Author Note: We're about a third of the way into the plot. I have one more chapter written after this one, but it needs a lot of clean-up and I work a full-time job. After that, I'm wrrriiiittttiiiinnnggg. While you're waiting, I did post another work-in-progress story that I wrote in order to have a better understanding of the subplots leading into this one. Go check out my story "Burning Down the House" for some more Bucciarati-Abbacchio scheming... along with those unlikely allies of theirs and a young Fugo newly joining their team. You can find that one and more on my author page. Stay safe and never don't double tap!

Blackbird

(Narancia)

"Hey Giorno, if we were in a band instead of a mafia, what instrument would you play?" I was yelling so they could hear over the radio. We were finally off the highway and I need distractions so I can focus on city driving.

"Narancia, that's not even–"

"Relevant? Is that what you were gonna say, Fugo? Because it's an icebreaker, so it is relevant, because we just met Giorno and we have to break the ice!"

Fugo dropped his head in his hands. "Every. New. Team member."

"Left at the next – no, the next light!" Giorno rustled open another fold of the city map to figure out a detour for me. He's a great navigator.

"What instrument!"

"Piano."

"Why piano?"

"I took – take a right here – I took lessons in school. And with Gold playing the base line – another right, yes, right here – Narancia, right!"

There was an ad in a convenience store window for a new brand of water that's supposed to bring you good luck and I'm a really slow reader, so I took the turn at the last minute. But we made it, no sweat.

"Narancia! Drive the damn car!"

"It's okay, Fugo. That's why God gave us seatbelts!"

"God didn't–"

"Mista, what instrument would you play?"

"I don't know any instruments."

"You could be the backup singers," Giorno suggested. "Can Sex Pistols sing?"

"What a thing to ask!" Mista said. "Haven't you heard any of their albums, gorgeous?"

"That's such a good idea!" I yelled, doing happy little serpentines. The van's flat tire made them extra fun, like a carnival ride. "Oh, I know, Abbacchio can play synth! Because Moody Blues can record and repeat–"

"Sample. It's called sampling when musicians do that."

"Fugo knows everything! Everyone listen to Fugo!"

"Narancia, that's highly uncalled for–"

"Oh, Fugo, you can play oboe! Because you spend so much time practicing!" I did a long, large hand gesture.

Fugo snorted. "More like piccolo where you're concerned."

We all laughed for that, even Giorno. Great, we were bonding so well!

"I've got drums, because listen–" I did my best steering wheel drum solo. It was pretty boss. It even went in time with the bumping from the flat tire!

Giorno reached over and gently steered us back into the lane. "Okay, we're going to take a left up here–"

"I HATE LEFT TURNS!"

We whipped through that intersection before the oncoming traffic knew what nearly hit them.

"What's that called again?" Mista asked, rubbing his ear. "Like that car horn just now – when the note changes because you passed by it so fast?"

"Doppelgangers!"

"No, it's the Doppler effect." Snooty Fugo. Good sign that he'd recovered from seeing all that blood after the Pompeii adventure, though! "Doppelgangers are unconnected lookalikes."

"Like Moody Blues!"

"About that," Giorno said, pulling the emergency brake as we approached a red light at speed. "What is Abbacchio's stand? If it's not turning liquids into piss, then why is it called Mellow Yellow and why do you call him the Piss Lord? And on a more personal note, what did I drink this morning?"

"That was fresh piss," Mista said. Helpful! "Don't worry, sexy. Urine is sterile. That means it's safe to drink. In fact, if we were in a survival situation–"

"You still shouldn't drink it," Fugo interrupted. "Eventually you'll get kidney stones that way. I read it in a book."

"Okay," Giorno said delicately, "setting aside how the piss got there and why you all let me drink that, which, by the way, I didn't, by turning one of my teeth into a jellyfish–"

"Oh, is that what you did?" Mista leaned forward, chin in his hand. "You're so smart, pretty, and funny, Giorno. Tell me more of your genius ideas."

"A jellyfish large enough to sop up that much piss? I don't believe you."

"Shut up, Fugo! It's still a good story even if he did drink most of it!"

"Green light, Narancia. All of that notwithstanding, what actually is Abbacchio's stand?"

"Confidential!" I yelled. "You have to be in the inner circle to find that out. And you're still eight icebreakers away from that privileged position!"

"Eight? But we've done one. Wouldn't you have a round number, like ten? Or three?"

"Or none," Fugo grumbled.

"It's nine! For nine circles of hell! Breaking the ice! Get it?"

Giorno did that head tilt. Mista shrugged. Even Fugo just squinted at me and he's the one who told me about the Divine Comedy. I finally figured out the punchline and he didn't even get it?

"Lowbrows," I muttered and revved the engine.

"You're in neutral," Giorno reminded me. "Light's green."

"Oh. Yeah! Next ice breaker! Wanna play Last Man Standing?"

"Narancia," Fugo sighed, "you don't understand the rules to that game. Also, you always lose."

He was right, but whatever. "Then let's play Fuck, Marry, Kill! I already know Fugo's answer. Wanna hear it?"

"Oh, hell no. Narancia, we're playing the Silent Game."

Fugo's Silent Game has stakes, though. I shut my fucking mouth, zipped it, locked it, and threw the key out the window. The imaginary key. Not the ruby key. Bucciarati was holding that because I struggle with impulse control.

"Okay, the road's gonna fork–"

"SHHHHHHHH!"

Giorno looked at me and Mista with total confusion. "Are you actually playing the Silent Game?"

"SHH!"

Mista and I looked at each other with huge, helpless eyes. It's not possible to explain the Silent Game while playing the Silent Game. Fugo reached forward to tap my shoulder and point at the road. I swerved back into my lane.

Mista's a genius. Well, he's like a genius within my genre of thinking, and that's a very special genre. Anyway, he had a good idea. He tapped Giorno's shoulder and held up three fingers. Then he pointed at Giorno and carefully knocked down two fingers. He tapped the last one pointedly.

Giorno opened his mouth to speak, and two of the Sex Pistols heaved it shut for him. Mista pointed to me, Fugo, and himself, and showed Giorno three: we each had three strikes left in this game. Then he pointed to Giorno and showed one again.

Giorno nodded and showed one.

Yeah, one.

No lie, the hazing on this team is fucking boss.

Giorno got back into the map. He looked up at the road – we were on a city bypass road now – then back at the map and up at the road again with alarm. He smacked my shoulder and pointed urgently at the exit sign passing overhead.

I heaved on the steering wheel and the van obediently keeled around onto the exit ramp. That sign said train station! I did Giorno a high-five and blew through a red light. Nothing hit us, so no big deal.

Three smacks and three right turns later, we pulled into the parking lot.

"Narancia! Don't crash through that bar! Reverse, you have to take the parking ticket!"

"Hahaha! That's one, Fugo!"

Awww. That was one for me, too. With Mista in the lead, the stakes could be anything. That guy's too creative. I'd have to find a way to get him to speak. I usually lose this game, and it's easiest when Bucciarati or Abbacchio wins. Their ideas are at least safe and possible.

