A few minutes later, the wee-woo bus arrived, alongside two PRT-issue M1A2 main battle tanks, which were ripping up the shitty Brockton roads in the process. The medics jumped out, dressed in white full-body armor, because this was Brockton Bay. “Holy shit, Armsmaster,” one of the medics said, shocked, “she’s missing her fucking legs!”

“Like I said, a scratch,” Armsmaster said.

“Did you even really need us here?” the medic turned on him angrily. “We have to spend 24 hours a day and seven days a week with patients whose livers have turned inside out or something or got turned into a fucking barbecue, or people who get impaled by industrial H-beams because of Glory Girl. You called us out for a girl with only her legs chopped off?”

“Wait, I recognize you,” another medic said. “You’re the one who thought it was a good idea to bathe in used tampons and shit.”

“I didn’t do it on my own will,” I said, even as I began tying my sheared-off legs onto my stumps using Regent’s tendons. “I got pushed in there by this bitch called Emma, and her stupid cronies.”

“Sure you did,” the medic said snidely. “Everyone in this city, and especially figures in authority positions, knows that Emma Barnes is a perfect little princess and you’re just a creepy girl.”

“You’re coming with me to the PRT headquarters,” Armsmaster suddenly said. “We’re arresting you for two-million, thirty-seven thousand and seventy-three counts of first-degree murder.”

“Wait, what? I’ve only killed like, two people so far,” I said.

“Since you killed Lung, you’re inheriting his murder charges as well,” he explained testily. “As well as all the murder charges of all the people Lung killed, and so on.”

“That’s fucking bullshit,” I said.

“It’s the law,” he said simply, and clamped gigantic fucking manacles on my ankles. “Now move it. I’m taking you to Director Piggot, I’m sure she’ll be able to talk sense into you.”