket tighter over the gash in my side. The wound's still bleeding, but it's slowed, and the shard's out. I can deal with the rest later. "And we're getting steak. I'll call that a win."

"For now," Jellyjam mutters, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Just hope the cops aren't hungry too."