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too busy, we could really use a hand here.”
    He sounds winded and hurt. I wince, and my concern for my friends—my family—overwhelms everything else. There’s no such thing as pain now. I’m light on the balls of my feet. Around me the air thins, faces blur, and noises blend into one, indistinguishable cry.
    I run for them, praying I’m not too late.

T HREE
L EX
    The common room in Wardenclyffe Tower isn’t the cleanest place on the planet, but I have come to love the dirt-stained rugs and the ugly, mustard-colored walls. Today is a good day. There’s no sign of any resident rodents slinking across the floor, nobody is bleeding too badly, and there’s a general tone of relaxation in the air.
    I sit at a table with Nobel as he plays with his little inventions and experiments. Across the room, Stein is polishing a battle-axe. I take a copper spring from the table of tech and fling it across the room. She doesn’t look up as it bounces off the wall behind her. I grab another and stretch it a little more so that it will make it the distance. I get her right in the shoulder. Perfect shot. She looks up, rubbing her arm, and I flash her a wide, cheesy smile. Stein puts the rag down and heaves the battle-axe over her shoulder.
    “You sure you’re up for this?” Stein asks.
    I crack my neck. “I’m sure. It’ll get the blood pumping. Help me think.”
    She grins. “Your funeral.”
    With a wave, she’s off, sprinting toward the other side of the common area.
    I chase after her, stopping to grab an axe of my own, and find her waiting for me, perched in a crouch at the lip of the half-pipe. The skaters grab their boards and gravitate toward where a small crowd is forming, and I know why. Stein has stripped off the long trench coat she normally wears, leaving only her black leather pants and tank top. She tips her top hat to me before tossing it aside as well. She looks alert, dangerous, and smoking hot. I adjust my grip and slowly swing the axe. She springs onto the back of an old tattered couch.
    All in the common room have now abandoned their activities to come watch us practice. We don’t have any specific room we practice in—it’s kind of a move or be moved situation anytime someone is sparring. The common room wears scars from many such matches; as a matter of fact, the south wall still has a hole the exact shape of Chernobyl’s head.
    What’s left of the heavy damask drapes are now moth-eaten and threadbare. Even the steel plates covering the windows are scratched and scuffed, bits rusted and falling away, and the armchair has a gaping hole down the back from the last time we practiced. Around me, familiar faces watch with excitement.
    Their eyes don’t bother me—they only fuel me, make me burn hotter. It must be how rock stars feel on stage. Everyone wishing they could be you, just for a moment. I twirl the axe again, drawing whistles and applause from my audience. It’s almost enough to take my mind off the events of the wharf. Some poetic wise guy hits the old CD player and “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC blares through the ancient speakers.
    Stein blows me a kiss from her perch. I pretend to grab it out of the air and stuff it in my pocket near a handful of bottle caps. Some couples snuggle or hold hands and take long walks. Not us. This is how we dance.
    A cloud of dust rises from the couch as Stein lunges off the edge and runs at me. I swing the axe, knowing it won’t connect. She drops to her knees at the last second and uses a worn Oriental rug to slide past me, the blade narrowly missing the top of her head. On her knees, she punches me in the side of the leg, knocking me off-balance just long enough for her to tuck and roll away.
    The crowd stamps its boots to the beat. Some of the kids are slapping their knees and singing along. Somewhere behind me is a shrill whistle, the release of steam pressure from a prosthetic appendage.
    “How did that redhead at the Fair ever get a piece of you?” I