The lot was pretty full. Giorno used the emergency brake to slow us down enough to check for spots. Finally, Mista gave me a smack to point the way to a spot that the Sex Pistols had scouted out. I swerved in just before another car could take it.

Giorno and I did a high-five again.

We make a great team, I mouthed at him, but he was putting away the map.

"Okay, can we make a subtle approach to this station?" Bucciarati asked pointedly as we piled out of the van. "I'll head for the – location. Narancia, cover me. Fugo, Giorno, Mista, you guard Trish and Abbacchio. Hang back but not out of sight."

"Why are we guarding Abbacchio?" Mista asked.

Perfect! I poked a one finger into his chest, but he batted me away.

"Because he's using Blues to check if a few specific enemies are in the vicinity. Are you good for that, Leone?"

"I'd be better if someone hadn't given us a flat tire." He saw how my face fell, so he ruffled my hair. "But yeah. Yeah. Count on me."

Bucciarati opened his mouth, but Fugo slapped a hand over it.

We're playing the Silent Game, he mouthed.

Bucciarati is awful at lip reading. Always was. He frowned and did his hands out wide, like this. What?

"We're playing the Silent Game," Abbacchio said. He's great at lip reading. Lots of practice using Blues on mute. "And you and I are both about to lose now. I imagine either Fugo or Mista is winning?"

Fugo smiled, but Mista jabbed a thumb toward where Trish was leaning on the hood of a black Ferrari next to us, looking perfectly in place and perfectly bored.

"Oh yeah, Trish is a person!" I smacked both hands over my mouth. Two! No way. No way was I gonna lose with a newbie on board!

Bucciarati scrubbed both hands across his face in utter frustration, but Fugo did him a light shoulder punch and gestured at me and Mista. I crossed my arms. That wasn't really fair. It's true that me and Mista don't really do subtle, but it's not like Bucciarati and Abbacchio can walk into a train station without either bickering or flirting the whole way. It's not like Fugo can let one comment go by without making one of his encyclopedic comeback lines. En-cy-clo-pe-dick, five syllables! I'm really moving up the world!

Oh, Bucciarati mouthed. He gave Fugo a grateful thumbs-up and led us into the station.

Four o'clock, so the station was crowded. We split up a bit so it didn't look like five stylish tough-guys and me and Trish all walking in at once. I mean, I don't really know how an enemy is supposed to miss us, even one of us. The bare-chested suits sort of scream Passione, but that problem is above my pay grade!

The others stopped off by the stairs, where they could have a wall at their backs and guard Trish in only one direction. Abbacchio and Mista eased forward a bit more, I guess so Abbacchio's stand could check the whole station – what the hell is the range on Moody Blues, anyway? Mista's stand lets him watch in 360 degrees, so he was ideal for the middle area.

I followed Bucciarati as he strode down the platform. It bothered me that there was a train waiting right alongside us – all those doors and windows! I went ahead and raised Aerosmith, because even a second might make a difference. I mean, if someone was watching for us, my stand wouldn't give us away more than Bucciarati's signature white suit! I'm pretty sure there's no one in any European mafia who wouldn't recognize him – he was one of the originals in the war between Passione and Logos. He's sort of a legend. Besides, he's been in Passione for ten years – ten years! Who even survives this life for ten years?

Oh, yeah, you wanna know the story. So here's what happened.

I balanced on top of a trash can like a dumbass child to get a better view while I kept Aerosmith patrolling.

Bucciarati found the damn drinking fountain, but there was nothing for the key to fit into. Like, the locks just didn't fit.

Then Abbacchio gave a yell and came sprinting down the platform, just as a sheet of ice came at me. I shattered it to pieces with Aerosmith and strafed for the stand user, but all I got were smashed train windows.

People yelled and hit the pavement all around us. It's okay, this is Naples, they're used to it. But that left our team as the only ones still on our feet.

Down by the stairs, Trish screamed but I didn't see her anymore. I saw a guy with awful fashion sense lunge onto the train instead. Fugo and Giorno leapt after him. Mid-platform, Mista was aiming his pistol back and forth, looking for an enemy to target, but that decided him. He sprinted for the last car where they'd taken Trish.

The train started chuffing. I guess they figured if we were gonna light up the platform, it was safer to get that train full of people out of there. Man, were they wrong!

"He's inside the train!" Abbacchio yelled as he ran past me.

"Yeah, I know!"

Shit. We'd both lost the Silent Game.

I'd taken cover behind the trash can. With Aerosmith, I sprayed bullets through the train windows again, but a hail of ice daggers as long as my arm impaled the trash can. That pissed me off. If I can't see him, he can't see me! That's fair! That's how it's supposed to be!

I had to get in there and find him. The enemy.

The conductor closing the train door looked really scared, but I put on my lost child face and he didn't notice the knife in my hand. He let me jump through the door just as the train started picking up speed.

What about Abbacchio and Bucciarati?

As my car swept past them, all I heard was–

"It's the fucking turtle!"

"Bruno, come on!"

Then I got encased in ice.

Shit. That was pretty stupid.

Let me clear something up for you. You can stop me, but you can't stop Aerosmith. You can freeze me, paralyze me, tie me up, or even make me sit quietly in a seat, but Aerosmith stops for no man. Fugo told me about the Platonic Essences. I was scared he was leading up to a break-up or something, but it was fine, he was just stanning Aristotle again. Anyway, Aerosmith's gotta be the essence of wind or the essence of movement or something, because it can't hold still and you can't make it!

So while this angry ice guy in a goddamn ski suit was gloating over me about his train full of frozen hostages, I sent Aerosmith winging down along the next seven train cars, looking for the guys.

I don't see what Aerosmith sees, but I get glimpses. I can also hear a little, but it's like in a dream or underwater, and it's all blurred through the noise of the propellers.

So when I found Bucciarati and Abbacchio clinging to a zipper on the outside of the third car, it took a moment to understand what they were arguing about.

"–can't just leave him fighting that guy alone!"

"–prioritize Trish–"

"Fugo, Mista, and Giorno–"

"–regroup–"

"–might already be too late!"

"Don't say that–"

"–Aerosmith!"

"Oh, thank God!"

Bucciarati let the zipper rip down the length of the train car, sticking the landing on the stairs door entry – oh, what the hell is it called? You know, where the conductor lets you in. Okay, so they were safe. I had Aerosmith cover them from outside as they sprinted through the train cars, zipping open the doors between them to save time.

They ran into Giorno in the second-to-last car, looking frantic and doing Italian hands as he demanded answers. All the passengers were scared. No one was helping him. Haha, I thought, newbie also lost the Silent Game.

Bucciarati ran right up to him, but Abbacchio looked real suspicious of Giorno. I mean, he thought Giorno had it in for Bucciarati the whole time, so there's no way he didn't think Giorno had set this up. Abbacchio was turning something over in his pocket while the other two talked and I thought about how well it would work to shoot a knife out of his hand if that's what it was. I mean, my aim's just not that great, and if it came down to it, I wouldn't have risked shooting Abbacchio to save Giorno. Not back then, anyway. Huh. I guess that's still true. I hope it never comes to that!

