Chapter 16

Perry stared down at Deckard lying at the bottom of the pit, and gasped for breath. The roar of the approaching vehicle made his heart race. Despite a few scattered leaves, Deckard looked exactly like a man hiding under a shirt. Not a hope in hell he'd go unnoticed.

Come on, power, don't fail me now. Perry snatched up his phone and scrambled to his feet, rubbing a handful of dirt on his front to support his story, then raised his hand at the T-shirt over Deckard's head.

Earth brown. The shirt obediently changed colors. Perry did the same to Deckard's gray shirt, blue jeans, and black sneakers. The brown helped, but not enough. That was now the shape of a man dressed in uniform brown, lying in a pit.

Camouflage is a color. Dirt is a color, leaves are a color! Back in high school, an illicit, laughing encounter in a storage shed one evening had turned to panic when, instead of a kiss, Frazer had punched him, stolen his phone, shoved him into the shed, and padlocked the door from the outside. In the pitch dark, he'd panicked, hyperventilating, aware that no one would come near the place for days. He'd stumbled around in the blackness, begging and pleading with his power. Transparent is a color. Transparent is a color! When it relented, and turned a side of the shed clear, the light from the moon and distant streetlamps had let him find a sledgehammer and batter at the door till he was free. His panic then had been nothing compared to his terror for Deckard now.

Dirt is a color, leaves are a color! Please!Something in him clicked, stretched… Slowly, grudgingly, shapes and shades crept over the dark brown. Then faster, as if his power had decided this was fun. Edges met edges, half a leaf was mirrored on his T-shirt covering Deckard's hand, shadowed rocks and pebbles appeared across Deckard's jeans. The outline of his body vanished in the jumble of dirt and debris.

Perry held his breath, dizzy pounding filling his ears, mixed with the roar of the approaching cart. He scooped up more dirt, rubbed it on his stomach, one thigh, kicked his sneaker toe into the earth to mud it up, and turned.

The man driving the machine that came to a stop looked innocuous, like someone's high school dad. Perhaps mid-forties, round-faced but tall and lanky, pale skinned, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Unfortunately, the gun pointed at Perry wasn't dad-like at all. At least, not the dads Perry knew. Perry couldn't tell if it was a real gun or one of the glitter things, but either one was bad news. It looks like a real gun. A kill-you-dead-type gun.

The guy— Perry assumed this was Fox-face— glared at him. "Idiot! What did you do? I told you to step out of the trees on the path."

"I got spooked. I tried to hide. The hole just appeared! I managed to grab onto the side and not fall in." He waved at the pit and gestured at the dirt on himself.

"Stay there." Fox-face swung out of the golf cart and edged over to the pit, his gun still trained on Perry "Don't move." He took quick glances down, then squatted and switched off the siren at its base. In the sudden silence, he gave the pit a longer, careful scrutiny.

Perry held his breath.

"You're lucky," Fox-face said after a few moments, straightening and turning back. "You could've broken a leg and I'd have left you down there to rot. Where's your shirt?"

"Back in the woods." Perry gestured behind him, waving his hands. "The tag was stiff and it was rubbing on my neck and I'm so stressed right now, and it was, like, driving me crazy until I had to take it off. I like, flung it, because I was frustrated, and I know I shouldn't have worn a brand-new shirt to an important meeting, right? Because I'm super sensitive to textures?—

"Shut up," Fox-face interrupted. "Give me your phone and get in the cart." He held out a hand and gestured with the gun.

Perry hid a sigh of relief, although he wanted to clutch his phone when Fox-face grabbed it out of his fingers. Don't annoy the man with the weapon. Perry edged toward the passenger side. "How? Just sit in the seat?"

"You want to stand on your head? Get in there." Fox-face tossed Perry's phone into the pit.

Perry flinched but there was no sound from Deckard. "Okay. Right." He got in the cart and perched on the edge of the seat.

Fox-face came around and pointed at a metal handle. "Hold that. Both hands."

When Perry did, Fox-face locked a pair of handcuffs through and onto his wrists.

Shit. "I h-hope you're going to drive carefully." Perry hated that his voice shook, although maybe it would be good to be underestimated. Maybe if I act more scared, I'll be less scared. "I hate handcuffs, unless they're pink fur ones. What if you have to brake suddenly? What if you roll this thing over? What if?—"

"Good God, do you never shut up?" Fox-face slid the gun into a holster on his hip and climbed into his seat, settling his glasses straighter on his nose. "Silence, or I'll dump you in the pit and shoot the old broad."

Perry would've mimed zipping his lips, except his hands were locked to the freaking handle. He settled for some frantic nodding, as Fox-face turned the cart around and headed back to the building. They parked, and Perry couldn't help a shiver of relief as his hands were freed. Although, if they were going into that concrete bunker, free hands might not do much for him.

The building looked like an odd mix of bomb shelter and church, with tall weathered-oak doors set in a deep carved-stone alcove, butting up against modern concrete. A tower with a balustrade rose above the utilitarian single story below.

There was an alarm keypad by the door as Fox-face shoved Perry through the doorway, but the alarm didn't beep as they entered. Must be off. Then Fox-face reached toward the keypad.

Deckard needs to get inside. Perry began hustling off down the corridor, not quite running, trying for a confusing half-speed that wouldn't look like an escape attempt and get him shot. Fox-face charged after him and grabbed his arm. "Where the hell are you going?"

"You said Mrs. Goshima's here. I want to see her." Perry managed to wrench free and trot another ten feet down the hallway away from the alarm controls before Fox-face caught up again, shoving him against the wall.

"You'll see her when I let you."

"When? Where?" He wriggled free, gesturing around with the most limp, fey hand gestures he could manage. Be distracted. "Is this your lair? Like, are you a superhero? It's all darkish and concretey and utilitarian. Are you Bunker Man?" He took another couple of steps. "Will you show me? Are there brighter places? What's your hero name?" Another couple of steps.

"I'm Glitter Fox. I told you that?—"

"Oh! Yeah, I forgot. That's a cool name. Although, I love glitter but, you know, it gets everywhere. Like in my hair." He patted his head and pretended to shake something out. Two more steps. "And have you ever gotten glitter in your eye? Like, it's the worst! Oweeee. All the eye rinse."

"I'm not careless." Fox-face followed Perry, staring at him from behind those thick wire-rimmed lenses.

"Wow. That's impressive. Every time I use glitter, I keep finding it everywhere for the next month." He forced a laugh. "Heck, for the next year. Glitter, glitter." He did jazz hands. Too much?

Fox-face eyed him from under lowered brows, but didn't seem to realize Perry was hamming it up. "That's the point. They'll never lose the proof I was there." He seemed to realize they were chatting and grabbed Perry by the arm again. "You want to see the old broad? Time for a reunion, before my big surprise."

