"Is it safe to say that that didn't go to plan?" Roman asked as Cinder came into the cockpit.

She ignored his statement, as she did so many. She was supposed to be the big-picture girl, which she thought gave her leave to assume she was the only person in their group with any brains at all. (Not that she would have been wrong before she started working with me, if the kids are any indication, he thought.) Cinder liked to point out that Roman was barely more than a glorified highway robber before they started working together, but conveniently left out that she had completely failed every major heist and crime she planned before that point. She clearly remembered, though; she tolerated him no matter what he said, and treated him more lightly than Emerald or Mercury. In return, Roman held his tongue with her more than he might be inclined to. They were bound by mutual fear of losing what they made for themselves together.

Instead, she said, "Were there others?"

"Other what?"

"Other children you fought in the store," Cinder replied sharply.

"Oh, of course, silly me. Not like I'm stopping a hundred-ton chunk of metal from slamming into the ground or anything here..." Roman had a gift with vehicles; he once boasted to Cinder about one time he robbed a jewelry store, only to discover his getaway vehicle had been stolen. He hot-wired a nearby car in under twenty seconds and got away cleanly. And Cinder just said I should have been more careful where I parked the car. Like she or her kids could have stolen the jewelry at all... Still, even for the gifted, keeping a tiltjet flying was a chore.

The kids... "Why'd you ask about kids, specifically?"

Roman didn't expect her to answer, and she didn't. "So they were children."

"Oh, like you did so great. Did you fumble every shot, or were you trying to—"

"If you must know, that was due to the boy on the roof. He was disrupting my aim by forcing my arm to twitch while I fired."

And now he has a name, Roman mused. He found it convenient to label anyone he didn't know the name of, and most groups without official names. It helped him think; maybe it was a quirk of how his mind thought, or some unknown facet of psychology, or maybe it was just faster to think "Twitch" than "the boy in white who climbed onto the roof".

"So, you know about him, clearly. You also saw the girl in red, and the Huntress, although she's an adult so you wouldn't care. Did you see the blonde?" Another of the brats he hadn't named yet.

"Not the Huntress, I assume?"

"Aren't you clever. No, the blonde girl lying unconscious on the roof when you flew up. She was squatting on the roof for some reason, but ran when she saw me coming. Didn't know where, so I shot her. Stopped her pretty well." It occurred to Roman that the girl might actually be dead. Between her and Shadow, that's two possible murders. Thieves were common crooks, worthy of a certain amount of apathy if they evaded capture, but murderers were different.

Cinder frowned. "I didn't notice. Could you describe her?"

"Blonde, purple dress, running away."

"Hm. And were there others, besides her?"

String and her friend, Bugs, the big girl, and of course Shadow. "A couple girls, looked like friends. One was aggressive, wore yellow, dark hair, pale skin, pretty strong—broke one of those swords by stomping on it, the other was a lot shorter and terrified, pink dress, dark skin. Another girl, came late, pretty sure she controls insects somehow. Pheromones, maybe? I'm no scientist. Tall, skinny, blue dress, broken high-heels, curly hair, brown. Had a knife that I stabbed this big, dark-skinned guy with, though I'm not sure he was a kid."

"Tell me about him anyways."

"Black coat, black hair, brown skin. Made black shadows. I thought they were his Semblance, but if he has Aura, I'll eat my hat. And then there was this girl. She's a blonde, too, but you wouldn't mistake her for the other blonde. Might mistake her for a man, though. Red and brown vest and such, pauldron, dog head on her chest. Makes Emerald look polite and Mercury patient, I'd wager."

"Was there a sixth girl?"

"Red, of course."

"Other than her."

"I don't think so. Why, you expecting someone?"

"Roman, do try to trust me. I'll tell you about it when you need to know it." The same song she'd sung a thousand times and a thousand ways.

"If they're a problem, I think I need to know it."

"If they are a problem, I'll tell you."

"Of course, of course." It always bothered Roman when she did that. Roman was the working man, either doing jobs or talking with people. If he didn't know, and it came up, it would mean failure. Cinder didn't see that; it was like she was afraid he'd get captured and tortured. Who could be that paranoid? What secrets were worth that risk?

Roman didn't know, and in the end, it didn't matter. He needed Cinder, and Cinder needed him. Neither of them liked it, but neither of them was going to change it.

Roman kept flying.

"You mentioned having stabbed the one?"

"Yeah."

"Was he dead?"

"I'm no doctor, but he looked alive when he fell down. After that...there was a bomb, and I stabbed him in the gut. Here's hoping medical care came soon."

"Indeed. It would be quite unfortunate if someone brought unwanted suspicion on our operation. For the someone, in particular."

Like you'd have the guts. "If anyone killed him, it was the idiot who threw the bomb, or maybe some idiot paramedic who didn't think the guy with a bleeding gut wound was a bigger priority than the girl with bruises and bug bites. We're covered."

"I certainly hope so."

I get it. That was another of Cinder's flaws. Roman was flexible, Cinder wasn't. He figured things put on the fly; she made these great, complex plans that she had to rebuild every time some kid bumped into a corner. And then she blamed Roman for the kid. He had no doubt he'd be getting flak about throwing away the only bit of Dust they actually managed to steal in a failed attempt to cover their mistake. But that wouldn't be now; Cinder went back into the bay to brood or plot or whatever she did when she was alone. Meanwhile, Roman pictured tomorrow's papers. What would the front pages read? "Torchwick Strikes Again; Dust Shops Beware"? "Torchwick Barely Foiled; Would-Be Heroes Hospitalized"? "Torchwick Murders Child?" If he was two hours short of his eighteenth birthday, the papers would conveniently ignore the inches that he had on Torchwick, the fact that if Shadow had Aura he could have beaten Torchwick within an inch of his life, that anyone in his position would mistake the shadows for a Semblance.

Worries could wait until tomorrow. Tonight was what mattered.