Lost and Found

Saturday afternoon, January 21, 2017,
Arena 91.

"Team 6502, report to Kane Hall for reassignment."

Following form, the handwritten sign had already yellowed, somehow. But after a Fall Term dealing with Mr. Shane, no one on the team expected much better from their faculty handler.

Derecha drawled, "Guys? Any chance we got picked for a wild goose chase, or is this just our lucky day?"

Cricket shook his head and said, "No. We're too low in the team standings for anyone to be paying attention to us. Not when the Mutant Mayhem Machine and the Europromotionals are too pissed at each other to beat the Goobers team. But, if we are in some kind of trouble, I'm glad that Becky's tied up with EMT class."

Along the way, Icejack called in to Security. Whoever's working the front desk should have more of a clue than Mr. Shane, right?

"Whateley Security. Be advised, this is not a secure line and will be recorded. Wilkinson speaking."

Yeah, yeah.

"Officer Wilkinson, this is Icejack with training team six-five-zero-two. We're en route from Arena 91. Should we report first to Kane or grab extra gear?"

"Put me on the spot, why don't you? I'm paid to man a desk, kid."

Peter's sigh echoed the officer's. It wasn’t as if either of them had asked for an emergency on Sunday afternoon.

"Okay. Okay. It's going to drop below freezing before sundown. Break out your cold-weather hiking and climbing gear. Base layers under that. I've put in a request for Arctic MREs from Crystal Hall. Six-man team?"

"Five. Our shifter is in the fast-track EMT course."

"Any other trackers or hunters on your team?"

"Nope. Not unless we have a way to scry them or tag them for pickup. Our mage is still ticked about missing out on deer season."

"I'll kick that back to Rhinewold. Be here in fifteen. Tone down the spandex and bling. You're all on the clock."

"Okay," Icejack said. "Slight change of plans."

Derecha asked, "What now, Crash?"

"Security says we've got fifteen minutes to grab any cold-weather gear we need,” Peter said before counting on his fingers. “For cross-country trekking through snow, expect ice patches, below-freezing cold, and the op going past sundown. They were hoping we could supply a tracker."

"Well, shit. Asking for trackers means this could turn into a body retrieval."

Cricket asked, "They’re not telling us to roll with it, or what?"

"It sounded like someone's getting voluntold to help out. Think I should tell the family not to drive to campus to pick me up for dinner?"

"Probably. Sorry about that, 'Jack. Let's all keep an open mind about whoever it is."

---

"...It'll just be me, your Grandmother, and Violetta then."

"Dad's on a job?"

"I wish he were. Your Aunt Permelia's gone missing on a hunting trip—that kind of hunt. Elom's pulled together some volunteers for a search party, in case it's not too late."

"Damn. Should I tell the school there's a family emergency?"

"No. You're better off getting your training in. Sometimes I wish I paid more attention to the mandatory fun and games. The Sims and arenas do have some safety features."

"About that..."

"About what exactly, Peter? You told me you only had a training team exercise that might run late!"

"We're training with Security instead of hitting the sims. Sounds like it's a field exercise off-campus."

"Send me a list of channels."

"Mom..."

"Don't Mom me. Channel assignments or I start making my own calls."

"Fine. Before you start calling anyway, Benjamin's restricted to campus. Something to do with Tabby Cats and cars. Right. Love you too, Mom."

Camshaft looked over at Icejack.

"Family emergency?"

"Maybe. Mom's in full Mom Mode. Looks like I'll be packing in the hexrotor along with the Colt."

"I thought you carried a SIG Sauer?"

"Yep."

"Alrighty, then. Cricket and I have to pack too. So, we’ll muster again at Kane Hall."

---

Kane Hall.

Officer Wilkinson pointed the team to a squad room already set up with chairs, a projection screen, and a hot pot of coffee steaming day-old exhaustion. A half-dozen officers called in from standby rotation had grabbed the chairs in the back. A few minutes later, a long-haired grey cat strutted in, tail held high.

Officer Rhinewold cleared his throat.