Fox-face hustled Perry forward down the hall. Behind them, the alarm stayed unset. Perry babbled more distraction. "What's your surprise, Fox? Can I call you Fox? One superhero to another?" Glitter Fox just didn't want to come out of Perry's mouth. He's a kidnapper. A killer. The absurdity choked him.

"You can shut up, is what you can do." Fox-face jerked Perry along faster. "And what do you mean, superhero? You're ordinary."

"No, I'm not. Although I can pretend to be. If you like that better." The man was stronger than his stringy build suggested, and Perry stumbled as he was slung through a doorway.

"Ha. Protecting that superhero-hating judge. Only an ass-licking ordinary would do that." Fox-face shoved Perry forward and stepped back, pulling out his gun again. "Go on, then. Say hello to the old bitch."

A familiar voice snapped, "I'll bitch you."

Perry spotted Mrs. Goshima tied to a chair on the other side of the room. He hurried over to her. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." He threw a wild look around the space. She sat immobile near the wall of a circular room about thirty feet across, with a wide concrete pillar in the middle. A desk with electronics circled the pillar, like a park bench around a tree trunk, fronted by a couple of plush office chairs. On the walls, big TV screens hung side by side. Perry squinted at the scenes playing across them. News reports scrolled in closed captions. "Who is this man?" "First images of bomber revealed." "Hoffward building is being evacuated in an emergency!" "Second evacuation of the Hoffward building underway." He suspected they were looping on repeat, echoing each anchor's description of Fox-face's exploits.

Ego much?

"Yep, her predicament is your fault," Fox-face agreed with apparent relish, putting his back to the pillar and waving his gun up and down Perry as if he was trying to decide whether to shoot his toes or his face. "You messed me up twice, and you're both going to pay that price— Don't touch those ropes!" he barked as Perry reached for a knot at Mrs. Goshima's wrist. "Or you'll both be screaming."

"Why?" Perry asked. "Why are you doing all this?"

"For BigTree. For superheroes everywhere who deserve the protection of ordinary humans, our worship, not to get shot like a dog for using their powers."

"Our worship? Their powers? Aren't you a superhero?"

Fox-face puffed out his chest. "I'm a minion. Chief minion to Wild Wind, the most amazing and powerful superhero who ever existed. So controlled he can ruffle just one petal on a flower, so strong he can blow over a skyscraper, handsome as Paul Newfield, six feet tall, built like a bodybuilder, hair like liquid silver, intense blue eyes—" Fox-face coughed. "Anyhow, I was his chief minion. Until BigTree died and Wild Wind decided to retire. Retire! The most incredible hero in the nation and he hung up his cape." He narrowed his eyes at Perry. "You have heard of Wild Wind?"

The name rang a vague bell, somewhere in the mass of midrange heroes like Leaping Man and Lightfoot, but Perry nodded vigorously. "Of course, no doubt, awesome hero."

"Right." Fox-face glared a moment longer, then went on, "Wild Wind said if the ordinaries weren't willing to protect superheroes from being shot dead for using their powers, then he was through. Done. I tried to tell him there were ordinaries like me who would worship the ground he walked on, but he gave me a month's severance pay, married his secondary minion— secondary! And a woman!— and ran off to live in Peru. Then that judge set the murderer loose." Fox-face's scowl deepened. "And you saved his miserable life. Twice!" He raised the gun.

"Not on purpose!" Perry squeaked. "You sent a bomb! It could've killed anyone. I don't even know any judges."

"Doesn't matter," Fox-face said. "You only slowed down my plans. The whole city will regret letting that murdering farmer loose."

"I don't even know who you're talking about," Perry protested. "What farmer?"

Fox-face stared at him. "Don't you follow the news? That proves you're no supe. Everyone with a superpower would have followed the case of the farmer who shot BigTree."

"I could Google it," Perry suggested. "Except you threw away my phone. I could use Mrs. Goshima's."

"Bastard stole mine," she muttered. "He's a common thief."

"Shut up, both of you!" Fox-face turned crimson. No, puce… Perry tried to think about colors, not his impending death.

Come on, Deckard. Now would be a good time. He scrambled for another distraction. "What's it like being a minion? I thought you guys were called henchmen?"

"That's sexist," Fox-face said, kind of blowing Perry's brain. "Minion is the modern word. Although some supervillains still call their people henchmen and henchwomen. I guess to a villain, sexism is just another day at work, huh?"

Perry blinked. But exploding people isn't? "Uh, sure. Is it a good gig, minioning? Did you like it?"

"Best job in the world," Fox-face told him. "Travel, adventure, meet all the powerful people, stand beside your hero as they're given awards and bonuses. Of course, you have to minion for someone who's worth it. Not some bozo who can barely make a tap stop dripping."

"A leaky tap? Is there a superhero called the Plumber?"

"It was an example."

Perry charged on. "So, Wild Wind? What was he like? Do you have a favorite exploit of his?"

"There was the time Hurricane-Man was blackmailing Miami with his threats. Wild Wind went down there and blew straight-line winds into the storm, totally disrupted it and turned the hurricane back to the sea. Miami gave him the key to the city after that."

Perry fumbled to keep the conversation going. Unless the fall into the pit had broken Deckard's phone, he could call for help. Hell, he had Perry's phone too. Even if he couldn't climb out of the pit, backup should be on the way. Of course, the cops might already be here but be waiting outside due to him and Mrs. Goshima being hostages. "Were you there at that epic battle?" He injected some awe into his voice. "Did you see it? Like, the huge wall of storm clouds being blown back to sea? I can't even imagine."

"There's videos I could show you?—"

"Don't be a fool, Fox." A woman strolled into the room, appearing around the pillar. Fox didn't move his gun off Perry, so any hope she was a rescuer died fast. She was draped head to foot in floaty gray fabric shot through with silver. What hair escaped the veiling was long and black, but she moved with a heavy tread. "The kid's stalling. I told you he'd be trouble."

"Not anymore." Fox-face gestured with his chin. "He's at my mercy now."

The woman rolled a set of small pebbles across the floor and studied their fall. "I see forces moving against you?—"

"Of course there are, you old bat." For someone who spoke against sexist norms, Fox-face didn't seem to practice what he preached. "The cops, the courts."

"SPAM," Perry suggested.

"What?" Fox-face blinked. "Who?"

"Ignore him. He knows nothing." The woman, who Perry figured was the Lithomancer, held out her hand and the scattered rocks leaped back to her palm.

"Wow, neat trick," Perry exclaimed. "Are you her minion now, Mr. Fox?"

"No!" Fox-face scrunched up his nose. "I'm unaffiliated. Although after today, I expect there'll be a line out the door looking for my services."

Mrs. Goshima said, "There'll be a line waiting to arrest you."

"They have to catch me first. One more glorious explosion, the biggest of all, and then I'll be in Peru. I'm sure Wild Wind will come out of retirement when he hears BigTree is avenged."

"That's not what the stones say," the Lithomancer told him.

"I don't care about your stupid stones. Your pebbles said the judge would die the first time. And the second time."

