Page 58 of Renegades

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

Nova’s hand stilled. She lifted her head. Adrian Everhart leaped over the table and approached her with hands raised, a fine-tipped marker tucked between his fingers.

“They’re with me—us,” he said, even as his concern was giving way again to that slightly baffled, slightly endearing grin. “They’re on your team.”

Blinking, Nova glanced down again. Red Assassin managed to sit up, while Smokescreen grunted, “Pleased to meet you.”

“I think,” gasped Red Assassin, eyeing Nova in wonder, “we’ll get along just fine.”

Nova gulped.

“See? They’re fine. You’re fine. Everybody’s fine,” said Adrian.

“Gargoyle is not fine,” said Smokescreen, rubbing his hip.

“Not concerned about Gargoyle.” Uncapping his marker, Adrian crouched down so he was eye level with Nova and, without bothering to ask permission, started to draw something onto her shirt, right over her racing heart. She flinched at the unexpected touch, but if he noticed, he pretended not to.

When he had finished, he capped the marker and stood.

Nova peered down at the gleaming red pin on her chest. That familiar, iconic, hatefulR.

“I’m Adrian,” he said, holding out a hand. A Renegade. Holding out a hand—to her.

Bracing herself, Nova took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet. His grip was firm, but his expression was warm and kind, his dark eyes focused on her from behind those thick-framed glasses. The chaos of the arena grew dim and distant. The whole world seemed to shrink to this tiny pocket of space, where Nova could feel only the press of his palm, unafraid of the touch of her skin. Where she could see only that friendly, unreserved grin. Where she could hear, not the chants and cheers of the crowd, but only his voice, his words.

“Welcome to the Renegades.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ADRIANAWOKEEARLY, all sense of tiredness wiped away the moment he opened his eyes. He didn’t normally consider himself a morning person, but as he sat up in bed he felt charged with energy. Like the day ahead was brimming with potential.

Not just because of the trials. Not just because they had a new teammate starting today—someone who he was pretty sure every other team on that field had regretted rejecting the moment she defeated Gargoyle.

But more than that, they had a new lead in the Nightmare case.

The night before he’d overheard his dads talking about the gun that Ruby had taken during the rooftop fight. Their investigations department had traced it to a guns dealer who had bought and sold a lot of weaponry during the Age of Anarchy, a man named Gene Cronin who went by the alias the Librarian. Not a particularly original name, as he had, in fact, operated a public library during the Age of Anarchy, and still did.

Adrian was sure they’d be assigning someone to investigate Cronin soon, maybe even today, and he was determined that he andhis team get the mission. After all, they had a new team member. A prodigy who never slept. It was a surveillance dream come true.

In some uncanny way, it felt almost foreordained.

On top of that, he’d finally perfected the concept for his new tattoo and the Sentinel’s new power, and—Adrian checked the communicator band on his wrist and saw that it wasn’t even five o’clock yet—with more than three hours still before he had to leave for headquarters, he even had time to give himself the tattoo that morning.

He headed upstairs to make a pot of coffee, even though he didn’t feel that he really needed it, and to check that his dads were still sleeping. He paused in the foyer, listening to the creaks of the house. Everything was still and dark.

They weren’t exactly morning people, either.

Ten minutes later, he returned to his converted basement, coffee mug in hand. The basement was divided into two rooms—the first housed his bed, a sofa, a bookshelf overflowing with old sketchbooks and comics, and a small TV with an assortment of video games. The second room he considered his art studio, even though calling it that made it seem much cooler than it really was. Mostly it was just an easel, a cheap plywood desk, and a floor covered in drop cloths splattered with years-old paint.

Everything he needed was already in the bottom drawer of the desk. He sat down in the rolling office chair and began arranging his supplies.

Rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. Bandages. The jar of tattoo ink he’d purchased from an incense-filled shop on the edges of the Henbane District, where it had been shelved between a potted money tree and a hookah pipe.

He laid his right arm across the desk, palm up, and used hisopposite fingers to measure how long he would make the cylinder. Three inches, maybe four, midway between his wrist and elbow. At one end he would include a scope symbol, for targeting. Clean, simple, effective.

It was all in the intention, anyway. He had gotten the zipper to work, so this one should be easy. He had been extremely intentional with the zipper, making sure that he had sketched out the exact armored suit he wanted, down to every tiny detail, never allowing his focus to waver as he inked the tattoo into his skin.

Intention.He’d learned at a young age that it mattered far more than anything else where his ability was concerned. Not skill. Not execution. Intention.

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