Red's arm hung off his torso like a wet rag. The whole surface of it felt like a million pinpricks, as if he'd merely fallen asleep on the thing, but if that had been the problem then the limb should've started working again by now. Instead Red had to keep running and keep throwing himself behind cover as he and one of two identical Romans delved deeper into the León Estate's west wing. The spaces they passed—white tiled floors, plaster walls, ornate doorframes, an incalculable variety of furniture—all of it got turned into swiss cheese with each string of shots Hound dealt behind them.

Needless to say, running from a dude who wouldn't stop shooting at you wasn't the easiest thing in the world. The worst part was, Red should've had an easy way to defend himself. A way he'd worked all week long to earn, and a way that had almost immediately been taken from him. He couldn't clap without two working arms, and he couldn't cast his Trick without clapping. That random cowboy had practically crippled him at the very start of things.

Jackass, he thought. His irritation led him to pick up a cabinet sitting by the wall with his one working hand and toss it over at Hound. The thing broke into splinters, missing Hound by a hair as the man dodged out of the way, guns still blazing as he did.

What was this feeling? They ducked under Hound's fire, constantly on the move, dashing through one room to the next, and Red could find no joy in it. Maybe he'd been looking forward to the fight too much—or rather he'd been looking forward to what he wanted the fight to be. An even battle, one where he could face Hound and his bullets confidently. Not another damn chase, like nothing had changed since last time when Scarlet—

Stop. Red forced himself to think about the good stuff. Guns shooting everywhere, him running for his life, fighting actual assassins. Yes, this was still cool.

Yet another spray of gunfire followed them through yet another doorway. Now they came into what looked like some sort of central hall, wide windows along the walls, a square staircase leading down on their left, a row of doors on their right. Still, there was plenty of space, and that space had been filled with all the prerequisites of a sitting room—the elegant sofas, the short tables, the polished cupboards. All historic, according to Baba. Those that weren't at least fifty years old were replicas of pieces rotted by time.

Hound destroyed it all immediately. The man's supply seemed limitless, and as he fired it at them Red shoved Roman to the floor behind one of the couches. Crouching there, they felt and heard the bullets whizzing over them, the breaking glass and the crack of breaking wood.

"I could take him," Red found himself saying. "Hold him back."

He could survive a bullet wound or two—Kitty had, and wasn't he supposed to have way more Spirit than her? It wasn't ideal, but Red just wanted to punch something. The longer this went on the more useless he felt.

"We can't trap him here," Roman said, breathless. "Too many exits."

"The whole plan's screwed, dude." He took his limp hand with the other, waved it around, then dropped it. "I can't use my Trick anymore."

"My people should be waiting for us at the library. That's still our best chance."

Red made to argue, but then something dropped on the floor between them. Both looked down, blinked, and at the same time recognized the round green object to be a live grenade.

Foot lunging, Red kicked the thing away and grabbed Roman in the same instant, shoving the man roughly behind him. Like most things, it all came by instinct, without any degree of thought.

He saw the grenade fall down the staircase, then heard it explode, then turned his head and felt a bunch of needles suddenly stab into his side. Still not thinking, Red then plucked Roman right off the ground and threw the man over his shoulder, running for the next couch over. The one they'd hidden behind had been unfortunately reduced to a cloud of dispersing cotton.

To his credit, Roman didn't hesitate to pull his gun out and shoot Hound's way as they went. He forced the assassin into cover for long enough for them to find safety behind their own, and when they did Red dropped him with a short intake of breath.

"That fucking hurt," Red said. It hadn't been much shrapnel, but blood now flowed freely down to his leg, tuxedo thoroughly ruined. The latest in what was slowly becoming a whole line of destroyed outfits.

"We need to keep moving," Roman said.

"It'd be a lot easier if we didn't have to keep hiding like this."

Roman looked over the couch, then ducked in a panic, barely avoiding a shot that clipped the armrest. "I don't know much about your magic, but think. There has to be something you can do."

Red did think. That cowboy's silver gun had clearly been some sort of special weapon, a Talisman like her ring, if of a more violent variety. It had blown a hole through his Spirit; that's what Kid had told him, at least. But his whole arm refused to work even though the shot had only landed on his shoulder, like the hole had somehow cut off access.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the rain of gunfire in the background, feeling for his Spirit. It was still there, urging him to use it, raging within like a blazing fire. He couldn't find a hole—his Spirit felt as full as ever—but when he urged the energy out to coat him in its flow he did sense a kind of wall. Something stopped his Spirit cold within him, some limit to its reach. Frowning, he tried forcing his Spirit through the barrier.

