39
FENELLA
The bar was nearly empty despite it being the weekend, which was just as well since Fenella's heart hadn't been in her performances tonight. She'd fumbled through a few half-hearted readings, telling one Guardian his wallet harbored secret dreams of becoming a purse and another that his car key was conspiring with his phone to hide from him every morning. The usual laughter had been forced, the energy flat.
The Guardians had been quiet and brooding, preparing mentally for the mission, and everyone else had sensed that something was off. Those who didn't know about the discovery of the most evil plan she could imagine must have attributed her bad mood to her having a fight with Din or some other inconsequential thing.
If only it were that simple.
Fenella wiped down the bar with mechanical movements, her mind churning with the snippets of conversation she'd overheard throughout the evening. A Lasusa concert. Thousands of kids. Bombs. The words kept circling in her head, making her stomach twist with each pass.
Monsters. That's what they were. Not the humans or even the Doomers themselves—she'd learned enough to know that most were victims of their twisted upbringing and their leaders' brainwashing, but the ones orchestrating this? Devils in human form. Satan's minions were planning to murder children for their sick purposes, whatever those might be.
In her opinion, the aim was simply to propagate evil and cause suffering.
"Another round," Max slurred from his spot at the bar, pushing his empty glass toward her.
He and Din both were looking properly sloshed. Max's usually perfectly styled hair was disheveled, his shirt untucked, and Din had that loose-limbed quality of the thoroughly drunk. They'd been at it for hours, putting away enough alcohol to fell a small army.
"You two are cut off," she said, though she was already reaching for the bottle. Who was she to judge? The little she'd pieced together made her want to join them in oblivion.
"Nonsense," Din declared, his Scottish accent thicker than usual. "We're merely... adequately lubricated for important discussions."
Max snorted. "Important. Right. Your delusions of grandeur are not important to anyone other than you. You are not some kind of ancient warrior god."
"Not a god," Din corrected with the pedantic precision of the very drunk. "But I was quite formidable in my day, and you know it. Do you remember the Battle of Calleh? Not on the battlefield, mind you, you were busy keeping our people safe from the aftermath. But the skirmishes that followed?" He madea slashing motion with his hand. "I took more than my share of heads."
Fenella's hand stilled on the bottle. She'd never heard Din talk about his past like this. The professor who graded papers and got excited about pottery shards had apparently been, at some point, cutting off heads in the Scottish Highlands.
"That was nearly five hundred years ago." Max laughed. "Modern warfare is nothing like the Highland raids you remember. You can't just charge in with a claymore anymore."
"I've kept up with the times," Din insisted, swaying slightly on his barstool. "I know how to use firearms. I've been to the range."
"The range." Max's voice dripped with condescension. "Shooting paper targets is not the same as engaging Doomers at close quarters. They know how to kill us."
Din snorted. "And we know how to kill them. So what?"
Fenella poured herself a generous measure of whiskey, not bothering with ice. If they were going to have this conversation, she needed fortification. The burn down her throat was welcome.
"I should help," Din said stubbornly. "You need every able-bodied?—"
"We have enough bodies, and they are well trained." Max cut him off. "You think you can just strap on an exoskeleton and become a superhero?"
"Exoskeleton?" Fenella interjected. "Seriously? Like bugs?"
Max turned to her, his eyes taking a moment to focus. "Those are military-grade powered armor suits. Makes us as strong as the Kra-ell, actually stronger. We fought them while wearing those suits. They are bulletproof, too. But they're not easy to operate." He looked back at Din. "I have plenty of experience in operating a suit, and yet I spent all day yesterday and today relearning how to move in one without putting my fist through a wall or tripping over my own feet. The strength amplification is incredible, but it takes finesse to control."
"I can learn," Din insisted drunkenly.
"In time, maybe." Max shook his head, the movement making him grip the bar for balance. "We're hitting them tomorrow night, Din. Tomorrow. There's no time for you to learn, no margin for error. One person who doesn't know what they're doing could get the whole team killed." He shook his head again. "Why am I even entertaining your delusions instead of going to sleep?"
Tomorrow night.
Fenella's blood chilled.
The attack was tomorrow night. She'd known that, but hearing it said aloud made it real in a way that contracted her chest.
"Tell him," Max said, turning to her. "Tell him he's being an idiot."
