Jabber is up and about again. He joins Kiki, Sam, and the guards in their daily exercises. Catch watches from afar and drinks. Amstrad helps create a system for passwords and knocks that the guards can use to determine if someone is from a tenant or not. Kiki teaches them proper shooting technique, and where to aim at a jawbreaker.
   Amstrad starts getting better at the wall. First, a single step up. Then two. He can stand on the wall without moving for about thirty seconds, a revelation which was met with the applause of Kiki and Jabber, who was smoking at the time. Amstrad wonders if Charmorag is helping. Or if this is his talent at all.
   One night, while the others are asleep and Jabber is on watch, Amstrad steps outside into the alley. He takes off the glasses, puts them in his pocket. They vibrate in protest.
   He puts his foot to the wall and takes a deep breath. He tries to take a second step. He falls instantly, squashing an empty can with his back. Amstrad puts the glasses back on, but doesn’t stir. The cold murk of the alley seeps into his shirt and hair. No difference getting up now or later, it's already dirty.
   “Were you helping?” he murmurs.
   …
   Amstrad sighs and watches the fog pass above. “Am I that useless alone?”
   It’s your Talent. You only need slight amplification to access it.
   That doesn't make it feel any better.
   Someone opens the door to the alley. Amstrad leans his head back and sees Sam come up next to him and sit down on the ground.
   “What are you doing?” she asks.
   Amstrad shrugs. “Testing something.”
   “How did it go?”
   “Bad. What are you doing?”
   “Checking on you. I heard you fall.”
   Amstrad nods. “Hey, Sam, I have a problem where the only thing that makes me useful or gives me purpose I think is also killing me, or eating at my soul or something.”
   “Hmm. That’s a common problem. Can you be more specific?”
   “It’s an entity, or an object, and when I use it- it allows me to do anything. I can help people. I can, you know, make friends when I couldn’t before. But it’s also this fly buzzing in my ear making me think these terrible things. I think it’s an inherently evil power. To use, or to have... But I’m beginning to forget what I was without it… and I- I have no idea what to do.”
   Sam nods thoughtfully. “First of all, it sounds like you should use whatever this thing is less. But perhaps more than that, it sounds like you might want to shift your perspective on it.”
   Amstrad sits up slightly.
   “It’s like what I was saying about my sword. It’s an instrument of death, and it changes the sort of person I am when I make use of it. So I don’t always take it with me when I go places, and I draw it only in extreme circumstances. Because to hold a drawn sword, suddenly everyone around you is only a motion away from death. But this doesn’t just go for objects, Amstrad.”
   Amstrad sits up against the wall, facing Sam.
   “Ideas can be tools in a way,” she continues, “and they will change who you are if you’re using the wrong ones. Think of the most basic level- language. The language we speak and the words we use impact how we literally interface with the world. Jabber uses ‘arm’ to mean something that I don’t, and it makes him think I’m less than he is.”
   “So what are you saying about me?”
   “I’m saying that you shouldn’t have any delusions about who you are. This power is an extension of yourself, when you use it, it becomes you. So don’t use it when that isn’t you. But crucially, sometimes the sword must be drawn. Know what it makes you to use this power. Use it with consideration not just for others, but for the person you become.
   “Because, Amstrad, you can do things on your own. You have been. A tool is useless without its wielder. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that humanity got here,” she looks up at the dismal city skyline, “because of great men who needed no help. We all fucked this up together.”