"I only see probabilities. They said it was probable, not certain." Perry had the feeling the Lithomancer was glaring at him from behind her gauzy veil. "Sometimes a wildcard disrupts the future. That brat is the steel that sparks against flint, all unexpected."

"I try to stop sparks," Perry protested. "Not cause them. And why would you care? What's the judge to you?"

"Entertainment," she said. He saw a flash of her teeth through the translucent fabric, a grin he couldn't read. "Do you have any idea how boring life gets when you can see the future? It's deadly. I've spent thirty years bored out of my skull, and the only way I don't die of ennui is mixing things up a bit. Throwing a spanner in the works." She strolled closer to Fox-face. "Of course, the stones always tell the truth… but I don't. Remember, Fox, how I said this bunker was safe and hidden?" She tossed the stones again. They skittered across the floor. "Well, I lied. You'd better shoot the mail-boy now." She snapped her wrist to collect the pebbles.

"Not safe?" Fox-face's ruddy cheeks went pale, and he rounded on Perry, raising the gun. "Die, you bootlicking ordinary?—"

"Stop! Freeze!" Deckard leaped through the door at the other side of the room.

Perry realized Fox-face was behind the pillar from the door. Deckard had no shot, but Fox-face could duck around and shoot Deckard who was exposed. Already the bombing bastard was pivoting, moving sideways, weapon ready…

Time seemed to slow. No! Not Deckard! Perry raised his hand and shouted, "Black!"

Fox-face's glasses lenses went opaque ebony.

"Fuck! I'm blind!" Fox-face staggered, flailing with his free hand, tripped over his own office chair, and crashed to the floor. A bullet ricocheted off the wall behind Deckard and smashed one big TV screen.

Before Fox-face could rise, Deckard was on him, stamping on his wrist so he released the gun with a scream. Kneeling, Deckard put his weapon, clutched in his filthy hand, up to Fox-face's head. "Freeze! Don't move! Hands where I can see them! Perry, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Mrs. Goshima, are you okay?"

"I'm going to have a hell of an arthritis flare-up. But I'm fine. Get me loose."

Perry hurried to reach for her ropes, then saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The Lithomancer circling the pillar. Heading for the door.

"Stop!" he yelled, charging after the woman.

Deckard yelled, "Freeze," at her too, but couldn't take his aim off Fox-face.

The Lithomancer's casual sidle turned to a run. Scooping up her long skirts, she legged it into the hallway.

Colors worked once. Perry raised a hand at her veil. "Black!" The back of it turned opaque but she kept going. Crap. Must not have caught the front.

Deckard shouted, "Perry! Don't!" but Perry wasn't about to let that pretentious creep tell Fox-face to murder him and then get away. He sprinted out the door into the dim corridor.

The Lithomancer was damned fast for a woman in her fifties. Perry was still ten feet behind her as they rounded the corner leading to the front door. Now what?

He framed the big wooden door with his hand and kept his voice a whisper. "Transparent!" Please, be a solid door. Be one piece of wood.

The door vanished, leaving a view of the drive outside, trees, sky, sunlight streaming in. The Lithomancer bolted the last thirty feet toward the apparently open exit and slammed face-first into the closed transparent door. Reeling, she clapped her hands to her face, staggered back, and fell on her ass.

Perry leaped to close the gap between them and landed on her back. Her sharp pained, "Oof," was very satisfying as she collapsed flat on the floor under him. Get her hands. Perry snatched the veil off her head and spun it into a rope. She fought him but seemed dazed and he managed to tie her wrists together before her flailing regained some purpose.

She hacked and coughed, struggling against the knotted bond, and snarled, "What did you do?" Blood streamed down from her nose.

Oops, the door.The Lithomancer was not someone he wanted to share his secret with, although it might be too late.

Go back. He swiftly returned the oak to its weathered opacity. The corridor dimmed as sunlight was cut off.

"Gonna puke. Cut me loose." The Lithomancer moaned and gagged.

Perry wasn't born yesterday. He shoved her shoulder up and over to roll her on her side. "Don't choke."

She called him several names he didn't quite catch and dry-heaved, then rested her forehead on the floor.

Since she seemed pretty well immobilized, Perry hurried to swing the actual door open. There was nothing to keep it that way, so he stuck his left shoe in the hinge and peered around the open clearing. No cops, no help… except… The sound of an approaching helicopter almost covered the sound of the Lithomancer struggling to her feet. But not quite.

Running back, he managed to trip her before she could get going down the hallway. She crashed to one knee, then sagged onto her butt, her eyes squeezed shut. This time Perry understood all the words she used.

"Stay put or I'll sit on you again." Perry stepped back a few feet out of range, in case she knew any judo kicks, and watched the chopper with NCPD on the side come in for a landing. Just as the rotors began slowing, a flash across the sky resolved into a man in a cape, also coming in for a landing. His shiny gold boots hit the grass as he took three running steps, staggered, then shook himself and trotted toward the door.

Zamora and two cops tumbled out of the helicopter and sprinted in his wake.

The superhero came to a stop in front of Perry. "SPAM agent Lightspeed. Are you Peregrine Crawford? You look like April said."

Zamora muscled her way in front of Lightspeed. "Yeah, that's Crawford and his ass is mine. Crawford, what have you done with Deckard?"

"He's in there." Perry gestured behind him. "And this on the floor is the Lithomancer. She's been helping Fox-face plant bombs."

"You can't prove that," the Lithomancer muttered without lifting her forehead from the concrete.

"You told him to shoot me!" Perry exclaimed.

"Momentary lapse of judgement. In fear of my life. Probably misheard."

Lightspeed pushed past Zamora to stand over the Lithomancer. "She's a supervillain. That makes her SPAM business."

Zamora glared. "She's a witness to multiple crimes, probably an accessory. That makes her Nova City PD business."

Perry said, "You lot can fight over her. I'm going to check on Deckard and Mrs. Goshima." He took off running down the hallway, ignoring Zamora's shout of, "Crawford! Get back here!"

Deckard, you'd better be all right. Perry stumbled round the bend in the corridor, then grabbed the doorway as he skidded into the big room.

Oh, thank goodness. Deckard knelt in front of Mrs. Goshima, undoing the last of her ankle bonds. Fox-face lay on the floor a few feet from the desk with his hands and feet trussed. Dirt smudged Deckard's shoes, pants, hands, and his deeply frowning face. A brown-swirled twist of fabric binding Fox-face's ankles explained his bare chest.

Mm, I approve in every way.

Deckard looked up as Perry cleared the doorway and closed his eyes for an instant. His frown eased. "Perry! You're safe."

"Sure. And so are you."

"Smartass." Deckard eased Mrs. Goshima to her feet, then released her and strode over to Perry, enveloping him in a tight hug. "Don't ever run after a suspect on your own without a weapon, you hear me?" Perry thought his ribs might crack with the force of Deckard's hug. "Promise me."

"I promise," he squeaked, exaggerating only a little. "If you let me breathe."

