More Ninth politics. Of course. And Nova calls him a bore.

He ambles back out into the sunlight, breathing in a lungful of the warm, clean air. In the front pocket of his sweatshirt, he curls his fingers around another fistful of bone shards.

One, two, three, four, five paces beyond the door, and without any warning he spins around to fling the bone to the ground, like scattering sheets of paper into a breeze. They sprout into a quartet of looming skeletons the instant they land, and before the constructs are even fully grown, they're moving to bum-rush Harrow.