Aerosmith was coasting along right there outside the train, but I hadn't shot out those windows so I don't know what they were saying. After a minute, Bucciarati laid out the plan, talking with his hands the way he does. Abbacchio looked like thunder clouds, but I guess he didn't see an alternative. He kind of nodded and gave Bucciarati this intense handshake – I mean, remember he thought this whole fucking trip that Bucciarati was destined to die any time he let him out of his sight, all because of the damn fate rocks. Then Bucciarati grabbed Giorno's hand and bolted back the way he came while Abbacchio stalked to the last train car alone.

I hesitated. They hadn't given me an order. Bucciarati would want me to stay safe. Haha! And so would Abbacchio, of course, but secretly he'd want me to guard Bucciarati in case Giorno really did have it in for him. I liked Giorno just fine, but Abbacchio and Bucciarati are so much more than "like" for me.

"I've got his back," I whispered to Abbacchio in my head. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm psychic like that.

I winged ahead to the first car where I was still stuck in an ice cube and I started raising hell.

(Abbacchio)

I hated sending Bruno off with that squirrely upstart. Bruno wanted to trust him after Pompeii, but for all we knew, he was the reason we'd been ambushed! It was beyond absurd to trust him now – with Bruno's life, with Narancia's life! I could have screamed –

Blues pressed a soft green focus over my mind and remembered a cool, rhythmic instrumental piece. Clockwork. Less like sand, more like clockwork. That's right.

"Never mind," I muttered to myself, as I stepped into the last train car. "Never mind, never mind, never mind. Just focus on the job at hand."

Fugo rounded on me as soon as he heard the door, as twitchy as I've ever seen him. But relief hit his face at the sight of me; he didn't have his stand out, either. He was still good to go.

"Abbacchio," he breathed. "Thank God you're here. We lost her."

"Yeah. Giorno said. I'm on it." I threw Blues at Trish's trail, muted and invisible, while I glanced up and down the train car. "Any sign of the enemy?"

"Niente."

Mista stood at the other end of the train car, pistol leveled and swinging left and right to keep the passengers head-down in their seats. Only two of the bullets flitted about his head. The others were searching for Trish; I glimpsed them here and there, but with Sex Pistols' range, one or two might even be in the next car or checking the roof.

There was no need anymore, of course. Blues picked up Trish almost immediately. Most recently, she had darted through the door I'd just entered by, only a minute before me. That must have been when Giorno exited. But strangely, she'd been only about twenty centimeters high. A stand effect, but whose?

Still invisible, Blues rewinded through Trish's desperate flight across the floor, to a furtive stance below one of the seats. Forty centimeters. A thought occurred to me and I cued Blues to capture this section for later replay and sampling. Trish had glanced back and forth, made several feints and false starts, hid in shadows. Most usefully, she had also picked up a shard of glass from the floor, only to drop it when she made her run. Perfect. I didn't need her earlier escape from her kidnapper, or how she found time to pull on a disguise. Not that anything could disguise that hair. Using the replay, I equipped Blues with that tiny glass dagger and allowed it to play visibly, repeating and sampling as necessary to prolong Trish's hesitation at the edge of sight.

Let's see who would notice.

I nudged Fugo and indicated the seat in question with a tilt of my chin, theater subtlety. The graying businessman seated there was visibly trembling as he clutched his briefcase over his lowered head. He shuddered under our sudden attention. Good; I didn't have all day.

Fugo cued Mista with his eyes, then eased casually forward toward that seat.

If I'd blinked, I would have missed it. A passenger midway down the car disappeared from his seat. Disappeared? More likely shrank, as Trish had done, only faster. I imagined him sprinting forward under the rows of seats, between passengers' shoes. Below the train's steady roar, there would have been the sound of little feet pattering toward us. I contained a smile of satisfaction.

Just as Fugo made a swift grab for the false Trish, I let her dash for the door, escaping his grasp. Fugo swore and in that instant, the enemy stand user bloomed to his full height between us. In one swift move, his sneering knight-in-armor stand jabbed first Fugo, then me, with a bizarre dagger-finger. Then the user knocked me aside with one elbow and Blues instantly switched to sampling mode as the man scooped up my Trish-shaped stand and pocketed it, fumbling left-handed with the door handle.

I had to make an effort, despite my gratitude to the doomed fool.

"Hey, asshole! Stop right there!" I slammed a fist into him, one of my throwing knives gripped inside it for weight.

"Oof!" But he'd just gotten the door open. He grinned at me. Oh, God, the gloating type. "Oh, you want to land a little punch on me? A little love-tap? Is that how you like it? Well, enjoy it while you can, fuckwad! You'll be crying once this door is closed and you're too short to reach the handle."

Cheesy as hell, but I needed to distract him. I gestured at Fugo, behind me, to back away – give me space to work!

One of Mista's shots rang out down the car. I held still so the bullets – you know I mean Sex Pistols – could bank the shot around me. But that dagger-finger stand materialized and snatched the bullet from the air. Fast. Good info.

"The hell are you talking about, too short?" I demanded, drawing the man's attention. "You wanna know what's gonna be 'too short?'"

He laughed. "Is it your – ouch!"

Blues used one of Trish's earlier feints to drive the glass shard through the man's fancy slacks and into the muscle beneath. Damn! Too weak. I'd hoped to hit the artery, but we'd only made him angry – and given away the game.

Damn, damn, damn.

"Oh, isn't that cute? Little girl wants to play rough!"

He pinched Blues by the head, mussing that perfect pink hairdo, and disarmed it with a flick of his fingers. Damn! That put me in a bind. If I reverted Blues to its own form, we could take him on in traditional combat. I had my knives, but that dagger-finger stand was fast. And by now, I was more than a head shorter than my opponent. At a guess, the shrinking would affect Blues as well, potentially eroding its strength at the same time. I didn't like those odds. Even if Fugo and Mista charged into the fray, in a tight space like this, we'd only get in each other's way.

My other option was to re-arm Blues. I couldn't do that on a replay of Trish; the grip wouldn't match up. And if I released Blues to its own form to free up its movements, the size change would obviously alert our enemy that what he was holding was a stand, not a hostage. But it occurred to me that this gradual shrinking effect might work to my advantage.

Another shot, followed by the excited clamor of the bullets' teamwork. This time, the enemy stand just helped its user dodge. The shot shattered the door's glass pane – no lucky shards found their way into Blues' hands, though. This glass broke like glitter.

"Keep shooting, asshole!" the enemy jeered.

I caught one of the bullets in my hand – Number Six, the clever one, as it happened – and whispered a couple words. The tiny stand fragment gave me thumbs up, gun fingers, and a tiny high-five before darting away. Of course the six bullets are telepathic; they're one fucking stand with six parts. And a dozen different opinions. I like that about Mista.

"What the hell?" Fugo had noticed the shrinking. We had each lost a full head of height at this point. "The fuck did you do to us?"

