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Nestorite had been doing fine, and now someone was ruining everything.

A lot of his fellow lieutenants liked to stick to the poorer, meaner parts of town to hit their energy quotas, because a lot of his fellow lieutenants were not only either as dumb as s**t or, like, practically twelve years old still, they were also, in Nestorite's estimation, b***h-a** pussies. They liked lurking in the shadows and taking teeny tiny victories here and there and being basically ninjas, except the uncool kind -- the kind without the prestige.

He'd joined an army, right? To like, be a heroic badass and save the world and receive, you know, the adulation of women and all that. He'd sort of expected that the world was going to know their names by now. They'd be on camera at least some of the time, or at the very least have a bunch of followers for their alien-stomping vines or something. So far, they spent all their time acting like their army was simultaneously, like, ******** nuclear powerful and amazing, but also like, guerilla underdogs who hid in caves and didn't take baths and s**t.

Nestorite didn't love it, but whatever. He was adaptable, right? If they were all living in caves, he'd be the lieutenant who scoped out the best part of the cave for himself. He'd start with achieving prestige among their army. Then, when the real prestige came around, and the news vans, and the ticker-tape parades, he'd be riding with the vanguard, doing his Miss America wave for the people.

And if he was going to be on magazine covers, then s**t, he had to look good.

Nestorite, unlike some of his less discerning brethren, did his work in the nicer residential and shopping districts, where people didn't just have energy, they also had money, and the pickings were easier than people thought.

He didn't even bother with energy anymore. Oh, sometimes he still did, when he wanted to turn in his quotas without drawing too much attention too soon -- because then someone else might have the bright idea to horn in on his turf -- but mostly these days it was starseeds. Not too many, just a few here and there, on occasion. He had a U-Haul, and he drove it around half-filled with nice apartment furnishings, and it was an easy way to stow the bodies till he could dump them off in a shittier part of town, relieved of the burdens of their cash and jewelry and Rolex watches. There weren't even actually that many police around here that gave a s**t, so long as Nestorite was careful not to be seen -- and even better, there were almost no senshi or knights patrolling. He guessed everyone figured if people from this end of town were going missing, they'd hear about it on the news.

Ha. The Negaverse owned the news. And someday, they'd use it to announce their victory.

But today, all that had gone to s**t.

There was a knight nearby -- second tier, too, which was higher than Nestorite. Normally, he should've run -- the best battle was one you could totally dominate, after all -- but with the knight being this close, Nestorite couldn't have made a clean getaway.

But he was clever, right? He could talk the knight out of it, maybe -- or if worse came to worst . . .

Nestorite looked down at the starseed clutched warm in his palm.

He was just a lieutenant. How totally good would it look if he brought home the corpse of a knight who was more powerful than he was?

Nestorite stepped out of the shadows of the ATM where he'd picked off his victim, nearing his opponent in the red and gold. The starseed was still hidden in his hand, cracklingly fresh. Behind him, a dark shape on the ground marked where the body of the dead chick was still curled up, waiting to be U-Hauled away.

"So you found me. Good job." Nestorite met his opponent with one childish sing-song for another: "I know something you don't know. . . "

Wow, what a ******** a*****e.

Just. Seriously. Did he have to be so full of himself?

With his other hand, the one not holding the starseed, Nestorite brought forth his weapon. He unwound the bright red piece of fabric from his neck, holding it out in front of himself like a silk scarf to taunt a bull. It was good for concealment and protection, even if it didn't do damage on its own. It could hide the movements of his dominant hand until he was ready to strike.

"I'd hate to spoil the surprise," he said faux-mournfully. Nestorite took a few steps forward, dangling his scarf in the air like a matador. "Here, toro, toro, toro," he taunted, trying to draw the knight out so he could hit him in the gut with his concealed fist if he took the bait and made a rush for him.

Nestorite reeled back from the combined force of the squire's two strikes -- the shoulder, followed by the gauntleted fist that Nestorite hadn't noticed coming. He choked, short of breath, hopping back to press a hand tellingly to his rib cage. It was hard to tell, with the floaters, and not having had broken ribs before, but some of them did feel kind of on the brokenish side.

"You son of a b***h," he rasped, curled over slightly to protect his injured midsection but still holding a semblance of a defensive posture. "You stupid ******** ox. People like you," he spat -- and a little blood came up with it, "are worthless. You're workers. Muscle-bound jocks without two brain cells to rub together."

