ULYSSES’ HEADQUARTERS is moving like a flash fire when we pull into the service garages. Innovator mechanics work side-by-side with Elementals in packs of five, filling the cavernous space with an orchestra of welding torches and buzzsaws, clanging tools and hurried orders. Other classes wielded by younger teenagers work to keep a constant draft moving from the blast doors up front to an open service chute that dumps straight into the Abyss, funneling metal shavings and embers out of the air. There’s no conductor to the chaos. Fearful frenzy, not assembly line precision, keeps the repairs moving as fast as possible. Autobikes roar in, deposit stragglers gathered from the further reaches of the Vents, wait just long enough for batteries to be swapped and fresh slabs of armor to be atomically plated over their still-smoking predecessors, then race right back out in an attempt to beat the coming Dynasty flood.

The colors the survivors wear mean nothing now, as long as it’s not orange. As soon as refugees arrive, they take assignments to help shore up the headquarters or man stakeouts on the edges of Ulysses’ territory and disperse without question. The faint promise of stability and a shared rage over the deaths of their found families is all the motivation they need to move like their lives depend on it. Dozens will find shelter in his gang before the end of the night. But hundreds more will still be out there fighting under the surviving lieutenants of the Eight until they’re ground to dust.

Welding spray from the workers reinforcing the blast doors showers over the autocab as we duck out. Ulysses clears a warpath between the workers, heading towards the depths of the fortress. His lieutenants are swarming over us before we’re ten feet from the transport. Asking for orders, giving updates on refugee counts, overwhelming him with information we’re in no condition to analyze. Biohancers rush out of an adjoining hall to start applying nanosprays and scabgel, working while we walk and Ulysses talks.

“Let in anyone who comes,” he’s saying, two lieutenants already dismissed. “Clear out the gym and get Missus Heng on the line for provisions. If any of Marcus’ phalanxes make it, have them wait in the lounge. I’ll meet with them soon.”

They bombard him with a press conference’s worth of further questions. He stops just as we reach the end of the garage, raises a hand to put the younger warriors on hold, turns back to Lain and Matthias while the garage keeps roiling on around us.

“You two are welcome to stay as well, for as long as you need. You’re Nero’s, aren’t you?”

“Nero was our most consistent employer,” Matthias says, noting the number of fistfighters now eyeing them suspiciously. Lain rolls her eyes and fishes around in her pocket for the vial of Shatter. He smoothly takes the lead from her. “Lately we’ve just been helping Mori. Since we met in the Orange.”

Ulysses’ eyes narrow. “You saw what happened to Sarah, then.”

Matthias blanches. “No sir. Lain and I were… liberating trinkets that Nero was interested in acquiring.”

“Ah. Thieves.” He breaks the rising tension with a grim smile. “I was worried you might be something dangerous.”

“We were working at the same time Mori was. What happened to her bought us enough time to escape without being caught. We pay back our debts.” He quiets and glances at Lain. “…though I imagine we’re square now.”

“There was little enough room for thieves in the Vents before tonight. There will be even less now.” Grimacing, Ulysses rests an elbow against the doorframe, donning nonchalance like a coat. The weight on his shoulders, almost physical. The pressure to keep it together and not let any one of his subordinates know how close he must be to breaking, I can’t even imagine. “If you want, I can find something for you to do around my territory; enough to keep you on your feet while this settles. Friends of Emilia’s are friends of mine.” A wan smile, barely seen. “She has Sarah’s sense of character.”

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“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to talk it over with Lain first.”

“Ulysses is a good man. You’ll be safest here,” I interject, though I know anything I say will only spur Lain to take another drop of Shatter. She does, sure enough. “If you go back out on the streets, you’re dead. For real this time.”

“And what about you?” Matthias asks. “We’re just thieves. You have a name. Dynasty will want your head far more than they want ours.”

Lain finally breaks her silence. “She’s doing what’s good for her. Just like we’re going to do what’s good for us.” She nods to Ulysses. “Thanks for the offer, sir, but this place isn’t a safehouse- it’s going to be a morgue. We’ll be gone by morning.”

The boxer nods and shifts back to address his fighters, leaving me to finish with the thieves.

“After everything you said at the Ibis, to Krey, you’re just going to hide?” Matthias still watches me, waiting for any sort of reaction. “What about the Vents? Sarah Morninghawk’s dream? I know you believed in it, Mori. It’s what made me believe in it too. The Eight might be gone, but their gangs and people are still out there. There must be something we can…”

His voice trails away, replaced by clanging hammers.

“…you’re giving up. Aren’t you?”

“What’s left to give up on?” I ask. Guilty weight keeps me looking out over the garage. Sarah’s words, half-remembered, rolling off my tongue. “There are no heroes in the Vents, Matthias. No one can save everyone.”

He shakes his head, taken aback. “What would Sarah say to that if she were here?”

“She said it herself.” I swallow at the lump in my throat. “Then she tried to be a hero anyways. And she ended up just like the others.”

His mouth opens and closes, less each time, till he ends by swallowing down his retort and extending a slender hand.

“I suppose this is it, then. I doubt we’ll be seeing each other again, Mori.” He chuckles softly at some private joke. “It was a good run. I’m sorry I… that I couldn’t help more.”

“I’m the one who broke my promise. I didn’t change a thing.” Despite the pain, we shake with hands clasped to forearms; fighting tradition. “You saved my life. I won’t forget it.”

“Try not to, because we won’t be around to save your ass next time,” Lain drawls. She shoves past me, rough with a point, following a green-jacket guide deeper into the headquarters. “See ya, Mori.”

I watch them go till they disappear behind a press of bodies at the next intersection. Ulysses’ chin tilts to the side, looking down at me in the corner of his eye. Noting the discomfort that makes itself known on my face as I watch the thieves depart.

“Did you like them?” he asks.

“He believed in Sarah more than I did,” I murmur. “I fed him a lie. I fed them all a lie.”

“You gave him hope,” Ulysses corrects. He rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Something you learned from her.”

“Sometimes I wonder.” I cough into my fist. “All I’ve done to stop Dynasty is chuck rocks at a gutter. How can I save other people when I can’t even save myself?” A painful sigh works its way out of my throat as I lean into Ulysses’ chest. Safe, for the moment, beside the beat of his tired heart. “I can’t be what Sarah was.”

With a gentle nudge, the only father I’ve ever had gives me the last bit of strength I need to start walking again. “She never wanted you to be what she was,” he says, leading me towards the part of his home I know best. “But I do need a drink before we have this talk. And you need a doctor. Shrapnel, you said?”

I nod. “Shrapnel.”

First step, I cough a chunky mess of half-congealed red onto the garage floor. It mixes with the oil till one of Wishbone’s refugee Biohancers whisks it away.

“Yeah. Shrapnel.”