"Sorry." Deckard bent as if to kiss him, but then pounding footsteps coming down the hallway materialized as Zamora and the other cops. Deckard let go of Perry and turned to them. "Great timing, Zamora. Could've used you ten minutes ago."

She waved at Fox-face. "Looks like you did all right."

Mrs. Goshima rushed toward Fox-face and kicked him in the chest. "You! You kidnapper!" Another kick lower down. "You goat-fucking son of a pig!"

Zamora hauled her away.

Fox-face wheezed, then laughed. "I don't care. You think you have me, but I'll have the last laugh. Somewhere out there is a bomb, and you'll never figure out where before it goes off. My last great glitter explosion. People will be talking about Glitter Fox for centuries to come."

"Talking about what an asshole he was?" Mrs. Goshima taunted.

But Perry saw Zamora and Deckard exchange strained looks. Zamora turned to one of the men with her. "Get into the computer system. I don't care how. We need to know where that bomb is."

"We could ask the Lithomancer," Deckard suggested. "Maybe trade leniency for the information. Or maybe she'd want to save some lives."

A harsh laugh from the doorway marked the arrival of the Lithomancer, her bound arms held by Lightspeed, her hair stringy, her face blood-smirched, but a glitter in her eyes. "Dream on," she said. "I'm going to enjoy watching you all do a headless chicken impersonation. What do I care about ordinary lives?"

"Leniency, then," Zamora suggested. "We can talk to a judge."

"I won't be tried in human courts," the Lithomancer told her. "Damn, gonna puke again." She bent and dry heaved, then wiped her chin on her shoulder. "I'm just sorry Fox didn't plug the little four-eyed bastard right in the head. I can't wait to see you all freaking out when the bomb goes up."

Lightspeed said, "Our superpower courts might offer you leniency, too."

"I'll be out in a year. I did nothing and you can't prove I did. I'm an innocent bystander."

"You're an accessory to kidnapping, and incited a murder attempt," Deckard snapped.

The Lithomancer grinned and licked blood off her lips. "Cry me a river."

Mrs. Goshima said, "I'd bet the bomb's somewhere on the Silvertree pedestrian mall."

"It's not!" Fox-face shouted.

Zamora turned to Mrs. Goshima. "Why do you say that?"

"That slimeball… Can I kick him again?"

"No, sorry."

"He tied me to the chair and then he spent half an hour hacking street view cameras around the mall and bitching about the angles."

Fox-face wrestled with his bonds. "She's a liar."

"Why would you care?" Zamora bent and tipped his face up with a grip in his hair. "If she was lying, you'd grin and let us go on a wild goose chase." She stared into his eyes, then let go and turned to Deckard. "I'd bet she's right. Call your team and get your cute dog."

"That's a lot of territory," Deckard said. "Three blocks, stores, cafés, benches, could be anywhere."

"All we can do is look."

Fox-face snarled, "I hope you're all there when it blows."

"Tell us where you put it and you might avoid the death penalty."

"Nothing will happen to me. Wild Wind will come get me."

Lightspeed said, "He's on the hero list. He'd spit in your face."

Fox-face dropped his gaze and hunched, but said nothing more.

"Come on," Zamora told Deckard. "You can use the chopper. Start checking all those trash bins and shop windows and everything. Jesus, what a mess."

"I can help!" Perry burst out.

Deckard reached over and squeezed his arm. "Thanks, but this is a job for professionals, not civilians. I want you home safe."

Perry yanked free. "I want you safe too. And I'm not just a civilian, I'm a superhero."

Deckard bit his lip. "I can't imagine colors will be useful to us."

"What about transparent?" The time for hiding's over. The Lithomancer had probably figured him out anyway.

Perry raised his hand to outline the door of a cabinet under the desk and said, "Transparent." Except the door was laminate, so all that happened was that the white surface vanished to reveal a gold-beige pressboard.

Deckard shook his head. "That's just another color?—"

"No, it's not!" Perry restored it and looked around wildly. He could make Zamora's shirt transparent, but she'd kill him. There, the trash can. He pointed. "Imagine the bomb's in there." Framing it with his hand, he repeated, "Transparent."

The plastic shell vanished, revealing a pile of papers and trash suspended in a cylindrical shape above the floor. Perry said, "Looks like Fox-face enjoys Choco-Mintaways. Lots of wrappers."

"Glitter Fox," the bomber grated, but Perry ignored him, watching Deckard's face.

"That's how I knew there was a bomb in the first package," he admitted. "If it's in a solid box, or bin, or urn, or fabric bag that's one layer, I can make it visible."

Zamora cleared her throat. "That could be useful. Kid has more talent than I thought."

"I'm not a kid," Perry told her. "And if we need to search three blocks for a hidden bomb as fast as possible, I'll be an asset." He held out his hand to the trash can. "Back." The plastic shell reappeared.

"Do it again," Zamora told him.

"No. Transparent is work," Perry said, surprised at his own daring. "I don't want to spend the energy doing more tricks for you."

"Do something else. Prove we should let you butt into a police operation." Her steely gaze was implacable.

"All right. One more." He thought about it. "Are your shoes fabric-lined?"

"Huh? I don't think so."

"Right. Transparent." He aimed the word at her right shoe. The leather vanished, leaving her sock-clad foot perched on a rubber sole, with wisps of stitching over it.

He'd hoped to make her flinch, but she just peered down and wiggled her toes. "Feels the same." She bent and touched above her foot. "Still feels the same. Weird. Okay, bring it back."

When he did so, she nodded and turned to Deckard. "Your call, but I don't think we can afford to turn down a resource."

"I don't want him there." Deckard wouldn't look at Perry.

"I don't want you there either," Perry pointed out.

"It's my job."

"I'm SPAM now." Perry couldn't help an incredulous laugh. "Whatever. I mean, it's my job, too."

"Move your ass, Deckard," Zamora directed. "Put on a shirt. Both of you. Here, Karolya, give the kid yours. And get on that chopper, go save Nova City."

Deckard stared at the floor as he untied his shirt from Fox-face's ankles, shook it out, and pulled it over his head— smudged dirt, half-color-changed, and all.

The black Police T-shirt Karolya tugged off and passed to Perry was two sizes too big, although seeing the cop's hairy, muscular chest was some compensation for dressing in a tent.

Zamora eyed Deckard up and down, noting the leaf pattern that covered one side of his clothes. "Interesting camo."

"Saved my life," Deckard said, then finally met Perry's eyes.

Perry tried to communicate, Yeah. I'm not just a fragile flower. With a wave and a push, he restored most of Deckard's original bland shirt color, debated trying to match the dirt to it, and decided that was just extra work. "Come on. We should move."

Deckard loomed over Fox-face. "When does the bomb go off?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Zamora said, "We could let the old lady kick you a few more times. After all, we'd hate to hurt her trying to restrain her."

"Let me at him," Mrs. Goshima snarled. "I may not know karate, but a good kick to the balls works every time."

