Maisie crossed the warehouse floor like she trod over a minefield — and perhaps she did, though any traps kept themselves well hidden. With nothing to expend it on, her adrenaline ran laps in her system. She twitched at the lights, at swirling dust motes, at the tap of her own feet.

In her peripheral vision, Samson stepped silently, moving in that steady glide their father had drilled into him. His face was drawn with concentration.

When they were almost at the crates, an impulse made her freeze. The scene remained fixed, and yet…

She surrendered to her instincts. ‘Stop.’

Samson did, looking at her in question.

What was it? Her ears strained, picking up... Something.

‘Do you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘I just—’

There it was again. A faint wheezing sound, coming from directly in front of them.

She scrutinised the air, searching for the telltale warping of space that betrayed a person under invisibility. The piercing light didn't so much as waver.

Maisie looked down.

There, only a few inches from her front foot, was a thin chalk line. She followed it with her eyes. It formed a circle around the crates, about thirty feet in diameter, too thin to be noticeable from farther away.

‘Look.’ She pointed.

Her brother scowled. ‘So what? Someone's drawn a circle; maybe they're artistic. Big deal.’

He moved past her.

‘Wait—’

Before the word had fully passed her lips, Samson was flung backwards. His feet caught air, body arcing — and then he slammed side-first into the ground.

When the thud of his landing faded, he didn't move.

Maisie rushed to him. ‘Hey! Are you all right?’ She crouched, unsure what to do. Should she touch him? No. If anything was broken, moving him might make it worse.

He had landed on his right, the mutant arm hopefully taking the brunt of his fall. That was a good sign. His face was angled towards the ground, hair covering his eyes. She couldn't tell if his chest moved. Not so good.

Leaning down, she placed her ear close to his mouth and waited, gulping a tide of emotions.

At last, a long, heaving exhale. He groaned. Relief was a cool wash.

‘Have...’ he gasped out.

‘Yes?’

‘Haven’t...’

‘Take your time.’ She leant even closer.

He rasped a couple more ragged breaths. Finally, he managed, ‘I haven’t responded to chalk that way since Year Nine art class.’

She stared at him. ‘Seriously?’

‘Never my subject.’

She snorted and got up.

‘Rest there for a while, Mr Art Critic. Let me make sense of the picture.’

Another groan as he shifted a fraction. ‘I’ll be with you once I’ve analysed the artist’s intentions in five hundred words.’

‘Hush.’

A genuine smile turned her lips before tugging down. This was what she wanted from her brother. Why could she only have it as he lay dazed from pain beside crates of Flight?

The chalk circle sat innocently on the floor, its line undamaged. She glared at it. What now?

A discarded drink can lay near her feet. She bent to pick it up, wincing as a trickle of rancid beer ran up her sleeve. Ugh.

Sounds of the fight outside continued unabated, stray bellows carrying from the loading bay door. Blocking them, and worries of whether Alfred prevailed, drew precious strength from her reserves.

Walking as close to the circle as she dared, she tossed the can at the boundary. A pre-emptive dodge to the side proved redundant. Instead of bouncing back, it skittered harmlessly across the ground, coming to a halt at the base of the crates. Okay, then. Either someone controlled it, or it only stopped living beings.

Samson had managed to sit up. His arm was shrunk, ripped sleeve hanging loosely over a normal shaped limb. The shock of his sudden flight must have broken his concentration. But that didn't make sense. She'd seen Samson maintain his battle form in the face of greater threats; Father made sure of that. Could the circle have forced a change?

He flexed his shoulder. Something crunched deep in the joint, eliciting a flinch from both of them. The bad piled up. They fought an unknown power, outnumbered, and their best weapon was out of action. Samson was still preternaturally strong, but his arm made up the majority of his arsenal. Invulnerable to impact and fire, it was both hammer and shield, stopping bricks and bullets.

If any of the defenders managed to get past Alfred, neither of them was in any shape to take on the assault.

As the thought completed itself, the shouts outside crescendoed and petered to unnerving quiet. Adrenaline peaked again. Maisie waited for Alfred’s call. The quiet stretched, stretched, stretched… Alfred would have called by now. At the top end of the warehouse, the big loading bay door shuddered.

They needed cover. Fast.