He wiped his mouth briefly on his scarf, then shifted into motion, snapping his scarf in figure-eight arcs through the air. It was more useful against people with weapons -- he could use the movement of the fabric to catch on their weaponry and pull it out of their hands -- but even this way, it was kind of a visual distraction.

Moving hurt -- how had the b*****d hit him so damn hard? -- but Nestorite knew he wanted to try landing a few more hits on the squire before he went for the starseed. Its effects would only last so long, and he had to be sure he'd tired his opponent out enough to take him down quickly.

This time, when he moved in, there was less flair to it: his injured ribs slowed him down a little. He went for the same spot he'd punched the last time -- an injury you could aggravate was better than two individually minor bruises. "Go back to pumping gas, you witless piece of s**t," he hissed.

The elbow to the face caught Nestorite, and badly -- the sharp armor the knight was wearing (unfair of the b*****d!) clipped him across his face, knocking a few teeth loose and badly slicing his upper lip open. He fell back, dazed, his head reeling from the blow -- his brain slammed into the walls of his skull -- and then the knight came in for the second blow.

He was still off-balance. It dropped him.

There was no more time now, no more trying to land little hits to tire his opponent out. If he waited, either he'd run out of teeth to chew down on the starseed with, or he'd be in such bad shape it wouldn't do him any good. It was now or never -- now when he had a few feet of separation.

He pressed the starseed between his lips -- that hurt, and he could taste his own blood around the warm crystal -- and, thinking <******** you ******** you ******** you you stupid b*****d -- he bit down.

For a second, it felt like nothing had happened. Then there was energy, like a rush, like a goddamned drug trip. And then Nestorite wasn't a lump of blood and bruises and cracked teeth on the pavement. He was standing up, and he couldn't feel any of the injuries causing him any pain, because he was so powerful that he was a ******** God and he was going to rewrite the laws of the universe to erase this nipping ******** insect from it.

This time, when he reached for Gehenna, he moved faster than he had before. He grabbed out for one of the knight's long dreadlocks, aiming for the roots at the top of his head, where it would hurt the most and hopefully yank him backward, at least. He wished he could just rip the son of a b***h's scalp right off.

With his other hand -- feeling impossibly powerful -- he simultaneously moved to throw a punch right in the b*****d's face.

The walk home from the park was usually quiet, but every so often, Hvergelmir had to make the trip powered up. Walking around powered down was way more discreet, and definitely useful for not leading any potential enemies to where she lived -- but it required finding a likely place where she could power down unseen and untracked, and those opportunities didn't always open themselves up to her like she hoped.

In this case, she was still powered up, halfway to her parents' house, her crossword book tucked under one arm -- when she felt the wildly fluctuating energy of two auras nearby, practically on top of each other. One was friendly, a second-level knight; and the other one . . .

She couldn't get a bead on it. It felt low, then abruptly higher, like a flashlight turned to face her -- more powerful than she'd first thought -- and now it was guttering low again. Hvergelmir moved closer, following the auric trail --

-- then she heard the sounds of it.

The hideous, viscous squelch of fists into bloody, broken skin. The crack of a body against concrete. The snarling of anger -- of righteous, furious, cracklingly burning anger.

The broken, almost-unintelligible blubbering of a frightened teenager begging for his life. Begging for it to stop. Begging, unclarified: a litany of please, please, please.

She came upon them at a dead run, lit by streetlamps.

The Mars squire had the lieutenant on the ground in the middle of a deserted intersection -- and currently, he seemed to be attempting to make the lieutenant's face into a two-dimensional object. (He'd nearly succeeded. The lieutenant twitched his arms loosely at his sides every so often, the fight very nearly gone out of him for good.) Hvergelmir thought instantly of the alleyway and Sailor Ate, her knee smashing in the face of a civilian as easily, as thoughtlessly as she might sip her morning coffee. She thought of the man dead, later -- the one she'd failed to save because, in the heat of the moment, she'd covered his body up but hadn't thought to cover his mouth from the smoke as well. The man who was dead because of her inaction.

This time, she acted more quickly. She ran toward the fight, skirts bunched in her hands, shouting "Stop! Stop! He's given up, stop!!!," and hoping her fellow knight would listen.

If the Mars knight could hear her, though, he didn't show it in any way. He kept right on with what he was doing -- an ugly, bloody smile on his face -- and no matter that she begged him to stop, that he was killing the lieutenant, he kept right on as though she wasn't even there.

Beneath his relentless fists, the lieutenant was sobbing. Broken. He was saying things Hvergelmir couldn't make out.

