“He is a criminal who once served beside Ace Anarchy himself,” said Dr. Hogan, as Captain Chromium returned, hauling a prisoner at his side. “I introduce Winston Pratt … the Puppeteer.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
NOVA SLID LOWER into her seat as Winston was led onto the stage. He wore a black-and-white-striped prison jumper instead of his usual purple velvet suit, and there were chromium chains binding his ankles and wrists, but he was not fighting against his captor. His orange hair was matted and unbrushed, but his makeup remained—thick black liner around his eyes, rosy circles on the apples of his cheeks, and sharp lines drawn from the corners of his mouth down the sides of his jaw, reminiscent of a wooden marionette. It confirmed that, despite what Nova had assumed for all the years she’d known him, Winston did not wear makeup at all, but rather, his power had transformed his face into that of a puppet.
Or, a puppet master.
Nova tried to position herself so she would be hidden behind the Renegade in the next row while still being able to peer over his shoulder. The last thing she needed was for Winston to spot her in the crowd. She thought she could trust him, but she couldn’t be sure, and she hadn’t seen him since his interrogation months ago. He had not given her away then and had kept her secret since. Still, he might decide this was the perfect opportunity to give up her identity, perhaps in exchange for a pardon.
It would be no worse than what she had done to him. At the parade, Nova had tossed him out of his own hot-air balloon, landing him in the hands of their enemies. She wouldn’t blame him if he decided to incriminate her now in order to save his own skin.
Her knee started to bounce with mounting energy. Adrenaline surged through her system, preparing her to run at the first sign of Winston’s betrayal.
But Winston did not look vengeful. He seemed delighted to be the center of attention in a room full of Renegades, with everyone gawking at him like curious attendees at a superhero convention.
“What’s wrong?” Danna whispered.
Nova started. “What?”
Danna slid down in her chair until she and Nova were shoulder to shoulder. Danna was so much taller than her that the effect was comical. “Are we hiding from something?”
Lips pursing, Nova scooted up again. “No,” she said—too defensively, she knew. “My uncle is always saying I need to work on my posture.”
On the stage, Simon Westwood had removed the briefcase of Agent N and brought the stool front and center. Hugh Everhart clapped a hand on Winston’s shoulder and nudged him down onto the seat. Winston ignored them both, along with Dr. Hogan, who had recoiled when he passed by her. He was busy taking in the room with twinkling, merry eyes.
“Oh, my Captain,” he said, in his squeaky, gleeful voice, “is this a party? For me?” He jingled his chains. “Is it my birthday?”
Casting the prisoner a withering look, the Captain didn’t respond.
Nova swallowed.
To the side of the stage, Thunderbird whispered something into Blacklight’s ear, and the hint of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Something about that look made Nova’s blood run cold.
Did they even see Winston as a human being? Or had he become nothing more than a science experiment to them? Just like Max, and how many others?
Despite his easy prattle, Nova knew Winston well enough to tell that he was frightened. He was hiding it as well as he could, but buried deep behind his eyes was a bewildered, silent plea. For mercy. For rescue. For a way out of here.
He must have known it was useless. Surrounded by Renegades, trapped in their headquarters, without a single ally …
Nova shuddered.
She was his ally.
She was supposed to be his ally.
But Winston was a fool who had ruined their mission at the parade and gotten himself caught. He was a bully who preyed on children, which had always struck her as too despicable even for an Anarchist.
And yet, for all his faults, he had been loyal to Ace. He was on her team.
She should do something.
What could she do?
What would Ace want her to do?
Nothing, her mind whispered, and it sounded like Ace’s steady wisdom burbling to the surface of her scattered thoughts. He is not worth revealing your secret. Stay the course. Focus on your mission.
Joanna Hogan took a syringe from the briefcase.
Winston was not paying her any attention. “I can’t remember how old I am,” he said, tilting his head to one side. The chromium chains rattled as he brought his hands to his chest and drew an imaginary heart.
Dr. Hogan clicked a vial of Agent N into the syringe.
Nova gripped the seat beneath her thighs.
“By golly,” said Winston, swinging his feet, “I am old, I think. And look at all of you Renegades, so sprightly and dewy-eyed. Why, you’re practically children! In fact…” He tilted forward, peering at someone in the front row. His grin turned mischievous. “Methinks you are a child, you wee little defender of justice.”
Winston launched himself from the stool. One outstretched finger released a sparkling golden thread. The puppet string wrapped around the throat of a young Renegade and the boy cried out. Winston’s finger twitched and the boy charged for the stage.