"So you finally realized. That's my stand's ability. People don't respect Little Feet, but that's exactly why it's so dangerous. You wanna know what you can do when you're the size of an ant, jackass? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! You wanna know what happens when you're the size of an action figure and you fall between two train cars, only to instantly revert to your original size? CHKRRCHKT!"

Damn, this man was pissing me off. What the hell was he standing around monologuing for? I made a move in case it might open a shortcut, lunging forward as if to punch him right-handed – drawing his stand – only to stab upward with my left hand and the little throwing knife it still held.

"Ha! Dumb fucker! You thought I thought you were a righty, but you already threw that punch with your left! Left-handed, sinister, the devil's hand–"

"I'm ambidextrous," I growled, driving my right fist into his jaw.

The man was unphased; I give him that. He spat and twisted my wrist – my left hand, which he'd initially grabbed. The knife fell to the floor – right past Blues' itching fingers. Now he lifted, dangling me by my wrist at a painful angle. I gave him my silence. Sadists piss me off more than anything, but I wasn't going to let that break my cool.

"Leone Abbacchio," he hissed at me. "Heard you got some kind of time stand, but not one of the good ones. You wanna know what's gonna happen in the next ten seconds, Leone Abbacchio?"

"I already know. I can see it, oh, so clearly."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he wasn't interested in my games. Only his own.

"Then you should be saying your prayers."

"I'm an atheist."

I could feel myself dwindling in his grip, down to the size of a toddler now. Almost time, almost time… I was certain now that he was playing the same game, thinking that if he waited for us to shrink, the door would hold back me, Fugo, and Mista at least long enough to make his getaway. But he was stupid. That was his downfall.

"Tell me, Leone Abbacchio, why did you leave the execution squad?"

I needed to lose about fifty centimeters to make this happen. "You think you already know."

"Oh yeah? You wanna hear my theories? One is that you're useless." He gave me a little shake for emphasis. "Two is that you're useless. Three is that you're tiny and also useless!"

On this last idiotic repetition, he threw me at Fugo – like falling on each other would really disrupt our teamwork – and made his escape. I was ankle-high now. Through the jagged-edged window so high above me, I saw that he climbed onto the roof of the next train car.

I also saw one of the bullets – Sex Pistols – grab the dropped throwing knife and swoop after him. Fugo and I disentangled ourselves, just in time to be picked up by two more of the bullets. The man had a contact stand; he hadn't jabbed Mista, of course, so we took advantage of our size difference to catch a ride on the team's tiniest stand.

Number One and Number Two, reliable little fellows, dropped us about two hundred thirty-five centimeters behind the opponent.

"Fugo," I hissed, "take cover."

"No," he hissed back urgently. "I'm your backup! You need me on the spot!"

"No, you're not. Mista will be here in less than a minute."

"We may not have a minute! We need to get Trish–"

"It's okay, Fugo. That's not Trish!"

His eyes widened, then he looked like he might laugh. Trish's swirly little 'do had been covering Blues' dial so well, even my best friend hadn't realized.

"Go!"

Fugo ran for cover behind one of the ventilation fixtures, while I cued Blues and sprinted forward. Ironic, that our small size made us much faster on the train's roof than our full-sized opponent. He took one careful, swaying step at a time, leaning forward into the relentless wind.

That's probably why he hadn't noticed when Blues got a knife air-dropped to it by Mista's stand.

Why were we on the roof? Why had he made such an incapacitating choice? It's not like the passengers were offering resistance. He stopped and shielded his eyes, turning his head to follow the train's first car as we snaked around a bend. Looking for his associate. Of course. They must have agreed to meet on the roof for their getaway.

I glanced that way, only to see Ghiaccio ejected from the train through one of Bruno's zippers. Sure, I'd recognize that ice stand anywhere. He made a fast recovery, spraying a ramp of ice to meet his fall. With a snap of his wrists, twin whips of ice linked him to the train car and he skated alongside the train, raising a platform of ice ahead of him to smooth the way.

You had to stop and admire that kind of technical virtuosity.

"Hey, Ghiaccio!" my opponent yelled, but the wind stole his voice away.

Even though Ghiaccio was the more talented stand user, he was clearly playing decoy and then getaway driver – getaway skater? He would be keeping an eye on his associate, ready to swoop back here in an instant. I had to make my move quickly. Even if my fake Trish got them to leave, they would just be back later when they left Blues' range and discovered my deception.

Up ahead, the whole side of the train car peeled away on more of Bruno's zippers, dropping a ton of sheet metal in Ghiaccio's face. How he overcame that, I was not able to see, but it seemed to convince him that Bruno was his first priority, even at the expense of his getaway job. He started throwing ice daggers, then weaving some kind of elaborate ricochet web that made no physical sense when Narancia's Aerosmith began firing. I sent up a wordless prayer of thanks to a God who doesn't exist; three of the four people I care about in the world were demonstrably still alive.

I looked away. My opponent, thinking himself alone, did not.

And that's why he didn't notice when Blues reverted to its own form – my size, now matching pocket-Trish's size. With a knife, a full range of motion, the strength of a stand even diminished by shrinking, and all the time in the world as my opponent stood cheering on his accomplice, I could deliver a hell of a lot more than a glancing flesh-wound.

"Ayeek!" the man yelped, clutching his thigh. "Is that – is that a stand?"

Blood spurted and gushed. That was the femoral artery. We'd hit gold. I dismissed Blues and struck a tiny pose, waiting for my enemy's response.

Mista clattered onto the roof just in time to see our opponent insta-shrink to my size. Mista shot, and Sex Pistols did their job despite the man's pseudo-disappearing act – he wasn't tiny compared to them – but again, that wicked stand lunged forward and intercepted the bullet. At this size, it was knocked off its feet by the impact, but the user was unharmed.

"You thought you got me, didn't you?" my opponent gasped through his pain.

I stalked toward him, drawing my knives as I came.

"You thought cutting an artery was game over. But you didn't count on the changes to fluid dynamics when I shrink the diameter of my blood vessels."

It was true. His bleeding had slowed to a trickle. I shrugged and threw the first knife wide over his head, hoping his stand wouldn't bother to knock it aside. It didn't. The man was too cocky. Cocky and stupid. I had him.

"You call that a throw? It's just like Prosciutto said – you never could have held you own in La Squadra. I was right about why you left, wasn't I? Pitiful!"

I tossed a second throwing knife to Blues, who had materialized silently behind my opponent. I was closing the distance between us slowly. I like to keep my options open. Mista knows that; he stood back and let me work.

"Prosciutto said that? That's a shame," I said. "A damn shame. I hope I corrected his view of matters when I killed him this afternoon."

"You – you killed him? Prosciutto? No way, you're lying!"

"Well, okay. I had some help." I tossed Blues a third throwing knife. This time, the enemy stand acted, knocking the knife aside – only to have it caught by Mista's agile Number Seven, who delivered it to my stand. "But I was the one to cut his throat."

My enemy finally noticed that the knives didn't clatter when they landed behind him. Fucking finally and a million percent too late.

"What are you–?" He faced off against us, stand to stand and user to user.