At a loss for how else to call the squire to a halt, Hvergelmir settled for the only thing she could think of: manual intervention. She got behind the Mars knight, looped her arms under his armpits so she could grab him by the shoulders, and pulled, trying to separate them. "Please," she argued desperately, thinking only of the blankness of that first dead man's eyes and the pleading look in this one's. "He's begging you!"

Hvergelmir had expected anything but the sudden, armored elbow that came up to throw her off, the incredible strength of it. She half-fell, half-staggered backward, clutching her midsection near her ribs, where the sharp edge of his bracer had torn a red hole through the side of her dress. It stung, and she looked down to see how badly it was bleeding -- but that was a bad idea.

As soon as she did, the second arm came spinning round, incredibly powerful and armored, to boot -- and it caught her full in the face, right under one eye, the bluntly spiked knuckles catching in a series of rough punctures along her cheek. She felt her head snap backward and lost her balance, landing on the ground with a hard thump that rattled the injury to her rib cage painfully.

You took your eyes off your opponent, she could hear Susan's voice in her head, drilling her over and over on basic stances, forms and reactions she could use in a fight. Your first mistake.

Hvergelmir had been in fights with Negaverse officers before, and -- despite her self-defense instructor's efforts, despite the focus on simple, basic movements that relied on gross motor skills she could employ even with adrenaline rushing in her veins -- invariably she'd forgotten all the knowledge and techniques she was supposed to be employing to fight, to better protect herself.

She'd never fought a knight before. She'd never expected to. And this one was bigger, stronger, and evidently angrier than she was. This was bad.

Don't stay on the ground, she could hear Susan as she rolled to her feet as she'd been taught to do. Always leave room to dodge.

She was at a distinct disadvantage here. Not being cut for combat, her dress was a huge hindrance -- she had to waste her left hand managing it, bunching the long skirt up into a makeshift bustle behind her waist and holding it there. That left only her right arm to defend and jab with, which was a significant loss. With just one arm and elbow free to protect her face, she was entirely exposed on the left, where he'd already landed his first hit.

Hvergelmir took a few dancing steps back and sideways, trying to gain herself some space as he advanced. Let him rush you, maybe. One step to the side and you can --

But he was faster than her, she'd already seen that. No amount of weaving and trying to force herself to throw a punch at another human being could counter that kind of advantage. Hvergelmir danced backward again, toward the edge of the light afforded by the overhead steetlamp. Keep moving. Get away. Get out.

She had no chance here. Her heart was in her throat, fear fast upon her just like it always had been with Labyrinthite, with Avalon, with Ate. She could die here -- at the hands of one of their own, his face contorted into a terrifying, rage-filled sneer. It would be slow, and blunt, and it would hurt.

"I don't want to fight you!" she yelled desperately, her voice cracked with fright. "Please! Please, just stop!"

Hvergelmir moved, and he advanced. She called out, and still he advanced. He was relentless and steady, the heft of his armor and the pain of his injuries not slowing him. This was going to go so, so badly.

He ducked into a run, and she flinched, terrified. She tensed, preparing to try and throw herself out of the way of his rush, to go sideways against the unlikely speed of the haymaker he was swinging his arm into --

-- then it was like some switch had been flipped. Like he'd tripped on nothing, rearing backward and losing his footing, and he fell, maybe on purpose -- landing on the asphalt still in motion, his momentum dragging him forward until friction ground him to what had to be a painful halt at her feet. Suddenly they weren't fighting. He'd just . . . collapsed.

She stared.

He was lucky to be mostly in armor, she thought. A fall like that could've sheared the skin right off of him. Instead, it had spared him mostly intact, and she watched mutely as he got to his feet, watched as his eyes rose to meet hers. The blank, burning heat was gone from his gaze. There was no sneer on his face now.

Up close, he was just a man -- no force of nature. Bloodied and bruised, probably close to her age, probably handsome beneath his injuries. They stared at each other in silent, wide-eyed confusion for several long seconds.

His half-asked question caught her further by surprise. She tilted her head in consideration of him, her eyes scouring his face for answers: fear and distress in the way his nostrils flared slightly, panic in the furrow of his brow, and in his eyes, a heavy shame that said understanding had come to him too late, later than action. The pieces of an easy answer clicked into place. Hvergelmir regarded him with new horror -- not of him, this time, but for him. For whatever magic had drowned him in its hunger.

"My God," she exhaled, no more asking a question than he had, "you didn't know."