Fox-face sneered at her.

Deckard said, "Zamora, if you get more info from these two bastards, let me know."

"Let us know," Perry insisted.

"Us." Deckard sighed. "Fuck. Come on then, move it." He hurried out of the room and Perry had to sprint to catch up to him, hobbling in one shoe and one sock-clad foot. At the door, he paused to yank his squished shoe loose and chased Deckard toward the helicopter, stopping to hop and shove his left foot into the sneaker.

The pilot met them in front of the chopper. "Zamora called me. Get in. I'll drop you at the hospital helipad. Closest I can get to the mall."

"Do it." Deckard gave him a thumbs up and got into the back.

Perry scrambled in after him, and had to have Deckard show him the seatbelt harness and shove the headphones on his head. The rotors warmed up, then the chopper lifted off the grass, rose, tilted, and swung left. Perry clutched his seat and whooped. He felt a grin take over his face. He'd been on planes a few times, but this? This was flying.

He pressed his hand to the window and craned his neck to see the ground rushing by under them, then gazed out at the view. The tall buildings of Nova City's downtown grew bigger by the minute. Deckard busied himself texting as they winged toward the city.

Perry was trying to see how many buildings he could identify— there's the Hoffward— when Deckard tapped on his knee. He turned. Deckard held out Perry's phone. "Here." His voice came clearly over the headphones. "Still working. When I was in the pit, I called SPAM from your saved numbers."

"I'm glad it didn't break." Perry shoved the phone in his pocket and turned to peer back out. "This is so cool! I mean, not that the downtown may blow up, but the ride."

"I thought you might be nervous."

"Are you kidding? I want to do this again for fun sometime. When I can afford it."

"Help us find the bomb and the city will owe you a ride."

"Now there's incentive!" Perry checked himself. "Of course, saving lives doesn't need incentive?—"

Deckard thumped his arm and grinned. "Never change, Perry. Ah, here we go."

They were racing over taller buildings now, and then banked again, circling down to a tall complex with a flat rooftop. Perry hadn't been inside the hospital and the shape looked different from the air, but the landing spot was marked by a red cross.

As soon as the skids settled on the rooftop and the rotors slowed, Deckard threw off his harness, set his headphones aside, and slid his door back. Perry hurried to do the same, ducking low as he scrambled away from the helicopter.

Deckard straightened once they were clear and bellowed, "Here. Elevator. Jeffries will meet us with Nix."

The elevator opened to the button-push and was roomier than Perry expected. For stretchers. Right. That reminder sobered him, although his ears still echoed and his skin buzzed from the excitement of the flight. At the ground floor, they bypassed the ER.

"Handwash, quick," Deckard said, waving dirt-caked fingers, and yanked Perry into a washroom. They bent over sinks side by side, scrubbing dirt from their hands. Deckard touched Perry's wet wrist. "You'll listen to what we say out there. Right? Let experienced folk guide you?"

"I'm a good listener," Perry promised.

"Uh-huh. Well, try, for my sake." Deckard tossed his paper towels in the bin, ignoring the smudges on his face, and led Perry out at a fast jog through the main lobby. When they reached the street, there was Nix on a leash with one of Deckard's teammates waiting.

"Come on." The man handed Deckard the leash. "Running's faster than a car. It's just three blocks."

Deckard spared Perry a glance and said, "Follow us," before taking off down the sidewalk with Nix. His teammate sprinted behind him, leaving Perry to bring up the rear.

Gonna take up jogging. Someday. This superhero gig threatens to do wonders for my thighs.

He was desperately out of breath by the time they reached the nearer end of the three-block Silvertree mall. Deckard stopped by a police van. "Hey, Lieutenant," he said to an older man in a black uniform whom Perry vaguely recognized. "What's the plan?"

"We're trying to clear the streets without a panic," the lieutenant replied. "You and Nix start working down one side. We'll do the exteriors first, then go store to store."

"Odds are the bomb's in some kind of container," a woman in uniform said at the lieutenant's elbow. "He's used a delivered package in a box twice, an urn, and a ceramic planter. So we should focus on those."

"Got it." Deckard swept an assessing look up and down the street. "We have trash barrels, planters, display stands." He turned to Perry. "You still want to help?"

"Absolutely." He had to add, "I can only make the outsides transparent, so if a bomb was buried in dirt inside a planter, we might not see it."

"We all do what we can." The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder, his voice encouraging. "When Deckard told me what your superpower is, he also told me you had limits. Frankly, we'll take any help we can get." He waved to another woman in uniform, standing engrossed in something on her phone. "Hey, Wells!"

She pocketed the phone and came on over. "I got the Silvertree delivery lists for all the major package services for the last two days onto our server, in case the perp mailed the bomb again."

"Good work. We'll get the X-rays going on those." The lieutenant turned to Perry as he said, "I'm partnering you with Mr. Crawford—" He hesitated. "I don't know your superhero name, I'm sorry."

Something contrary rose up in Perry, and he said, "I'm the Interior Decorator, actually. But I don't go by it. Call me Perry."

The lieutenant cast a glance at Deckard's retreating back as he headed off with Nix toward the first streetcorner of the mall. "Ah, right. Perry. I'm partnering you and Wells together. Of all my people, Wells is the most likely to recognize a fragment of a bomb revealed by your power. You two take the other side of the road from Deckard."

"Right." Wells trotted two steps, then glanced over her shoulder. "Coming, Crawford?"

"Oh. Yeah." He hurried in her wake. Cops were setting up barriers to block the cross-street so they didn't have to wait for the light.

"Starting my police career with jaywalking," Perry quipped as they cut across on the red. "I hope that's not a bad sign."

Sadly, Wells didn't laugh. "That planter. Let's see what you can do." She raised an eyebrow.

Perry framed the concrete urn topped with flowers and focused. "Transparent."

The front half of the urn vanished, leaving a clear view of dirt and packed roots. Wells took a photo, then knelt to peer up close. "Pretty packed roots. If he'd been digging, I'd expect them to be disturbed." The look she gave Perry as she stood held less disdain. "Try the trash can."

He restored the urn and turned to the tall blue barrel. That one was solid plastic and he was able to give her a clear view of decaying food, wrappers, spilled drinks and more than a few flies. Wells gave the garbage a long thorough scan top to bottom. Perry admired her strong stomach.

"Nothing but it's pretty full. Let's look from the other side."

Perry pushed the blue back in, followed her around, and cleared the other surface.

"Nope," she said after a moment, dusting off her knees. She came over to Perry and tapped a punch on his shoulder. "You're pretty slick, Perry. Is it more work for you to leave the side transparent or turn it back to blue?"

He wasn't used to talking about it, given how he'd always wanted to hide his power… He swallowed. No more reason to hide. "Transparent's weird. I always change it back. There's this kind of tug with transparent that feels harder the longer I leave it."

"Right. Let's give the civies back their nice blue can and move on."

He framed the can. "Blue."