"Oh, this fight hasn't even begun," I told him, drawing my butterfly knife from my other jacket pocket with a flourish.

It's truly a thing of beauty – the only one of Risotto's gifts that I authentically cherish. Why not? This one's from my own blood. Worked in black iron with a vicious iridescent sheen to it, two curved handles and a curved blade, two flex points. Once I get that blade moving back and forth between my two hands, it's mesmerizing. Even to me.

That's why Blues is the one delivering killing blows. As Mista fired again and the enemy stand lunged to meet the bullet, Blues made its move. Three knives straight into his back and my opponent was crumpling to his knees.

Blues vanished on the spot, unavailable when his stand turned to retaliate.

"Of all the underhanded–!"

I shrugged. "You work for Zo. So. You should expect 'underhanded.'"

He size-changed up, aiming to crush me – but he instantly regretted it as his wounds gushed. He nearly lost his balance on top of a speeding train as the blood rushed away from his head. He shrank back down. His stand lashed out, striking at me with that bayonet of a finger, but I just leaned out of its limited range. Mista's gun fired once, twice, three times. His speedy stand intercepted the first bullet, but it was knocked off balance. Before it could move to counter them, Sex Pistols kicked the next two shots home from two different directions, hitting the stand user like a couple of missiles. His chest was a bloody ruin.

Never don't double-tap, I reminded myself. I raised Blues to watch my back as I dropped down next to my opponent to check for a pulse.

It was there, barely. His eyelids fluttered open. His hand twitched with what must have been an effort to raise his stand, but he was too weak.

After a couple gasps, he rasped out, "Then why did you leave the squad?"

What? That's his dying question? I gave him an unkind smile.

"Oh, Bruno invited me to join his team. And I thought, hey."

That's all I was giving him.

More pitiful gasps, then he rasped, "Risotto will never forgive you. He'll see me avenged."

"No," I said. "There's plenty more he won't forgive me for, but when he hears how you went down, he'll thank me. Squad's got a reputation to maintain, after all."

I like my truths like my espresso and my men: tall, dark, and bitter.

"You… arrogant… bitch."

"Okay, but that's your opinion."

I cut his throat and we all bounced back to our regular sizes, instantly suffering the train's wind and rocking. Fugo caught me as a fresh wave of nausea struck.

"Hey. Blood loss from earlier's finally hitting you?" he asked me.

"Nah. Motion sickness." I wiped my lovely butterfly knife clean. Real men don't dwell on major blood loss from earlier episodes, right? I called Blues to support from the other side. It picked up Bruno's shape, sampling fluidly from my vast repertoire of captured Bruno moments. I didn't have the heart to make it stop. "Let's get down from here and see where the real Trish has got to."

As we staggered back to the ladder, Mista said, "Why did you leave the assassins' squad?"

"It's like I said. Bruno picked me up."

"Yeah, but why would you choose bodyguard work and escort missions over that? I mean, the pay, the prestige, the adventure – hell, you don't even go out on missions much. You're just training us and doing paperwork for our superiors, mostly."

"Oh, am I? Well, that sounds like a relaxing life."

"It's a waste of talent!" Mista accused.

Fugo grinned at me.

We shimmied down the ladder and I put Blues back to its proper purpose of tracking an innocent victim. We set off up the train – but not before Mista yelled a scant apology back into the car full of passengers that we'd traumatized.

"Sorry, folks!"

"That was nice," Fugo said scathingly. "I'm sure they feel much, much better."

"Aw, thanks. By the way. I won the Silent Game."

I groaned. As Narancia would gleefully confirm, I had lost this round. This really was not my day.

"No, you didn't," Fugo said. "Unless she's been unusually talkative in the last few minutes, Trish won."

"Huh. I wonder what she'll ask for."

"I think Narancia lost. So that will be interesting."

"No, I did," I said.

Well. That's when the train wreck began.

(Trish)

Ratty Dude calls his stand Little Feet because it shrinks things, I texted to Flor. Like when the dryer shrinks your socks. Get it?

Thank God my phone still worked after shrinking. I was insanely bored, waiting turn after turn for Gangstar Golden Boy to stop asking the NPCs useless questions and move on to the next car. I was counting on him for some hot door handle action! I was also getting worried. The shrinking hadn't stopped and I was smaller than a Barbie. Was it really a safe assumption that Shirtless and Asshat could take down the Rat Man on their own?

Oh f'ing finally, the adults are here.

After a brief argument – they're so divorced! – Dukepin persuaded Trenchcoat to go deal with the Rat Man on his own. Dukepin and Golden Boy were headed the opposite direction. That gave me a shred of hope. So I hitched a ride into the next train car on the cuff of Golden Boy's marvelous purple velvet pants. It was all compartments in that section – no rows of scared passengers, no onlookers. Seemed like the best time.

I scrambled up to his pocket so I wouldn't fall, then jabbed him with a toothpick I'd found on the ground.

"What–?" Golden Boy did this crazy double-take when he saw me. "Trish! But why are you so small?"

Dukepin kneeled down to get a better look at me.

"Trish! Thank God you're safe. Why are you tiny? Did the enemy do this, or is this an ability you have?"

"I don't know what you mean," I lied. Flor said if I could see stands, then I must have one, but if I did, it hadn't revealed itself yet. "I keep getting smaller. It's becoming inconvenient."

"The enemy must be a stand user," Golden Boy said. I mean, obvi! "Maybe if we get her out of his range, she'll return to normal size?"

Dukepin shrugged. "Not all stand effects are range-dependent, but Leone will deal with him soon enough. No sense lingering here. We've got to get to Narancia."

"Should we bring her with us?"

"I think we have to. Trish, do you mind if I carry you? I'm best able to keep you safe when the fighting begins."

I nodded like a scared little chick and didn't mention how many stand battles Flor and I had already come through. It was tough without a stand of my own back then, but I had managed. No sense offering to fight when I was ten centimeters high, though. I could let my bodyguards earn their pay.

Hey Flor, what's entry level pay in the mafia?

Dukepin transferred me to his inside breast pocket, next to this huge bejeweled key and a seriously cushy pec. I mean, he was really buff, for a stringy old guy. And then we were charging off to fight this second assassin cultist.

The first thing I noticed was it was super cold. Frigid. Arctic. The coldest.

The second thing was the entire train car full of people frozen in blocks of ice. Seriously, can you get any more cartoon villain than that?

And then the shooting. Turned out Little Queer Boy(?)'s stand was a frickin' fighter jet with unlimited ammo! How broken is that? I wanted to send Flor a video, but of course stands don't show up on a phone.

Tatatatatatata ping! Tatatatat!

Bullets chipped away at the ice blocks, occasionally ricocheting off seats and fixtures. Golden Boy and Dukepin hesitated in the doorway; there was no cover.

Last thing I noticed was Manic Ice Guy. He wore racing skates and an intense ski suit that was apparently bulletproof. At the moment, he was balanced atop a pyramid of ice-blocked hostages. We all rolled for initiative.