"Since the student team is down by one, we called Shisa in. I'm sure you've all seen her Combat Final a few weeks ago. Outside of her paranormal abilities, she brings enhanced senses and extensive woodland survival experience."

"Is good for resumé."

Rhinewold said over the interruption, "In the back, we have Officers Takenaka, Gonzales... Guys, answer up, nod, drool, do something to show you're awake and with us today. Plunkett, Smith. Our first-timers are Team 6502, from the Search-and-Rescue track. Cricket is the team lead and a broad jump brick. Derecha's an aerokinetic flyer and ice manifestor. Camshaft is a vehicle tech and an empath. Cr—Icejack is a COMINT and ITSEC specialist. Entelecheia's a mage and spiritual medium.

"The situation is that a solo hiker has been reported overdue in the National Forest by her friend. She's a fifty-eight-year-old Caucasian female with years of trail experience. With any luck, she's preparing to hole up in a snow cave or lean-to close beside the trail. Her friend says they dropped her off at Pinkham Notch, expecting to rendezvous at the Appalachia Trailhead. At noon, she was two hours late checking in from the Osgood Tentsite."

Officer Plunkett asked, "Aren't we jumping the gun, so to speak? Two or three hours late ain't that bad. Maybe she realized she was running out of daylight and turned around?"

"In which case, the volunteers coming up the Trail from the southeast will be happy to inform us she's been located. We'll be staging at Appalachia Trailhead and looking to intercept her continuing down from Mount Madison. The later it gets, the worse the chances of taking a wrong turn. Near those summits, up above the tree line, that can be a fatal mistake."

Officer Smith asked, as if he hadn't checked, "What's the weather forecast?"

"Sunny and clear for now. A wet air mass is being pushed ahead of a cold front. That snarl-up is expected between late afternoon and midnight. As if we needed reminders that looks nice doesn't mean it is nice. For our newcomers: White Mountain National Forest receives about 100 calls for help each year. Of those, roughly twenty end up with the coroner. That's assuming they're found."

Rhinewold scanned the students' faces. That last statistic hit a nerve. Good. He didn't intend to carry them home in body bags if he could help it.

"I hope you kids didn't think you were signing up for the easy track."

Cricket spoke up, "We signed up for what it says on the tin, not to play villains and vigilantes."

"We'll see if you still think that this time tomorrow, son. I am not exaggerating for effect. Our job is complicated by the U.S. Forest Service limiting overland access to foot traffic on the maintained trails. Skipping over the things that ARC and the Mediwhela Tribe deal with under the table, Mt. Washington is still the 4th most lethal mountain in North America.

"For example! The weather observatory has clocked winds at 231 miles per hour. That record is still the highest measured over land windspeed outside of a hurricane or tornado. Wind chills can drop to a hundred degrees below zero in winter. Be prepared to get your asses back below the tree line and under some kind of shelter if the weather turns foul early.

"Any other questions?"

"Powers?" Derecha asked. "I can do more from the air than on the ground, but not if the Berlin MCO's agents start taking potshots."

"Most of the crazies hiking through here this time of year are locals. A flying girl isn't the weirdest thing they'll see. Push comes to shove, we have gear to redirect frantic phone calls from Observatory visitors. Also, we can count on the USFS as friendlies."

"Okay. Does the missing person have a name, a full set of teeth, whatever?"

Icejack answered before Rhinewold.

"Permelia Edwards. She's from Arkham, not Dunwich. No surviving children, in case you're wondering."

The fact that one of the students already knew about the vic was not exactly a good sign.

Camshaft asked, "Speaking of locals... How often do hikers end up as puppy chow?"

And that was somehow worse.

"Do not even joke about that. The tribal weres have strict taboos about such things. Because that's a good start to becoming something that gets decapitated with silver, incinerated, and only then buried at sea in a lead box. If there are any signs of a wendigo on the hunt, we will be pulling you and any other search teams out. Whether we escalate beyond that will depend on tribal and Department of Paranormal Affairs concerns."