She pointed down the block. "That wooden box under the knick-knack display. Get that one."

The inside was empty, which made that easy. They moved on to the next cement planter.

By the time they'd worked their way down their first block, Deckard and Nix were almost at the end of their three. Perry checked his progress and sighed. "I'm slow."

"You're fast. If anyone's slow, it's my inspection." Wells straightened away from the disgusting interior of another trash barrel. "You're here, trying to find a bomb, when you could be home hiding under a bed. Don't sell yourself short."

Perry rubbed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Mom would never have said something like that. She's the queen of selling me short. He shoved the thought away. He had a job to do, and Mom was irrelevant. Ha, hear that, you're irrelevant.

He rolled his eyes at his ridiculousness— Something overhead caught his gaze. The cute storefronts of the mall were topped by second-story residences. On one of the small balconies overhead sat a three-foot cardboard box. No big deal, except there was no balcony roof, and cardboard left outside would get rained on… Might as well check it.

Stepping back to where he could frame the side of the box through the thin iron balcony rails, he said, "Transparent…"

Shit! That's a bomb. Between narrow cardboard strips where the railing had blocked his power, the revealed interior held cylinders and electronics and wires. He whispered, "Wells?" The bottom half was packed with metal scraps. Nails and screws, amid a dense drift of glitter. Holy shit, that'd hurt. "Wells!"

"Huh?"

He gestured up toward the balcony. She froze. "Well, crap. Good job, Perry. You found it."

"But what do we do about it?"

"You don't do anything except get well clear. We try to defuse it." She grabbed her radio. "Lieutenant, we found it. Up on a second-floor balcony, over the Taste of the Town sandwich shop. Looks like a big one."

Cops converged on them. Perry found himself nudged back out of the way. Deckard strode up to him, Nix at heel, and caught him in a hug. "Well done. Now let's get clear. Our job's over."

Perry let himself be tugged a few feet farther back, then dug in his heels, watching the animated discussion about how to deal with the bomb. "Wouldn't it be easier for them if the other sides were transparent too?"

Deckard froze. Cleared his throat. "Yeah. Might be. Maybe not all of them, so the box shape is obvious. But at least one or two more. Can you do that?"

"Not from here. I have to see the sides. I could from inside the apartment, or maybe the next balcony."

With an indrawn breath, Deckard grabbed him, his arms tight around Perry. "I want you safely out of here. We don't know how soon that could go off. There's a horrible death in that box."

"Wells and everyone else is there. I need to help."

Deckard put a hand under Perry's chin and tipped his face up. Their eyes met. Perry tried to put all his conviction into that gaze. Deckard closed his eyes for an instant. His fingers trembled under Perry's chin. "Of course you do." He called to the others, "Don't forget, Perry can give you a view in another side too, if he has a straight line of vision."

Wells turned to them. "Right. Could be useful. Stand by, Perry."

This time, Perry didn't resist as Deckard guided him back across the street and behind a parked car, crouching them both down, muttering, "Not a great defense, but it'd block some shrapnel." He ran a hand down Perry's cheek and thumbed his lip. "You're something else, Peregrine Crawford. So much more than a person would guess at first sight."

Perry blinked hard. "Are you insulting my wardrobe, big man?"

Deckard huffed a short laugh. "I'm trying to tell you how special you are."

"You're not just saying that because we're about to die, right?"

"You're not going to die." The clutch of Deckard's fingers on Perry's suggested he wasn't as certain as he sounded. "And I mean every part of special. I mean it whether you're finding a bomb or cheering at a chopper ride or turning my walls pink."

"I told your lieutenant my superhero name was the Interior Decorator." Perry looked down as Nix nudged his knee, but she was wearing her vest so he didn't pat her.

"I can tell him that was a joke."

"Actually, I might keep it." He realized that was the truth. "It doesn't make me sound like anything I'm not, I've found I enjoy decorating, and it would annoy my mother."

"Don't make life choices to annoy your mother."

"Nah, it's just a bonus when they do. Like, she would hate me having a serious relationship with an ordinary, especially a man, especially a cop. But that's not why I want to kiss you."

Deckard swayed toward him, his eyes shining, but before their lips could touch, the lieutenant called, "Deckard, Crawford, meeting in the van. Move it."

Perry sighed.

Deckard smirked. "Work." He rose up to a crouched stance and pulled Perry up too, a hand on his shoulder when he tried to straighten. "Stay below the cars. Come on. But we're going to continue that conversation later."

If we have a later. Perry stuffed his doubts away and let Deckard tug him along behind the line of parked cars.

The bomb squad van was parked a block away. The side door led to a cramped interior filled with gear and several men and women in black uniforms, all wearing serious expressions.

"Perry." Wells gestured him over and pointed at a video screen showing a close-up of the top of a familiar cardboard box. "I have a drone hovering, watching the bomb. Any chance you can work your power through a screen?"

"I've never tried." He held out a hand at the screen. "Transparent." The image on the screen vanished, showing a deeper layer of electronics. "Oops." He restored the top layer.

"Right. Was worth a try." She glared at the view, pulling the angle back to show more of the balcony. "That's a bitch of a place for it. Clammie's never going to fit through the patio door and onto that balcony."

"Clammie?" Perry whispered to Deckard.

"Containment chamber. Tell you later," Deckard breathed back.

"We can't detonate it in place without taking out half the building. We can't move it."

A dark-haired man with a weathered, tanned face sitting beside her said, "Gonna have to defuse it. Can we use the remotes? Water gun?"

"Water gun is iffy," Wells said. "That box is packed tight with shrapnel which'll block the water pressure and flow. No guarantee we'll soak or disrupt the electronics fast enough."

The man rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles. "So we'll do it the old-fashioned way. Cut the wires."

"I'm afraid so." The lieutenant set a hand on the man's shoulders. "You up for it, Ramirez?"

"Born ready." The guy grinned.

"Good man."

"Wouldn't mind if our superman gives me a real good look, though, before I dive in."

The lieutenant turned to Perry. "What do you say? You're a civilian, but even if you weren't, I would never order someone to walk into a building with a bomb if they weren't willing."

Perry cleared his dry throat. "Born willing." He kicked Deckard's ankle for his smothered choke. Although yeah, I'm willing for whatever you have in mind, too.

"No time to waste, then." The lieutenant pushed to his feet. "Bomb suits. Move it, Ramirez. Perry, you too."

Which was how Perry found himself putting on the most uncomfortable piece of clothing he'd ever experienced. Stiff, hot, super-annoying, complete with a helmet and a little fan blowing air on his face. He gritted his teeth as Deckard adjusted the buckles and straps and led him down the back ramp out of the van. Annoying and heavy! "How much does this thing weigh, anyhow?"

Wells said over the com, "That one's mine, so forty-six pounds."

Ramirez showed white teeth behind the faceplate of his helmet. "Mine's an upgrade at seventy-four pounds, even without the gloves. Want to try it?"