Nova jumped to her feet, but so did the rest of the audience, disrupting her view. With a growl, she stepped up onto her seat to see over their heads. Captain Chromium charged toward the boy, whose screams of fury could barely be heard over the sudden din.
But onstage, Joanna Hogan was serene as she reached out and took hold of Winston’s arm. He glowered at her. His fingers curled and the Renegade boy who was under his control ran at Dr. Hogan, teeth bared and fingers curled like claws—a wild animal, ready to tear her into bite-size pieces and devour each one. He released a banshee scream and threw himself at the doctor, but Captain Chromium caught him seconds before he struck her. He pinned the child’s arms to his side, securing him tight.
Winston Pratt smiled.
Nova’s mouth ran dry.
She spotted his second puppet before anyone else did—they were all so focused on the boy thrashing in the Captain’s arms.
No one else noticed Magpie, the prodigy pickpocket. No one else saw her lift her palm. Two rows away from her, Stalagmight didn’t notice his iron hatchet being wriggled free from its sheath and flying into Magpie’s waiting hand. She raised the hatchet and charged at Tsunami. A Council member. Tsunami’s back was to her. No one would notice until it was too late.
Nova stood frozen, unable to decide if she should try to stop Magpie or not. This was her objective too. Eliminate the Council. Destroy the Renegades. One less Council member would be a good thing—
“No!”
The scream was so close to Nova’s ear that for a moment she thought maybe it had come from her own mouth, but then Danna dissolved into a swarm of butterflies and soared over the audience.
On the stage, surrounded by chaos, the doctor drove the needle into Winston’s arm and pressed in the plunger.
Danna reformed just in time to grab Magpie’s wrist and haul her away from the Councilwoman. Magpie screamed as Danna bent her arm back so far she was forced to drop the hatchet. Tsunami spun around, eyes wide.
Nova exhaled, but if it was relief she felt, it was short-lived. Danna, her arms locked around a flailing Magpie, was staring straight at her. Confused. And maybe, betrayed.
Shivering, Nova looked away, her cheeks flushing hot. Had Danna been watching her? Did she know that Nova had seen the whole thing and done nothing to stop it?
The uproar in the room suddenly changed as the screeching from Winston’s first puppet fell silent. From her vantage point on the chair, Nova saw the thin golden strings that were connecting the two young Renegades to Winston’s fingers snap and disintegrate.
Winston studied his hands, flexing his fingers in surprise. Small wrinkles formed in the dark paint around his eyes. His breath became erratic. His jaw began to tremble. A low, distressed wail crawled out from between his lips.
“N-no,” he stammered, his voice coated in terror. “What is this? What have you done?”
The dark eyeliner began to bleed.
Nova clapped a hand to her mouth. It was makeup, or at least it appeared so now, its inky blackness dripping down his face in thick, gloppy tears. It mingled with the rosy splotches on his cheeks and soon all his features were melting black and red. Even his porcelain-pale whiteness began to fade, oozing down the sides of his face and onto the collar of his striped jumpsuit.
Winston let out another wail. Those who were onstage took a collective step back. Dr. Hogan seemed enthralled as she watched Winston’s transformation. Everyone else seemed wary, even afraid.
Winston regarded his curled fingers, shivering. Nova wondered what he was seeing, or not seeing. Feeling, or not feeling.
He started to sob. Huge tears dripped down through the mess on his cheeks. He turned his head and rubbed his nose on his shoulder. The striped fabric came away stained with black and red smudges. When his head lifted again, Nova could see that the lines on his chin were gone. His skin was sallow and tinted faintly blue. He continued to cry, inspecting his hands in disbelief, and he must have known—whatever he felt, whatever he could sense occurring within his body—he must have known the truth.
He was no longer a prodigy. No longer a villain. No longer the Puppeteer.
And despite having never much liked Winston Pratt, Nova could not ignore the twinge of pity that ran through her.
What would become of him now?
As her thoughts roiled, someone in the audience began to clap. Then another joined in. And soon the room was applauding while Winston Pratt sobbed on the stage.
The experiment had been a success, and they were all beginning to realize what that meant. For the Renegades. For the world.
And for the Anarchists.
With a substance like this at the Renegades’ disposal, how long before the Anarchists were annihilated? The Renegades wouldn’t even have to compromise their own morals. They wouldn’t be killing anyone, only taking away their powers.
The room began to right itself. With the villain neutralized, the Renegades returned to their seats. The two kids who had been taken over by the Puppeteer were led away from the room by one of the healers.