Manic Ice Guy led with some straight-up monologuing:

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result! But that's also the definition of persistence and the definition of science! So what the fuck is your problem! Are you insane or just insanely persistent? Do you think you're a goddamn mad scientist? Think this genius plan is gonna pay off? Because I'll tell you what it is: It's fucking unreasonable!"

"Narancia is nothing if not unreasonable," Dukepin said coolly, stepping forward. "The real question is, what about you?"

"Is that Bruno 'Tough Cookie' Buccelati? Great, you're just in time for dessert! Take a taste of this ice!"

A thick sheet of ice raced across the floor.

"Ghiaccio, come on! You have hundreds of juicy rumors to choose from, and you want to open with a cookie pun? That's not even my name!"

Before it could reach his feet, Dukepin punched the floor with his stand, opening some kind of shimmery purple-black space for him to stand in. He pulled Golden Boy into it, too, and the ice rushed past on either side. With the ice sheet walls, this actually gave them a bit of cover, like a trench. It cut through the floor, but bizarrely enough, it didn't open onto the rails and ground racing past at one-twenty kilometers per hour below. It seemed to be its own space.

Golden Boy's turn.

"What is Narancia thinking?" Golden Boy said, just loudly enough to be heard over the continuous rattle of the fighter jet's guns. "You gave him an opening, but he's not even trying to aim!"

"Ice daggers incoming!" I yelled. Squeaked. It's hard to generate much volume when you're the size of a chess piece.

Dukepin cut out a slab of ice with his stand and pulled it over us like a roof. We didn't even hear the impact of the ice daggers through that thick block.

"Narancia can't see," he said, as if nothing had happened. "He must be encased in one of these blocks of ice. Aerosmith has a radar system, but he needs a range of motion to use it."

"I know you're down there," the enemy yelled. "Why don't you just sit and cool your heels a while?"

A blast of frigid air swirled around us, like air conditioning set on max. Dukepin and Golden Boy were shivering. I was glad of my pocket location. Cozy.

"If Narancia would stop shooting," Golden Boy said, "we could get in close and attack the enemy."

"No. That's exactly what we shouldn't do. Stupid puns aside, Ghiaccio's no ordinary enemy. He's a veteran of the hitmen squad, an experienced assassin. The closer you get, the more dangerous he is. Do you understand, Giorno?"

"Yes. Understood. Then what can we…" Golden Boy glanced over his shoulder and trailed off. Taking f'ing forever. Just choose an attack, buddy! "Good idea, but we have to do it before it gets any colder. Bucciarati, Gold Experience can shatter most of this ice and open the roof of the train. It will take some time at this temperature, though. Can you distract the enemy?"

"Trees. Giorno, you're brilliant. That's still faster than zipping open every single ice block until I find Narancia."

"And it will let the hot summer air in," Golden Boy said through chattering teeth.

"Like a golden wind." Dukepin was smiling, I could hear it in his voice.

A fresh wave of ice raced across the top of our trench, lowering the ceiling. Dukepin and Golden Boy ducked just in time, thanks to Golden Boy's stand appearing and pulling them down.

"He's really pushing us," Dukepin said. "Don't step out of this void, Giorno – it's a little safer. Take the time to do it well. I'll distract him. Trish, hold on!"

Golden Boy's stand punched the floor of the train, cross-sectioned by the trench. Thready white roots began to uncoil there, but as Dukepin turned, my view from his pocket panned away.

Dukepin's blue-and-white knight of a stand punched open a tunnel under the ice ahead of us. He ran forward into it, then attacked the ice overhead – breaking out in a flurry of fists.

"He's gone!" I squeaked.

"Not likely," Dukepin said, spinning on the spot.

Ice daggers rained down on us from above. Dukepin reduced them to flakes in a burst of stand punches. Great dexterity check!

"What the hell?"

Thick ropes of ice had twisted up around his legs at the same time. As he bent down to clear those, ice condensed out of thin air to coat his torso thickly, locking him in place. The little fighter jet swooped overhead and hammered bullets – accurately! – onto the ice wrapped around Dukepin's feet, but it hardly chipped the surface.

"Oh, I know all the rumors about you, Bucciarati," the enemy said gloatingly. Where did the voice come from? I nat-one'd that perception check. "I thought you'd be bored with all that by now. So I tried to entertain you with something you haven't heard before. But you didn't appreciate my creativity, did you? So now we're right back where we started. Or rather, where you started. Rumor has it this position sums up your first seven years of service in Passione; is that so?"

"Trish, go," Dukepin whispered.

With a flick of one finger, he opened a fissure through the ice. I jumped from his pocket and started running. Even with my speed halved by the size effect–

The ice shattered around me. The ice block directly ahead of me blew apart like a grenade going off. Golden Boy's plan?

No. The enemy. He had encased himself in ice to ambush Dukepin. But of course, the ice obeyed his will and released him the moment he saw me.

I was tinier than ever. I thought I could take cover amid the ice fragments – but my foot slipped as I tried to dodge – and the enemy scooped me up in his gloved hand. I was instantly immobilized in spiky ice.

"Now that's something!" the enemy exclaimed, peering at me. "I was disappointed in the fight you gave me, Bucciarati, or rather the utter absence of one, but you've brought me a gift that makes up for it entirely! I'll be going now. Toodles!"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Dukepin growled.

"A kick in the ass before I go? Sorry, not interested."

"Not that."

"What, then? Your useless ally? You think he's about to save you? I can sense him, you know, based on his body heat. He's exactly where you left him, standing in a void at the back of the car doing absolutely nothing. You picked a coward, Bucciarati. That's why I haven't bothered to end his life. You've got a weak link there, and one of those rumors says you're too soft-hearted to off him yourself. Or maybe this one's something special to you – which doesn't mean a hell of a lot to me, except inasmuch as he'll amount to a blind spot for you. One more blemish on your whole rotten team. Or will he be a wedge between you and that traitor second-in-command you keep protecting? Is that rumor valid, Bucciarati? Is that what I'm forgetting?"

"No. Not that, either."

Manic Ice Guy just about exploded with frustration. His hand was trembling. He clenched it tight around me, cracking the ice that encased me. It was the perfect opportunity – except that his fingers never unclenched. I could barely breathe. I cursed my low strength score. Why the eff had I put that sixteen into charisma?

"Then WHAT? I'm not forgetting anything! You're messing with my head, aren't you? But what if I AM forgetting something? Damn it, Bucciarati, you're one slippery eel!"

I saw it before I felt it. The ice-caked floor trembled, then bucked.

Manic Ice Guy's head jerked around. "What are you…?"

"Not me. We."

"That's so fucking TRITE!"

With a cracking sound that overrode the tiny fighter jet's continuous fire, the ice coating the floor shattered. Thick, knotted roots writhed beneath. An instant later, the ice blocks encasing the passengers and seats exploded. No, those weren't seats – the train was filled with stunted alpine trees. Dwarf oaks and gnarled junipers. Most of the passengers hung limp on those trees, though a few rolled or struggled to their feet, only to take cover as that little red fighter jet swooped low over their heads. Huh. I wondered what the mini airplane stand seemed like to NPCs who couldn't see it. Terrifying, apparently.