"While climbing stairs? Just this one will destroy me. Knew I should've done more leg days." He took a couple of steps forward. Already he felt sweat pooling under his arms.

Deckard gave Perry's helmet a pat. "Listen to your com. Do whatever Ramirez and the lieutenant say. Come back safe. Right?"

Perry steadied his breathing. "Yes, sir, boss."

The tiny, unwilling smile and nod Deckard gave him felt like a medal pinned on Perry's chest.

Walking down the now-deserted street, or rather clomping in forty-six pounds of Kevlar and plastic, made Perry feel like a character in a post-apocalyptic movie. Except the apocalypse hasn't happened yet. Ahead of him, Ramirez strode along in his far heavier suit, a bag full of tools in one ungloved hand.

The sun beat on Perry's helmet. Sweat trickled down his ribs and dampened his neck. The tight boots assaulted his bare toes.

When they reached the building with the balcony, Ramirez unlocked and pulled open an unmarked wooden door in the wall beside the sandwich shop. "In here. Follow me. Walk as softly as you can, hold the stair rail, do not fall. This thing's probably on a timer, but we don't want to jar it ahead of schedule."

"No." Perry's voice squeaked on the word. He waited for someone to soothe him, say, "You don't have go on if you're scared," but apparently he was being treated as an adult because Ramirez just gave him a light helmet tap.

"Let's do this." Ramirez's first step up made the wooden tread creak, but he kept going and Perry followed.

At the top of the stairs, a door stood shut. The lieutenant's voice over Perry's helmet speaker said, "We couldn't find the resident with the upstairs key. How does it look?"

"Piece of cake," Ramirez replied. "That's one shitty lock." He took a couple of his tools out, got to work, and fifteen seconds later, his light push swung the door wide. "Homeowner will want to replace that."

Wells said, "If that's all they have to replace, they'll owe you bigtime."

"Moving through the apartment." Ramirez eased forward one slow step at a time.

"Cameras show no other cartons in there?" Wells made it a question.

"None that I can see." Ramirez swung his head side to side, panning his camera for her. "Just the balcony. Heading there. Stay behind me, Perry."

No problem.Perry tried to place his tight-booted feet exactly where Ramirez trod as they passed through a sunny room with overstuffed furniture up to a patio door. The cardboard box sat behind the unmoving half of the glass.

"Can you work on it through the door?" Ramirez asked him.

"Probably not. It's like the video screen. I'd just turn the glass transparent. More transparent."

"Got it." Ramirez set a hand on the door handle. "Sliding open the door?—"

"Scan the frame for me first," Wells said. "Make sure there's no tripwires."

"You got it." Ramirez paused, bent, and knelt to run his helmet-mounted camera around the doorframe.

"Looks clear," Wells reported.

"Door opening." Inch by inch, Ramirez slid the door sideways in its track.

Perry held his breath till his vision sparkled, but nothing happened.

"Stepping through." Two hundred pounds of man and seventy-four pounds of body armor stepped through the doorway onto the balcony.

Nothing exploded.

"Right," the lieutenant said over Perry's helmet. "Crawford, try to get whatever angle you need on the box without crowding Ramirez. If you can do it from inside, even better."

Perry moved to where he had a clear view of the box through the unobstructed opening, his toes against the doorsill. "I'm here."

Ramirez murmured, "Can you leave the box corners visible, for my reference?"

"Yeah, I can do that." He'd practiced making small peepholes when he'd been checking packages. He didn't have to change the whole side. Raising his hands, he framed off a slightly smaller area on the near side of the box and murmured, "Transparent."

A big, irregular rectangle of carboard vanished, revealing wires and cylinders and a heap of glittery, sharp, threatening, scrap metal half the height of the box… Oh fuck. Perry forced his hand steady and did the same transformation for the top, and then, squinting, managed the second side where it angled away from him.

"Lovely," Ramirez breathed. "Lookie there. We have the connections, folks."

"Don't get cocky," Wells cautioned.

"Never." Ramirez half-turned his body to look at Perry. "Is the transparent stuff still like cardboard? Can I cut through it?"

"It feels the same. I've never tried cutting it." We should've tried that. "Let me see." Before Ramirez could say anything, Perry ducked back into the apartment. Paper, paper… He spotted a magazine on the coffee table and eased over to it.

"What are you doing?" Deckard sounded worried. "Perry?"

"Just testing this out." He framed the magazine cover, said, "Transparent." The second page became visible. Fumbling, he felt for the invisible cover, lifted it off the page and ripped it. The feel of invisible paper tearing in his fingers made his skin crawl, but when he framed the magazine again and said, "Back," the torn half-cover was vindication.

Perry held the page up to show Ramirez. "Looks like that should work."

"Smart man." Ramirez gave him a thumbs up. "Now get out of here. Back to the van. Careful on the stairs. Going down's harder."

"But you might need me."

"What I need is to concentrate. You won't have a visual angle on the rest of the box without coming out here and jogging my elbow. I can see what I need to see. Go."

Perry wanted to argue, but Ramirez took a step forward, his eyes on the bomb full of shrapnel, bag in hand. Perry's balls, on the other hand, wanted to crawl back up inside him, and an excuse to leave wasn't a bad thing. Listen to the man. Get the hell out.

He turned, cautious of his movements in the bulky suit, wishing he could wipe the sweat out of his eyes, and shuffled to the top of the stairs. Clutching the banister, he eased down one step at a time. At street level, he shut the downstairs door behind him as softly as he could manage, and then ran. Or lumbered like Godzilla, his numb feet thudding on the pavement, the sweat stinging his eyes.

Deckard met him at the door to the van, hugged him hard, then helped ease off his helmet. Perry threw a look back over his shoulder. A block and a half away on the balcony, Ramirez was a small, distant figure shrouded like an astronaut. "Will he be okay?"

"Fingers crossed. Come on in and get that suit off." Deckard carried the helmet as they climbed the ramp.

The crew was huddled around a video monitor. Perry fumbled with buckles and straps, his fingers clumsy and shaking. "You'll have to defumigate the suit, Wells," he tried to joke. "I sweated like hell."

"Everyone does," Deckard murmured. "She's assisting Ramirez. Don't distract her."

Perry mimed zipping his lips as he freed his feet from the Wells-sized torture devices and shucked off the bodysuit. Deckard guided him to where they could see the screen over Jeffries' shoulder. Perry shivered, the AC of the van hitting his damp skin. Still focused on the image, Deckard wrapped an arm around Perry's shoulders and pulled him close, his strong body a supporting warmth. Perry let himself lean into that comfort as they watched.

The screen showed the view from Ramirez's helmet camera, centered on his hands and the bomb. Delicately, Ramirez took a razor blade to the transparent cardboard at the top of one side, and cut out a square. He lifted the invisible piece, his fingertips held a fraction apart by nothing, and made a dropping motion behind him. "Okay."

"Leftmost blue wire first?" Wells proposed over her mic.