She spun in a circle, searching for an escape. Lights mocked her from every direction, an exposing, uncaring audience. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

‘Can you get up?’ she asked Samson.

‘I... maybe. But I won't be able to move anywhere fast.’

She sheathed her knife and wrapped his good arm around her shoulders to pull him to his feet.

They had two options that she could see: try to get to one of the walls and hope they weren't noticed, or crouch by the edge of the circle and use the crates as a screen. Neither choice was appealing. The boxes would provide only minimal shelter, and once it was blown, they were stuck with two hundred metres of clear floor on every side of them. If they could get to the wall, they might be more mobile, but it wasn’t real shelter.

In the end, the decision was made for her. Samson slumped, right leg unable to support his weight. All of his six-foot frame landed on her. For a precarious second, she thought they would fall. No. Bracing her feet, she resettled her arm around his back and strained, pushing him upright.

Half dragging him, she stumbled to the edge of the line.

Boom!

Something hit the door. The force tore a tortured shriek from the metal.

‘I'm going to lower you to the ground,’ she said. Terror pricked her skin, detached from her voice.

‘No!’

‘Are you ready?’

‘Maisie, no! I won't be able to get up again!’ His hand gripped her painfully. Sweat ran down his face. The skin across his cheekbones stretched taut, almost translucent, the veins beneath stark and pulsing. Unlike her, Samson wasn’t used to feeling helpless. A trapped animal looked out from his eyes, wild and without reason.

Before she had time to second guess her action, she yanked herself away. Even in his weakened state, it took all of her strength to break his clutch.

He collapsed to the floor, releasing a broken moan of pain and betrayal.

There was no time to feel guilty. She hunched next to him. Drawing her knife again, she fastened her fingers around it as though it were a lone candle in the dark.

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Boom!

The crates blocked her view of the door. This time, the impact rattled the whole wall.

Live, Alfred, Maisie willed. Live and be unhurt and save us. Without him, their chances whittled away. An arrow of shame chased the thought. Tying his survival to hers didn’t speak well of her character — guilt to parse later.

She could feel the coursing of blood through her veins, her heartbeat too loud in her ears, breathing fast and heavy.

Surely the door couldn't survive another hit.

Crash!

The sound of splintering metal. Silence.

Maisie held her breath. Every cell in her body tensed in anticipation.

The thud of a heavy footstep echoed through the warehouse.

Another.

One person. One very big person, if the magnitude of the sound was anything to go by. The air felt thick, catching in her throat.

‘Hiding? Not very brave of you. I expected better from the Arthurs.’ The voice was male, reedy and nasal. There was something off in his inflection, a forced enunciation like the speaker mistrusted his tongue. Despite that, it carried well, covering the distance to Maisie easily. ‘Come out, come out. Samson, isn't it? I meant to thank you. Between you and your brother, you’ve spared me a fight with the idiots. But now I find this. Cowering. Your brother tried, at least. What an embarrassment.’ The man tutted.

Samson let out a tiny grunt. His fist twitched. She frantically shook her head at him. Not now! And not now to turn over Alfred’s fate in her mind.

‘I can hear you,’ their man said, sing-song. She could hear him too, coming closer, each footfall a thunder clap. But he couldn’t have heard a grunt, not from so far away.

Keep calm, she told herself. A plan. She needed a plan.

Again, she looked at her brother. He stared back at her. In his face, she read fear and resolve.

‘I'm sorry,’ he mouthed. For what? This situation, or the sorry state of their relationship?

‘I'm beginning to lose my patience.’

There had to be something she could do. She wouldn’t abandon her mother.

She could stall. For what, she didn't know. Maybe the police would arrive in time to save them. Maybe pigs would fly. Gathering her courage — or perhaps her stupidity — she stood. And stared.

The loading bay door had been torn from the wall. Pieces of the crumpled metal lay strewn in a semicircle around a hulking figure, so massive he blocked out the night. No human being could be that big.

Surely it was a trick of perspective. She blinked. The image remained.

He straightened, locking on her.

‘You’re not Samson Arthur. Another hero come to play? How fun.’ He kept walking towards them, stepping clear of the debris in a couple of powerful strides. And the closer he got, the bigger he looked.

He had to be at least twelve feet tall.

Say something, she thought desperately.