From about the middle of the train car, still wearing some ice like lopsided plate armor, Little Queer Boy(?) staggered forward. His limbs were trembling with cold, but his shoulders bunched forward in anger. He reminded me of a tiger.

"I wasn't running Aerosmith's guns at random," he announced through chattering teeth. "It wasn't unreasonable at all! I was chipping out breathing holes in your ice. I just didn't want you to notice!"

Man, these guys really get off on explaining their strategy in the middle of a fight, don't they?

"I thought I was gonna suffocate," Little Queer Boy(?) continued, warming to his topic. For some reason, Manic Ice Guy just let him talk. "That got me thinking. You're wearing this bulletproof suit, layered up with ice and stuff. So how do you breathe? I couldn't use my radar until I got my hands and head free, but I did that just now while you were busy taunting Bucciarati. Now I know the answer. But do you know?"

"Radar wouldn't help you locate my breathing apparatus, you imbecile!"

"My radar is a carbon dioxide detector!"

"THAT'S NOT WHAT RADAR MEANS!"

Little Queer Boy(?) put Aerosmith's guns back into action. Bullets rained down across Manic Ice Guy's hands.

"Hey! Watch it!" I squealed.

The ice around me blasted away. Manic Ice Guy stumbled forward. I tumbled out of his hands. It was a long drop to the floor and all I could think of was the splat that was waiting for tiny, tiny me. It felt like I fell out of myself – or rather, part of me did. A flashy pink stand with intense green eyes was falling with me. A stand! Of all the times to level up!

Don't sweat it, my stand told me. You're unbreakable, girl!

Just before we both landed, she gave me a mid-air fist bump and disappeared.

I was like, that's it? My stand ability is girl power?

The ground was right there, like it'd been waiting for me all my life. Taupe linoleum floor coated and cluttered with ice – my destiny.

I landed face first. And bounced.

After tumbling and bouncing around like a dropped eraser, I came to rest between some ice shards at Dukepin's feet and stopped giggling. I loved this new status effect. And it lasts ten minutes – that's basically forever in combat!

"Trish!" he whispered. "Jesus Christ, are you alright?"

"Never better!"

Dukepin hadn't been freed from his ice shell by Golden Boy's trees attack, since he wasn't near the seats that turned into trees. But on the side away from his enemy, his stand was working furiously. It was lacing the ice with small zippers, making ready for him to break free. So the awkward pose was no accident – it was all just as planned! The keikaku was totally doori, as they say in Flor's anime shows. Of course, I'm Italian; my story isn't an anime or a manga.

"Find someplace safe until we can retrieve you," Dukepin whispered to me.

Yeah, eff that, am I right?

I gave his finger a stand-enhanced fist-bump – which he may not have felt, considering I was the size of a plastic solder from Risk by now. Then I took off toward the action, bouncing from chunk to chunk of ice as my stand punched each one in turn.

"What the fuck did you do, you idiot child?" Manic Ice Guy screamed. He was on his knees, scrabbling around to find where he'd dropped me. "I don't breathe through my gloves! You're mistaken! And now your blunder has made me fumble! You will pay for such carelessness, child!"

"I'm not the one who's being careless."

Manic Ice Guy's head snapped up just in time. A miniature missile dropped onto the back of his neck and exploded.

The triumph slid off Little Queer Boy(?)'s face like so much egg when Manic Ice Guy straightened up. He cricked his neck to the left, then to the right.

"But – but I was certain! I saw the puff of carbon dioxide. It was right there!"

"It doesn't matter what you saw. My White Album is unbeatable. Get that through your thick, fluffy head, you stupid girl!"

Manic Ice Guy skated toward Little Queer Boy(?), dodging the dwarf trees easily – and gaining speed. Denied! I wasn't about to let anything happen to that sweet little walking disaster!

We got this, my stand said inside my head. She caught me in one arm and punched the floor so hard that we catapulted up into the air, landing neatly in Little Queer Boy(?)'s nest of hair. Having a stand was so sweet. Dual classing never felt better.

The ice below us was changed from my stand's strike. First one skate and then the other snagged in the rubbery surface. Manic Ice Guy stumbled. His momentum hurled him headlong into the dwarf forest, debris, and sprawled bodies that had been the seats along the train's wall.

Breaking free of his ice shell in one smooth twist, Dukepin launched his fist through the air to strike the wall, just as Manic Ice Guy collided. The wall split open and Ice Guy fell straight out of the train – into the rushing landscape that I glimpsed through the unzipped wall.

"Narancia," Dukepin ordered, "use your radar to locate Trish!"

While Little Queer Boy(?) complied, pulling a periscope from the air above his face, Dukepin stalked over to the wide-open zipper to retrieve his fist. He leaned out, checking for the enemy. Summer air rushed in and I felt a change take hold. The cold effect had ended, and something else was happening to this train car.

"Oh, fuck," Dukepin said. "Narancia, hang on to something!"

I glanced out the window. That madman of a skater had latched onto the train with ice ropes. He was spraying a fan of ice below his skates for a smooth ride. What nerve! But… the window. Had it always been framed with a motif of leaves and vines?

With a few sharp, powerful blows, Dukepin unzipped the entire wall and dropped it in front of Manic Ice Guy.

That should have stopped him. If the DM was playing fair, it would have. But no, these stand fights are rambling, nonsensical affairs full of twists and impossible comebacks.

The roof and remaining walls of the train car turned to ivy and fell over us like garlands. The wall falling on our enemy was harmless vines.

An icicle as long and thick as a two-handed sword hurtled straight into Dukepin's chest.

Then it bounced off, since he was still protected by my rubber effect. The icicle clattered away among the stunted trees and groaning, cowering passengers.

"That was… bizarre," Dukepin remarked.

I stand-punched Little Queer Boy(?)'s scalp – and just in time. A sort of ice trident plunged into his back and bounced away.

"Goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch, I'll fucking kill him!"

"Narancia, language! Damn! And hold your fire! We don't know where Trish is!"

The enemy rained ice daggers on us, but they just bounced off harmlessly.

My stand talked in my head again: Thanks, Spice Girl! You're welcome, Trish!

That's your name? I asked, incredulous. Spice Girl, singular?

"I'll get him! My Aerosmith will get him for sure!" The fighter jet swooped past and scouted along the side of the moving train. Little Queer Boy(?) peered into that periscope. "Fuck! It's no use. I can't see anything in this wind!"

Are we gonna let the boys have all the fun? my stand asked in my mind. Come on, chica! Let's get radical!

I was ant-sized by now. I gritted my teeth and started a very long climb down from my ally's head. It wasn't safe to drop to the floor – since it wasn't a floor anymore. It was an endless knot of roots, with plenty of gaps between them. I could see the rails rushing past below and feel the hot air gusting up. I couldn't risk a fall. At this size, I could easily be blown off the train and swept away into the countryside, and then where would I be?

"Sorry about that timing!" Golden Boy yelled over the wind. He was picking his way forward around trees and passengers, his golden stand at his side. "I wanted the roof and walls off to let the summer heat in, but it looks like I sabotaged your K.O.!"