Shisa broke the silence.

"Personal goals. So cheerful. Pack lunch?"

"We'll do our best either way," Entelecheia said. "Not much point to it otherwise."

Camshaft caught her eye, and she nodded back.

---

In the Security parking lot, Peter loaded his gear into one of the three modified Suburbans the teams were taking. Being "normies with toys," he and Cam needed more space. Plus, he needed to get a head start on his team's work.

"Er, Shisa. How good are your ears?"

"Purrfect."

Peter closed his eyes for a moment.

Takenaka laughed, "You asked for that, Pete."

"I meant whether she could work with the radio earpiece as a speaker attached to her harness instead of in-ear."

"Am right here. Try harness. If injured, works as beacon."

"Good idea. I should add that as a feature."

"Shisa," Trina said, "I also have a repeater token for you to use once we arrive. Unlike the radio, it repeats everything said near it to the others in the set."

"Hrrrrm?"

"Becky's. I could add one or two to the set, but the essence costs don't scale. More stupid people, more stupid chatter."

Colombine's voice over Icejack's earpiece added to the discussion.

"Ask her about enchanting a nice set of rings."

"What? No! I don't even have a, a you know!"

Three female pairs of eyes turned to a blushing technician.

"Sorry. I wasn't expecting to hear. I mean, that was meant for someone else!"

Officer Takenaka didn't look back, just said, "Colombine, you're five by five."

"Hrrr?"

"Colombine's following our mission on a couple of open channels. Rhinewold should have mentioned that, with this team, the police presence includes retired officers in Security, a special constable on independent assignment, and the Coös County Sheriff's Department. Your parole officer should be chuffed."

"Constable?"

"Colombine's partner, Belfry."

"Paint By Numbers in class with. Says good with handcuffs."

Peter's collar needed a cooling pack right about now. Something did. Pheromone misfire? The passing scenery wasn't being passed fast enough to end his embarrassment with a quick jump. For now, he could ignore that someone spends more time with a freshman girl he doesn't know than with him.

---

Appalachia Trailhead, near Randolph, NH, White Mountain National Forest.

The trailhead-turned-mustering point turned out to be a sparsely occupied slushy parking lot off the side of U.S. Highway 2. The winter weather was foul enough to discourage crowds, but not too difficult for hardcore Appalachian Trail hikers. In a way, that was a comfortable bit of normal life. Regular people regularly came here and walked away with nothing worse than sore feet. The Whateley Security team had altered their duty uniforms to pass as Forest Service. The student team wore basic supersuits under cool-weather outdoor wear and packs. A year ago, the subtle deceptions would have felt out of place to Peter. That was before spending all summer with a sneaky bastard who lived for such cons.

Or was that the real person? How well did he know him? Substituting one problem for another, Peter texted his father and cousin Elom. What on Earth was Aunt Permelia doing out here? It wasn't husband-hunting, unless his family had gotten weirder for the winter? He gratefully accepted a repeater coin from Trina. Now no one could complain if he didn't talk much...

Then again, even Trina sometimes claimed he didn't talk enough. People.

Rhinewold whistled, motioning for everyone to gather and pay attention. It mostly worked, though most were still rechecking gear.

"Listen up! We're starting out in four groups. Gonzales, you're the lightest. So, you'll be with Derecha and Shisa, flying up to Mount Clay along the Jewell Trail, then to Washington and east. Clear the area above the treeline while we have daylight.

"Takenaka! You're taking Icejack and Entelecheia up Valley Way to Mount Madison. Ideally, you'll intercept our, er, Ms. Edwards there. Icejack, you and Derecha keep an eye on the weather. The winds will be kicking in ahead of the front, making flight conditions treacherous. Modified VFR rules apply! Everyone's grounded once winds exceed 45 knots or visibility drops below one statute mile. This is not subject to debate.

"Plunkett. You've got Cricket and Camshaft. Castle Trail to Mount Jefferson. After that, everything will depend on weather conditions and updates.