Then Roman shoved him awake, bringing the both of them down to the floor as a ray of bullets seared just above. They went through the couch they'd crouched behind, its fabric torn to shreds.

"We can't afford you taking a nap right now!" Roman said.

Red grunted, shoving him off. Then the boy grabbed what remained of the couch by the bottom and flipped the whole thing like a long spinning coin in Hound's direction. It crashed hard into the table Hound had overturned for cover, but by then the assassin had flown out, advancing toward them. He'd holstered the dual handguns and replaced them with a shotgun he'd kept strapped to his back.

Clicking his tongue, Red kicked one of the tables nearby at him. Hound dodged that too, but at least it kept him distracted long enough for Roman to start shooting again.

"I can fix my arm," Red shouted, trying to be heard over the gunfire. Roman's aside, the echo that had filled the whole mansion seemed to be getting closer. "But I think I'll need a little time!"

"Tell me when you find some!" Roman said.

He drove Hound into a corner, and in a wild stroke of luck seemed set to actually hit the man, but then Roman's gun clicked empty. A cold shiver spiked up his arm then, and it got worse when Hound took immediate advantage, sprinting forward with shotgun leveled up at them.

But their luck continued when Hound glanced at something behind Roman and, with a brief narrowing of his eyes, threw himself aside just as a stream of bullets tore past where he'd been. Roman looked back and found three of his crew members running up the stairs, guns out and at the ready.

Unfortunately, their faces were anything but reassuring. One of them ran up to Roman and grabbed him by the arm while the others kept a tense watch. "Boss! You need to get out of here!"

"What are you—"

More bullets, except this time they came from the stairs. The man who'd warned Roman fell, yelling and grabbing a now bloody leg, while Red pulled Roman back by the hem of his shirt just before he could get hit too. They watched Roman's crewmen return fire as a whole other crew stormed up the steps, the whole hall suddenly filling with the loud din of flying lead.

"Agrivon's men," Roman muttered. The man would be slinking around somewhere else in the manor.

Red pulled him behind a tall cupboard, and Roman dragged the wounded crewman along with them. Said crewman's brow flushed with sweat, but he kept pressure on his leg wound and did his best to aid the others, fingers pulling on the trigger of his gun again and again.

"Yovanni's crew too," he said, teeth clenched, and his voice grew loud. "Those bastards betrayed us along with everyone else!"

"You're the traitors!" another voice said. "Roman should've just fallen in line along with the rest! What else did you morons expect would happen?"

Looking out from cover, Roman saw everyone had taken cover, more or less, though it was hard to tell who was who. Worse, he'd lost track of Hound amidst all the passing fire and flying debris. But surely the assassin was just as pinned as they were; good as he was, no one could move freely when surrounded by so much potential for death.

"The Don picked Roman for a reason!" someone else screamed. "He's the best choice!"

"You know Agrivon could never accept that!"

"That's his problem!"

"It's become all our problem now! Agrivon and Roman are both a couple of power-hungry maniacs!"

"And you think Yovanni would be any better?!"

They argued as they fought, words flying back and forth like their bullets. Roman ignored it, turning to Red. "Whatever you're thinking, now's your chance!"

Red nodded and closed his eyes again. A pressure came off him that made Roman's hair stand on end, though part of that was surely all the violence around him. Bullets slammed into their cupboard cover, whittling the wood away each time—it wouldn't be long before they'd be forced to find somewhere else to hide again.

Let's hope it's going better for the others, Roman thought. Some part of him felt like it couldn't be going any worse. Another part—the part he worked harder than ever to ignore—knew that it wasn't wise to expect anything but the worst.

- - - — MKII — - - -

Stretch had expected to run from the shadows biting at his heels. He'd expected the long needles that extended from each spot of darkness as they passed from one room to the next, expected the nerve-wracking attention he needed just to notice that they were coming whenever he came close to the barest hint of shade. He'd even expected to be chased by Hound instead, preparing his mind to escape from a hail of gunfire. They'd planned for both possibilities, had studied the layout of the mansion with an eye for routes to take depending on which one they lured.

What Stretch hadn't expected was to run from literal lasers. He looked back at the man sprinting after them, his dark cloak billowing, one hand pressed to his hat and the other pointing a silver revolver their way. When he pulled the trigger, a thin stream of light flew forth from the barrel, and Stretch barely turned fast enough to dodge it.