"Yeah," Ramirez agreed. "That's my take too. Would be easier if I could see the hole I cut."

"Sorry," Perry whispered. "I should've stayed."

"No, you shouldn't," Wells told him.

"He might be able to rub dirt round the edge. I didn't tell any dirt to be transparent."

Wells relayed the suggestion to Ramirez who said, "Hm." After a moment, he used his blade to nick the tip of his pinky. With a light touch, he eased his little finger into the space, found the rim, and swept the oozing cut around the outside edge. Smudges of blood in midair marked his outline. "Good thinking, Crawford." Ramirez picked out a pair of wire cutters. "Hold onto your hats, people."

Perry held his breath and shivered again despite Deckard's warm embrace. At Deckard's knee, Nix whined under her breath.

On the screen, the open jaws of the cutter approached the blue wire… touched it… closed… the cut ends sprang apart. And nothing happened.

"Yesssss." Wells's hissed triumph echoed the sighs of everyone in that van. "The one beside it now. I don't see a secondary detonator, but let's not get cocky."

"Heaven forbid," Ramirez muttered over his mic. He shifted the tip of the cutters right and snipped again. Nothing changed.

Someone in the van muttered, "Fuck, yeah."

"Get 'em all," Wells directed.

"With pleasure." Ramirez began snipping the other visible wires with a soft chant of, "Die, die, die." Partway through, he cut another hole in the side and attacked a pair of strands leading down into the mass of scrap metal.

After a few minutes, Ramirez eased back. "That's as safe as it's going to be, till we take it apart. Get the fuel and transport cases up here."

"On their way." Jeffries pointed to one of the team. "Edwards, get the stuff to Ramirez. Clean-up time."

"I need to go too—" Perry began.

"Oh, no. Your bit's done," Deckard said, holding him tighter.

"I need to undo the Transparent." The feel of that nothing-color out there tugged inside Perry. Transparent might be a color, but it was different from all the rest— a sucking demand on his power. "I have to fix it back like it was." When Deckard didn't ease his grip, Perry added, "Lieutenant Jeffries, sir, it's part of how my power works. I can't leave things transparent." He'd had to go back to that damned storage shed before he'd even gotten off school grounds to reverse the effect. He'd told himself it was for secrecy, but the aching tug in his gut pulling him back now felt familiar.

Jeffries looked past Perry at Deckard. "You know the rules. The supe gets to explain what their power can and can't do. Go with Edwards, Crawford, but you're back in the bomb suit and don't move a finger unless one of my people okays it. The bomb may be defused, but that's still a hell of a lot of dynamite out there."

"I'm going instead of Edwards," Deckard said. "This is just transport. No skill needed."

Tilting his head, Jeffries eyed Deckard and Perry steadily, as seconds ticked by. What's he looking for? Perry was torn between wanting Deckard's company and not wanting the man he… liked … near any dynamite, so he settled for a trying-to-be-professional silence.

Finally, Jeffries nodded. "Right. Do that, but Deckard, you and me are going to have a chat sometime. Put Nix on her leash and give her to Fong."

Perry's feet, really, really didn't want to go back in those boots, but he jammed his toes in and promised them a long, hot, soak later. Walking up the street with Deckard felt less surreal, now that the bomb was hopefully harmless. Perry carried one bulky metal case, Deckard had another and a container of diesel fuel.

"I don't get it," Perry said as they walked. "Wouldn't you use water? Doesn't fuel burn?"

"The fuel denatures the dynamite." Wells' voice came over the speaker. "Soak it for two hours, and it'll burn rather than explode. We'll take it to disposal, have ourselves a little bonfire. Much more fun for everyone."

"Okay. You're the experts."

"And don't you forget it," Deckard muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Someone laughed.

Climbing the creaky stairs still made Perry sweat, and not just from the weight he was hefting. In the apartment, Deckard moved ahead of Perry and stopped at the patio door. "Hey, here's some nice flammable liquid and two suitcases."

"Set 'em out here." Ramirez stood up. "I'll get the bomb soaked and then come out with you, get out of this pressure cooker for a while."

"Perry needs to untransparent the box."

Perry said, "Yeah. I'll be real quick," from behind Deckard's wide shoulder.

"Let me pour in the diesel," Ramirez told him. "It'll be cool to be able to see that everything's soaked through. Then you can undo your miracle."

"All right."

Perry watched as Ramirez poured some of the liquid into each of the holes he'd cut, then sliced open the top and poured more in from above. One of the metal cases they'd brought held a bunch of towels, and Ramirez tucked them around the base of the box and into the holes, scanning the mess inside up and down, nodding at the seepage from the bottom corners. "Looks good. Okay, Perry."

Perry nudged Deckard back to get a better view and held up his hand. "Back to cardboard color." The box reformed, two irregular holes sliced in its sides, the top flap ajar. The pull inside him eased.

Ramirez shook his head. "So fucking cool."

The words warmed some cold corner inside Perry. Ramirez wasn't a friend, had no stake in Perry feeling good about himself, and he still thought Perry's power was cool. Take that, Mom. He's smarter than you are. A little nagging tug made him turn to the floor of the balcony behind Ramirez and repeat, "Cardboard. Cardboard." The two cut-out pieces appeared, lying on the concrete.

"Right." Deckard tapped Perry on the shoulder. "Are you done? Can we get you the fuck out of here yet?"

"Done." Perry closed his eyes, realizing how true that was. "Done, and toast. I can't wait to get out of this suit and soak in a hot shower." He caught himself just in time not to add, Maybe together, finally, over a hot mic.

Deckard turned and lumbered for the stairs. "Hot shower. You wish. Do you have any idea how much paperwork we still have to do?"

"You have to do," Perry pointed out. "I'm a superhero. We don't have paperwork—" A sheet of white paper with writing on it appeared in midair and floated to rest on the top end of the banister. Deckard picked it up, frowned down at the printing, and passed the sheet to Perry.

The page header read:

SPAM Incident Report 46.2.b – supervillain foiled without loss of innocent life

The Interior Decorator vs. The Lithomancer

The rest of the page had a series of fill-in-the-blanks and check boxes.

Perry flipped it over. The questions continued on the reverse, all the way to the bottom. He sighed. "I could make the page invisible. Say, ‘Oh, I never saw that.'"

Deckard laughed. "Or I could give you an air-conditioned corner of my office and you could do your paperwork while I do mine."

"Can I have Nix off-duty hanging out with me? Puppy hugs?" The morning's stress had begun to catch up with Perry. His stupid heart wanted to race, now that the danger was over, and his muscles twitched. He could really use some cute puppy time.

Deckard paused, one foot on the next stair which brought his eyes level with Perry's, and smiled. Their gazes met, locked, and Perry's heart wanted to race for a different reason. The muscle twitching was replaced with a more pleasant if very cramped reaction. The expression in Deckard's eyes as he smiled carried more affection than heat, but Perry urgently wanted both. "Some hugs might be arranged," Deckard said.