‘Uh,’ was all she managed. She swallowed. Her throat felt dry, tongue too large in her mouth. ‘I — I'm sorry, but how tall are you? It looks impractical.’ She couldn't stop now. ‘As far as I know, Jack hasn't been growing any beanstalks round here, but I promise we haven't stolen your gold coins.’ Nice job. Antagonise the giant who just punched through solid steel.

He chortled. He was halfway to them, his long legs eating up the distance as if it were nothing. ‘We aren’t at the comedy club.’

She could see his face now, a distorted mass of red bulges and purple veins, too-small eyes receding into his skull. His head looked out of proportion with the rest of his body, a tennis ball atop a skyscraper of teeming muscle.

‘Samson!’ he bellowed. ‘Letting a child front for you? I'll crush her. Come out and fight me.’

Still sprawled on the ground, Samson stiffened. Maisie nudged him with her toe, risking a side glare.

‘Who's Samson?’ she bluffed.

‘Don't play stupid, girl. Run away now and I might let you go. My business is with the Arthurs, not a stray child.’

Here went nothing. ‘I am an Arthur. Maisie Arthur. I don't need my brother to fight you.’ Er... That had sounded better in her head.

It made him pause. ‘The one without powers?’ He threw back his head and snorted. ‘Your jokes are improving. You think you can fight me? I’m stronger than you can believe. So strong...’ He trailed off, and in his voice she heard a note of wonder. He was drunk on his new abilities.

She felt a ray of hope. Perhaps there was a way out of here, if she could stay alive long enough.

She needed to get him away from Samson. Mobility was their only defence, and her brother was a helpless target. She knew it. Samson knew it. He might still try to pull a heroic self-sacrifice if she gave him half the chance.

And what am I doing? she asked herself wryly, before pushing the question away.

Their giant wasn't accustomed to being strong. His top had burst across the shoulders, where the greater part of his bulk looked to have manifested, leaving only a thin, strained band around his chest, so tight as to appear painful. The trousers he wore — in the most charitable sense ‘wear’ could be applied — had fared as poorly, and his lower half was obscene to look upon. If he had known about the transformation ahead of time, if he had taken Flight before, surely he would have dressed better.

A new body meant different coordination, though making use of that would require getting close and personal. She thought of his high voice and careful enunciation — more like an imitation than a natural persona. The Gladiators she knew were all machismo and short words. Something about the way this guy spoke didn’t fit with the image she remembered. A hanger-on then, keeping resentfully to the edges. He'd called the gang members idiots. A sore spot to exploit?

She walked out from behind the crates, keeping a careful distance from the edge of the chalk circle.

Samson tried to stop her, reaching out to grab her ankle, but he was too slow.

‘Maisie, no!’ he hissed.

She glared at him, trying to communicate with her eyes that she had a plan. Kind of.

‘Samson can’t stop his powerless sister,’ the giant said. His hearing was obviously enhanced, along with his physique.

‘Everyone focuses on my brothers. I get tired of it. If you're too scared to fight a girl...’ She tried to paint her words with derision. If she guessed right, this man was used to being mocked and belittled. Mocking smiles weren’t her speciality, but Alfred had the art perfected, and she did her best to imitate him. The giant needed to lose control.

She was clear of the boxes, utterly exposed under the surgical light. She didn't make an intimidating sight: none of Samson’s athleticism showed in her build, and her rounded cheeks looked young for her age.

Stiffening her shoulders, she kept walking, angling to the right. The farther away from Samson and the crates of Flight, the better.

Her opponent didn't alter his course to meet her, attention fixed on the crates and Samson. ‘Letting your little sister take your place? Weak.’

Time to up her game. Taunt him. ‘So which one are you? The Gladiators are all pond scum in my mind.’ Channel Father. ‘But some are more impressive than others. You're not Mike. He wouldn't be too scared to fight me. Mike wouldn't have bothered with the monologue, either. Neither would Cary.’

Mike and Cary were the sons of Simon, four time-divorcee, ostensible leader, and armed robber. Mean as swans, they didn't get along, constantly jockeying for the position of top spot. More importantly, they were bullies. If her giant was an outsider, she’d bet he knew and hated them.

She wracked her brain, trying to call up the names of other Gladiators. Inspiration struck. ‘You're not Charlie, are you?’ Charlie Smith, a snot-nosed fifteen-year-old delinquent, was known to everyone on this side of town, and despised by all and their pets.