At least the guy was going after him rather than his Roman. This was an Enforcer after all—at least if that badge pinned to his chest meant anything—so chances were he'd been ordered to save his ire for other Magicians rather than normal humans. Then again, Stretch didn't think Enforcers were supposed to be getting involved with criminals.

Hell, regular old Rangers like Stretch weren't supposed to be getting involved with criminals either. Nothing about this encounter made any real sense. With that in mind, he made sure to run markedly behind his Roman, serving as a shield just in case the Enforcer ever decided to change targets. Red hadn't died after taking one of those shots, so Stretch figured he'd be fine if he happened to take one himself.

Not that it helped defend against Owl's shadow attacks. Another needle shot down from the ceiling, stretching all the way despite its height and stabbing right through Roman's forearm.

"Motherfucker!" the man said, grabbing his wound as the shadow fled. He stopped, pain and perhaps a bit of fear freezing him in place, but Stretch tackled him back into a run before the Enforcer could catch up.

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Roman groaned as he ran, worrying over his bloodied arm. Reasonable as it was considering the circumstances, it sounded strangely pathetic from a voice Stretch had grown used to thinking of as steady above all else.

Stretch shoved him forward. "We'll take care of you later, man! Stick to the script!"

The ballroom couldn't be too much farther away. Stretch glanced around, watching for any more shadow sneak attacks, but watching too for any sign of Kitty. Surely she'd be nearby, running alongside them. Let's hope she hasn't gotten lost. She was too good to make such a simple mistake, but when things got this dangerous Stretch always had a hard time keeping his confidence.

Something hit him. No pain came; rather, there was a spark of numb coldness. Stretch cursed, turning around to see the Enforcer's smirk. His back didn't hurt, but something was wrong there, like all the muscles had stopped working, and he realized with a start that he couldn't stop turning. Eventually he tripped on his own feet and fell, landing on his ass, screaming at himself to get up and move.

He couldn't before another shadow needle came, aimed right for Roman's head. They both saw it come, Stretch straining up by the strength of his arms alone and Roman flinching back with pale terror, like a string of darkness shooting through the air from the nearest wall.

Then it stopped. The needle crashed into something, almost bending upon impact, and retracted just as fast as it had come. Stretch watched as the air shimmered, and in a single blink Kitty was there before him, standing like a guardian with her knife held out in front of her.

Her glance was quick. "Can you stand?"

Stretch blinked again, but this wasn't the time to gape. He took a sharp breath and tried again, finding to his surprise that he could stand... kind of. Part of his back still felt strange and weak, but his legs still worked. It was just a matter of using different muscles to stay upright, and with a thought he found himself using his Trick too, contorting the rest of his body to make up for the structural imbalance.

In the end he stood with a bit of a hunch, but he stood nevertheless. "I got shot," he guessed, looking at the Enforcer. The man stood across the room—a long sort of parlor with wide windows—eyes narrowed on Kitty. "That gun. Feels like I'm paralyzed or something."

"Scarlet got hit by it a long time ago," Kitty said, voice terse. "It's not permanent. You'll heal in time."

We don't exactly have much of that, Stretch thought, but Kitty probably knew that already. He sighed, looking down at himself and his slumping form. It took real concentration just to stay on his feet now. I'll just get in the way like this.

"You two go," he said, resigned. "I'll try holding this guy back."

Roman, fidgeting in place, seemed unsure. Kitty, eyes roaming the room for Owl, simply nodded. She knew as much as him that their best shot was to reach that ballroom as soon as possible. For all they knew, Red had already gotten Hound to the library.

Still, Kitty did hesitate a moment before making for the door. Worry shone in her brief gaze, short and hidden behind a mountain of stern discipline, but Stretch saw it. "Good luck," she said, then left with a stumbling Roman dragging behind her.

Owl would go with her, hidden in the shadows, ready to ambush from any number of angles. It relieved Stretch to know he at least had one less thing to worry about, though he felt bad to think that way. Kitty can take care of herself, he thought. She's good. Better than you. Just focus on what you can do.

So he focused on the Enforcer, who even now had begun striding around the furniture between them, eyes sharp. Trying to find an opening.

"She's right, if it makes you feel better," the man said. "Moonshooter's effect ain't permanent."

Stretch raised a brow, standing ready before the open door. "Thanks, I guess. But, ah, who even are you, man?"

"I go by Vincent."

"... Okay?" That didn't clarify anything.

"Didn't expect me, eh? I feel the same. I was told about the others, but you're new by my reckonin'. Friend of theirs?"

