They moved like an odd little parade through the streets of Bucharest - loud enough to be noticed if anyone was looking closely, but strange enough to be dismissed as another ragged band of mutants passing through.
Leading the way was Nadya: a compact hurricane of a woman with wild, frizzy orange hair that refused to be tamed. Her arms were thick rope, shoulders broad and always ready to launch into trouble or laughter, whichever came first. She walked with the kind of confidence that made people step aside without thinking. Her grin was quick and dangerous.
Beside her, Amina kept her head down. She looked sixteen at most - a small, frail frame wrapped in oversized sleeves, a loose braid swinging against her sun-kissed skin. Her dark eyes watched everything like she was storing it for later. There was a softness to her that made strangers underestimate how sharp she could be.