The giant snarled. Finally, his attention was on her.

He stomped forward. His feet were bare, and with each impact on the floor, they raised a small cloud of dust.

Maisie gulped. Goal achieved, for better or worse.

As he drew nearer, she saw a black line around his neck, tight enough to be a choker. On it hung an intricate silver figurine of a medieval knight, gauntleted hands over the hilt of a longsword. The pendant struck a chord in her memory.

‘Bobby?’ she said incredulously. ‘Bobby Furlong?

Five years ago, when she was eleven, her father had been given a medal by parliament. All three children were towed along to present the picture of a family man. While posing outside for pictures, a weedy little man with the exact same pendant pushed his way through the crush of press and asked her father for an autograph. She remembered him clearly against the backdrop of dignitaries they had met that day. He'd been greasy and awkward, but she would have sworn his gushing was genuine.

There was no worship here.

‘Your father is a thief.’ His eyes seemed oddly glazed and in their depths, just for a second, she thought she saw a flash of... something. Malevolent. Dark. Then it was gone. ‘He hoards power. Like it’s his, like we don’t deserve it. He breaks his promises and steals influence. He lies and steals.’

Only a few metres away, he lunged for her.

He was all she could see, blocking out the rest of the world, his hands reaching, grasping — Falling short.

She danced to the side, slashing with her knife. She'd been holding it in her left hand, angling her body to conceal it.

She missed. He was faster than he had any right to be.

He snarled, pulling back a boulder-sized fist for another swing. She waited, battling not to visibly shake. All she had to do was hold out until the drug wore off. All. Were the time not so grim, she’d laugh at herself.

The warehouse, with its wide-open space, gave her some advantage. If he pinned her, it was all over, but out in the centre there was little to pin her against. Maisie, though she had no special abilities, had become good at dodging in the past year.

When he swung at her again, she ducked beneath it. He was so massive she barely reached his thighs. He had to bend to get at her, and she took advantage by stabbing up into his stomach, which loomed over her head. The horror of the action felt distant, disconnected.

Before she completed the strike, he kicked her, knee hitting her chest like a comet. Pain blazed, and air whooshed from her lungs. Though she skidded back, she kept her feet. Barely. His full weight hadn’t been behind the kick. Keep it together, Maisie. Gods, it hurt.

Triumph glittered in the depths of his eyes, dark and crazed and brimming with malice.

‘Sterling Arthur won't share Flight with his own daughter. Your father is the reason for your death.’

Finally, she succeeded in drawing a breath. She gathered herself.

‘Our father doesn't need Flight, idiot! Neither does my sister.’ Samson. He had pulled himself out enough that his head and shoulders were visible from where they fought.

Oh, you idiot.

For a moment, Bobby was distracted. She struck. Her knife nicked his forearm, drawing blood, but it was a shallow cut. The blade had glanced off muscle.

Glancing wound or not, it got a reaction. Bobby shrieked. He swung at her head, fist a hammer. She sprung away.

Her chest was on fire, each inhale abrading her windpipe. The air seemed to waver. Her vision narrowed.

Instinctively, she avoided another blow.

There it was again, a definite distortion in the space behind the giant. She gave her head a sharp shake and tried to refocus on the fight.

A raindrop materialised out of nothing and dropped to the floor. Was her mind playing tricks on her?

She squinted at the spot. Red.

Red? She leapt back, just in time to evade a punch that would have shattered her shoulder.

From her new vantage, she could see a thin trail of red drops seeping into the dirt, coming from the direction of the broken entrance. Alfred.

Another shiver in the air, and there he was, battered and bloody, but standing only metres away. She would live!

But he didn't move. Their eyes met, and a strained expression flitted across his face. Conflicted. His gaze slipped to the crates behind her. In a moment of terrible clarity, she realised he wasn’t stepping in.

Her pause came at a cost. Bobby's fist barrelled towards her. No time to dodge. No time to do anything.

The last grains of sand bled from her hourglass in a small and infinite moment.

This was really going to hurt.

His punch took the side of her head. The impact barely registered, only the vague sensation of weightlessness as her body was flung backwards.

Then she hit the floor, and her world went white.