Before Stretch could answer, Vincent's gun came up. He threw himself aside—even knowing it wouldn't kill him, his body refused to get hit again—and the Enforcer leaped over a table, making for the exit.

Stretch held out an arm, one that lengthened to wrap around the man. Seeing it, Vincent jumped back, gun pointing. Another shot came, light streaking through the air, and with a groan Stretch bent his whole torso out of the way, body contorting into an exaggerated C-shape.

"Not bad," Vincent said, shooting beam after beam from his hip. "What business do you have here, then?"

Stretch bounced around the room, legs and arms extending like springs. "Will you stop shooting me if I told you?!"

"Depends. How loyal are you to that girl?"

"Very!"

"Then I'll keep shootin'."

After a few more near misses, Stretch knew he couldn't stay on the defensive. The more Vincent pushed him, the further he got from the door and the more likely it was the man would run after Kitty. So when Stretch next sent an arm, he did it with a closed first at its end, one aimed right for Vincent's face.

It struck more like a whip than a punch, arm cracking in the air. Vincent's head flew back, hat blown off, foot stepping back to stop a fall. Emboldened, Stretch threw out another.

But Vincent hadn't stopped looking at him even after getting hit. Stretch realized right as the man ducked under his next attack, gun already held out. He tried weaving around the beam, shifting his body the same as before, but then the beam curved. Stretch saw it turn in the air, trailing like neon, aimed right at his abdomen.

One dead spot in his back he could take. Another just opposite it would surely take him out of the fight entirely. Panicking, Stretch did the only thing he could think to do in the split second he had left: his free hand grew, shifting into a solid mass of round flesh just as the light struck.

He felt the hand numb immediately, turning back to normal without any prompting. No Spirit could now be forced into it, and so it could no longer shift at his will. Stretch stared down at it, feeling almost amputated.

And Vincent didn't stop there. He shot again, and Stretch threw himself on the floor behind a small desk. The light curved after him as before, drawn to him almost as if by magnetism, but thankfully it hit the desk in a small puff of glimmering sparks.

"I locked into you with my Bullseye," Vincent said. "No way around it, buddy. My shots ain't the kind you can avoid forever."

Some kind of homing Trick? Stretch considered that, staring at the spot where Vincent's beam had hit his cover. The desk's wood looked unscathed, not so much as a scratch marring its surface. Duh, he thought. They're laser beams. No mass.

Not that the knowledge would help him any. Even now Vincent edged closer and closer to the exit, all but victorious. No wonder he felt comfortable enough to share his Trick—he thought Stretch practically beaten.

But Stretch's job wasn't to beat this guy in a fight. His job was to keep him off of Kitty. He looked at Vincent, then the big windows right behind him, an idea slowly forming.

"You're an Enforcer, aren't you?" Stretch asked, both arms snaking across the floor at either side. He tried to hide the movement behind all the furniture, feeling for something solid to grab onto. The numb hand would be a problem, but he found the long couches were hefty enough to take his weight. "We're Rangers, man. You, me, Kitty, we're all on the same side."

"Your little friend's playin' you." Vincent kept his gun up, eyes on Stretch. He'd noticed the arms and stepped cautiously, hopefully expecting nothing but another attempted attack. "That girl's a killer. Her and the other one. Putting 'em behind bars would be nice of me, all things considered."

"I'm sure we could talk things out." The hand wouldn't grip, so Stretch just wrapped his whole arm around the couch leg like a knot. Both arms now extended far around the room, almost hugging it.

"That road's long passed. I only got two words for those girls: 'hands up.' And I'm afraid they're not the kind to listen."

"Maybe they'd surprise you."

"They did," Vincent muttered, hand tightening on his gun. "Once. I try not to get surprised no more."

Stretch readied himself. "Well, you'll probably have to keep trying."

Vincent's lips thinned around his toothpick, and without another word pulled the trigger. At the same moment, Stretch canceled his Trick, letting his arms shrink back.

Stretch's Trick couldn't quite make his body the same as rubber. Something about the consistency was off even after he'd mastered it, and it just went to show that supposed mastery only went so far. But despite this, his body was enough like rubber to respond the way he'd expect when he tied himself to something heavier than himself and then shrunk the extra distance.

That is, it shot forward in the direction against which he'd pulled his weight. A direction in which stood one very unfortunate Enforcer.

For the first time, Stretch thought he saw something other than deadly calm flash across the other man's face. A moment of shock.

Then Stretch slammed hard into him, batting him into the air and right through the window. Both of them flew out in an explosion of glass.

