Priceless Lies [WORK IN PROGRESS]

3 | Cutting Our Losses

"If you can learn to endure pain, you can survive anything. Some people learn to embrace it- to love it. Some endure it through drowning it in sorrow, or by making themselves forget. Others turn it into anger." — Celaena Sardothien, The Assassin's Blade

TW: None

We find Warpath's already been taken by the police waiting outside. Since technically, only certified heroes can "exhibit acts of heroic help and courage" with their abilities, vigilantes are considered outlaws. Not that the public considers them that, though.

I'm pretty sure the only people who truly love us are the public. And their cameras.

I turn towards Riftwalker, her face pale. "Can you jump?" Jumping— Riftwalker's special ability, the power to travel between the folds of reality; or, in a much less dramatic term, short-distance teleportation.

Her face scrunches up but then relaxes. Her face is set in a frown. "No," she grits out, starting to remove the blade from her shoulder. Guilt shoots through me, tight and uneasy. If I hadn't been knocked out so soon during the fight...

I stop her from pulling out the knife, a hand resting lightly on hers. I try to ignore the trembling in the hand still gripping the hilt. "Don't. It's staunching the bleeding."

My eyes follow the hostages, rushing to exit the building, and an idea whirs to life in my head. It would be a long shot to blend in with the civilians, but I've been known to be incredibly, notoriously lucky lately. "Follow me."

Following my gaze, she understands almost immediately. "Will it work?"

"Not necessarily," I say, supporting her as we head to the rest of the citizens, carefully peeling off her mask, then mine, "but we might get lucky." I lead the way, pushing through the crowd of hostages.

Quinn's tired green eyes meet mine.  "Warpath..."

"Can't be saved," I say quietly. "Not now, anyway." Add him to the list of people I've failed today. "We have to go."

And lucky we were, as not a single person in the crowd of panicked citizens noticed the pale-faced blonde, the knife protruding from her right shoulder, or the brown-haired man in the bomber jacket supporting her as she walked.

At least one success in a sea of failures.

- - -

Back at Vigilante Headquarters, I seethe as I watch James— Asclepius, we call him here— clean out Quinn's wound, a touch of his fingertips causing the torn flesh and skin to stitch itself back together. Once he's done, I storm out, sinking into the worn leather sofa and burying my face into my arms.

We failed. We lost a vigilante to the police, and the villains are still at large. Deadfear was going to kill Quinn.

It's all my fault. My fault for not learning about this sooner. My fault for not stopping Deadfear.

My fault, for letting her go.

Weight pushes down the sofa as somebody else sits beside me tentatively. "Hey," Quinn says quietly. "At least nobody died."

"At least nobody died?" I repeat viciously. "You were about to. If those people hadn't cooperated, they would have, too. And who's to say Thanatos hadn't slaughtered every single police officer in his path when he rode out?" I don't stop rambling. "People might not have died today, but they will next time. And Warpath—"

Quinn squeezes my arm with her good hand. "He'll be okay." She lets go to pat me on the back. "Just... go home. Try to get some rest."

I stand up, head throbbing from Deadfear's blow. I laugh weakly. "I didn't even last three minutes. This is all my—"