Trimont and Exelor were soaring in the night sky, and their light made double shadows of every bush, every branch, every member of the ragged-around-the-edges party.
“I’m getting too old for this,” moaned Wayk, rubbing his head where he’d clocked it on the ground.
“Dude, you’re fifteen. If you call that old, what do you call young?” asked Falcon. “And don’t say your face, ’cause that just doesn’t work.”
“Fine. I won’t,” replied Wayk. ”But someone else will.”
Tracer slogged out of a tributary of the river. His suit had seen better days, but it didn’t look beyond salvation. He tried rubbing water off his face but rubbed it back on with his soaking sleeve.
“Yo, Tracer!” called Kael, always ready for an argument. “Whatcha tryin’ to do, morph into a fish or something?”
“Oh, shut your face,” he growled, plopping onto a rock. Water oozed out from his clothes. “Ha!” said Wayk, grinning. “Told you somebody would say it.”
“He didn’t even say that to me!” protested Falcon.
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