- - - — MKII — - - -

A crowd stood out in the León Estate's back garden. They'd sat in rows, facing an arch of wreathed flowers, but then the sound of bullets had started up. These men and women—most of whom had served under three now deceased Syndicate Captains—watched the manor with dread and anticipation. Sergei, Luther, and Alainne stood with them, the latter in a white dress whose beauty seemed all but forgotten.

The whole wedding seemed trite now, as far as Alainne was concerned. Why all this pomp when in the end it all devolved to guns and killing anyway? Her father could be so absurd at times. But now that she was here, she could do nothing other than wait along with the rest for whoever won the battle to come out and demand their loyalty.

Then she and everyone else watched as two people suddenly flew out a window. Limbs flailing, they shot from the east wing, arched over the central gazebo below, then crashed into the west wing a second later.

Everyone stood silent, perhaps unbelieving. Beside Alainne, her father shook his head.

"The repairs will bankrupt us more than the funerals," he said, tutting.

Alainne supposed they really would have to buy the Estate wholesale now. The city would probably force them to; no amount of bribes could let them avoid it. At least, assuming there was an Estate left to buy in the first place.

- - - — MKII — - - -

Red didn't just see the wall at his shoulder—he pictured it in his mind, a great dam holding back his Spirit. A concrete image, just like Stretch had taught him.

His Spirit raged behind the dam, crashing against it again and again in a restless current. He couldn't break the dam—it was too strong. But he thought he could feel that other current of Spirit in his arm far below, the remains of the river the dam had blocked.

He couldn't break the dam. But he could keep pushing against it, make his Spirit flow over it, roll down in flooding waters to that sliver below, reconnect the two...

Yes. Red smiled, feeling something click. His Spirit now had somewhere to go, and he let it rush forth over the dam in pounding waves, striking it again and again. Some of the splash flew over each time, spilling down the sides, pooling on the riverbed until... until...

With a great pop, Red could feel his arm again. His smile broadened, the usual grin taking up half his face, Spirit nearly singing within. Opening his eyes, he found Roman crouched behind him against the wall, and he saw all the mafia guys shooting at each other around them.

The hall was a warzone, and within it Hound thrived. The assassin leaped from cover to cover, dual handguns back in play, arms spread like wings and shooting in different directions. He hit crewmen left and right—many more had found their way there, now in the dozens—and nearly half the room had fallen to him. Most were outright dead, glazed eyes staring up like fish washed ashore. Some merely lay wounded, still shooting with desperation as much as spite.

No more, Red decided. Things would finally get back on script.

He stepped out, hands clapping, and this time he did not push. Instead he stomped a foot and thrust out a closed fist, punching the air.

Hound turned just in time to feel something smash into his chest. The armor crumpled, a solid indentation of a fist forming dead on its center, and the man flew back across the room as if bent over a cannonball. Red saw him crash through a door, breaking the thing off its hinges, and for the first time that day felt genuine satisfaction. His aim had been off—ideally, the punch would've landed on Hound's face—but it was something real.

He'd gotten one in. Finally, things could get back on track.

The whole hall stilled, the few healthy combatants stopping to appreciate the splintered remains of the door before turning to Red. He just met their halting eyes with a challenging stare of his own. Try me now, his eyes told them. I can dish it out as much as you guys.

"I assume you figured it out?" Roman said, straightening behind him.

"Just had to put some spirit into it." Red noted how Hound got to his feet beyond the broken doorway, rolling out of view. That vest of his had taken most of the blow it seemed, but that was fine. Red would welcome another chance to rattle the guy's brains, up close or not. "I should be all good now, as long as that cowboy doesn't show back up."

As if summoned by his words, one of the windows behind him suddenly crashed inwards and spilled two bodies onto the hall's floor. Red, Roman, and everyone else turned to see Stretch and Vincent splayed out over a mess of broken glass, both groaning in pain. The two looked up, dazed, examining their surroundings with groggy distraction.

Stretch found Red soon enough. He smiled at the boy, a bemused and sheepish thing. "Oh. Hey. Uh. Surprise?"

Next to him, Vincent found Red too. The look he gave was nowhere near as friendly, and his silver gun slowly came up as he assessed the rest of the room.

Roman cleared his throat. Like Red, the man was trying hard not to palm his face. "So, you were saying?"

Rather than answer, Red slowly brought his hands together. He supposed baby steps weren't his style anyway, even when it came to learning how to use magic. The thought let him keep hold of his grin even as Vincent pulled back the hammer.