"Never mind that now," Dukepin yelled back, shielding his face from the ice hail with one rubberized arm. "We've got to locate the enemy and find Trish!"

The golden stand idly slapped away icicles aimed at its user, benefitting from the available summer heat to transform them into squishy cuttlefish that squirmed across the floor and expired.

"She's probably down among the roots," Golden Boy said. "Bucciarati, zip them apart so we can search! It's the fastest solution!"

Dukepin shook his head. "Trish is becoming too small to see. She could be anywhere! I can't risk dropping her through the floor."

I was halfway there, dangling from Little Queer Boy(?)'s miniskirt. If they'd just bothered to look, they would have seen me – I was the size of an ant, not a germ, after all. But my voice was thin as a needle and they'd never hear me over the roaring wind.

Spice Girl punched the skirt hard and the corner I gripped stretched downward like a drop of slime, helping me on my way.

"Gold says – we're going to listen for her."

"Listen?"

Golden Boy sat down like a friggin' guru. His hands were spread against the root-mass floor, his stand's hands hovering within them. "With Gold's ability, I can sense individual life forces, even very small ones. If I can just concentrate…"

"Okay." Was that a verbal eyeroll? Dukepin moved to protect Golden Boy from the ongoing ice attack. "Narancia, any luck?"

I found a run on Little Queer Boy(?)'s tights and slid down the rest of the way down, giving my hands some serious rug burn. I thought that might get his(?) attention, but–

"There! I just glimpsed him! He's–"

No? Okay then. I jumped off his(?) shoe and landed neatly on a thick root. With Spice Girl's help, I sprinted along first one root, then another, making my way down through the tangle that made up the floor. It was a long way down for an ant-sized character, but I glimpsed the glitter of ice already through the gaps between roots.

The ice lattice began just below where the wall had fallen away. It anchored a solid mass of ice – a cocoon of ice, I saw now. Manic Ice Guy had glazed himself to the train car's chassis. He wasn't even moving to produce this continuous hail of ice daggers. I figured it worked like ferrokinesis; he had an affinity with the moisture in the air, so he could shape, freeze, and launch it with his will alone. Maybe he controlled kinetic energy on some level, which is ultimately the same thing as temperature – might give him some control over the wind, using cold spots to produce low-pressure pockets and guide his ice toward his targets. Or something like that. Whatever, I'm not obsessively reading the player's manual or anything!

What's the hottest thing you can do with rubber? Spice Girl intoned in my mind.

I grinned to myself. Friction. Ice Guy's gonna hate it.

We doubled back, choosing our root with care. Get it?

Over the insane loudness of the train's mechanical bits, I heard Aerosmith resume firing. Ice chips sifted down through the "floor" of thick, woody tree roots.

Good, I thought. Keep him distracted until my plan pays off.

Then I heard the strangest sound, like a ringing in my ears. Louder and louder, until it was throbbing against my eardrums.

I can't help you with that, Spice Girl told me, but this, this is my jam!

We had reached the wheel assembly. She punched the metal and the rubber effect spread.

Okay, she told me, now let's split before this party heats up!

As I skinned my knees sprinting and falling on one root after another – the distance was taking for-ev-er at this size! – I heard their voices from overhead:

"Gold's found her! She's under the train! And the size of a mite!"

"Narancia! Stop firing! He's doing something with your bullets!"

"I've almost got him, I'm sure!"

Then a few things happened at once.

The unbearable ringing sound ended.

"No!" Dukepin yelled, with running footsteps and the sound of zippers spreading.

No use. The squelching thuds of bullets pummeling a rubberized body followed. Too many bullets. Yikes.

"Narancia!" Golden Boy sounded aghast.

The rubberized wheels overheated. The ice cocoon was slick and dripping.

Then I reverted to normal size.

Safe was no longer safe. I almost lost my grip; Spice Girl helped me catch hold. We were clinging to the bottom of the train, all made of roots, at risk of grazing the gravel and railroad ties racing below if our grips relented by even a centimeter. I was rubberized, but that wouldn't keep my brain from getting bruised to death if I got dragged under a speeding train!

I glanced sideways and saw Ice Guy drop free of the train, his ice succumbing to the wheels' heat. No matter; he threw another of his ice lines and gave himself a long track of ice to glide on again.

How the living fuck do we get rid of this guy? I demanded of my stand.

The train swayed unnervingly.

Oh girly, we messed up bigtime!

Exposed to incredible friction and heat, the rubberized wheels were wobbling. Then they folded like warm butter. The train bumped along so fast it rattled my bones, but only for a second before the train car we clung to toppled off the rail. Eight more cars behind slammed into it, one after another.

Our train car – a raft of roots topped with a swiftly maturing forest patch – fell on its side and pivoted as the trees dragged through the gravel and soft earth. I was flung outward, clear of the ensuing train wreck. I tucked up my knees and elbows as I bounced and rolled through the high summer grass.

Finally I came to a halt and splayed out flat, winded. Above and behind me, I heard the hiss of steam, the groan of crushed metal slowly settling, the crack and whine of splintered wood coming to rest.

Do you think that stopped him? I asked my stand, sitting up.

There was no sign of my cute gay guys either, but they had probably landed on the other side of the train.

What, you think being crushed under a train would stop that cryomaniac? Not on your life, bellissima!

Spice Girl was right. As she pulled me to my feet, I saw the gleam of wet ice below the raft of roots that faced me like a wall. Ice, curved and gleaming…

With a splash, the globe of ice collapsed inward, leaving a water-filled crater beneath the toppled train car. Bubbles, then Manic Ice Guy surfaced. He doggy-paddled out from under the train and began climbing out on my side, using icicles like climber's picks.

Did you see those bubbles? I asked my stand. Remember what Little Queer Boy(?) said about a puff of carbon dioxide?

Spice Girl tipped her head. Oh, you mean that kid Narancia. 'Boy' wasn't going to be my first guess.

Let's figure that out later. For right now–

Manic Ice Guy pulled himself out from below the train and stepped toward me, dripping water off his impervious suit. His racing skates dug into the soft ground, making his steps stilted and awkward.

I felt Spice Girl ready within me, coaching me into a fighter's stance. What would we do? Change the ground to bounce him like a trampoline, then punch him to throw him back against the train? No, find something to stab through that place where the bubbles emerged from his suit – something sharp–

My legs didn't move. Ice had snaked up around them, thick as pythons. Even with Spice Girl's power, the ice only stretched and snapped back. Worse, it snapped back with force, so I fell backward – feet trapped, catching myself on my hands. Gross, mud under my nails!

"So the boss has a stupid daughter," Manic Ice Guy said, swaying closer on his skates. He bent forward like he was going to reach down and pull me upright. "I wonder if that runs in the family? It would explain a hell of a lot about this organization. Or should I say, dis-organization?"

And then that crazy little fighter swung overhead and shot him from behind, right in the back of the neck.

Dang, girl, Spice Girl intoned. I thought that little enby was toast!