"Smith and I will drive our vehicles up to the observatory. Everyone should have maps loaded on their personal devices. Even if everything goes right, we'll be summitting in darkness in deteriorating conditions. If everything doesn't go so well, muster at the Mount Washington parking lot or Madison Spring Hut. Any questions?"

Cricket raised a hand.

"This time of year, are any of the huts or cabins open? Or are we using them as landmarks and concentrating more on covering ground?"

"They're closed for the season," Rhinewold acknowledged. "If there's a need, we'll make arrangements. Otherwise, I'd say this counts as applied survival techniques. After all, you could injure yourself out here. The officers you're teamed with have a few things to brief you on along the way. We're working for an elite prep school, but that doesn't mean we leave teambuilding exercises behind.

"Another thing: Use callsigns. 'Hey, dudes,' doesn't cut it out here. 'Dudettes' is an HR problem."

---

Peter handed operational control of his hexrotor drone off to Colombine before following his team into the woodlands. He'd have enough trouble piloting what he couldn't see for the trees and walking at the same time. At least this put his radio repeater where it could do the most good for now.

"Icejack," Yuki said when he caught back up, "you and Entelecheia are the locals. What do you know about all this mess that the others need to be clued in on?"

"What I know for certain is that Vaporware is covering most of our channels. Illustrated Man and, er, some trusted locals related to the missing hiker are on search teams on the other side of the mountains here."

"This one is personal, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

Entelecheia let that settle for a while.

"Western New York is good for hunting, fishing, and hiking. But, we're on the other end of the state from the mountains. Lake effect snow's a thing. That's mostly it for the environmental dangers."

"Okay," Takenaka agreed. "That's a nice way of saying, as long as there's no unmarked burials, we should be fine. What about other threats, like the kind that play with their food? 'Jack?"

"In that case, Aunt Permelia won't be hunting up in Tuckerman Ravine or Huntington Ravine. Good trails running off to the side, but too much avalanche risk, and no one should even be out there in the first place to be coming back with reports of unusual tracks or traces. Something about the situation doesn't fit."

"Should we recommend pulling them back north?"

Doctrine recommended concentrating on the areas with the best odds of success. This still didn't fit right. Not in a way Icejack could put into easy words. On the other hand, easy wasn't the job, was it?

"Not... yet. I think I'd want to be hitting the higher-risk or worst-outcome areas first. Not later, giving the weather a chance to deteriorate. People have died on Mount Washington traversing an avalanche zone, even without being caught in a sudden white-out or after nightfall. I'm not sure we get out of that without help."

"And?"

"Do we want to end up as snow-packed frozen victim pockets?"

---

Gonzales, you're the lightest. So, you'll be with Derecha and Shisa... Clear the area above the treeline while you can.

Hanging by a polypro line holding her safety harness to its sibling worn by Merida, Officer Merida Gonzales was damned glad she didn't suffer from a fear of heights. An antigrav pack, like those used in the Workshop for moving equipment, kept her weight from slowing her ride too much. In a better sitch, she might have appreciated how much the girls were enjoying the flight.

Someone should have photographed Shisa on Derecha's shoulder: one paw extended forward, tail back, as if she were guiding an expedition across wilderness. The cat girl was leaning into the wind more. Was the wind picking up?

"Gonzales to Sixpack. Weather update, over."

"Gonzales, this is Sixpack. Will climb for a better view once you land. Remind Shisa to stay in the open."

"Am cat, not rabbit."

"Then watch where you pounce, dear."

You could almost mistake Colombine for a human. Then again, these were Whateley kids, and their projects.

Once they landed at the ridge line saddle between Mount Clay and Mount Washington, Derecha unclipped Gonzales and stowed the line in a belt pouch.

"Keep the harness on, Officer. If either of us can't reach you, they can still send out conventional retrieval teams."

"We're not planning on having a mass casualty event."

"That's when they happen!"

Whatever happened to the cocky ones? Who'm I kidding? Mass casualty events.

"I'll keep that in mind," Gonzales said. She took her time pulling out a paper topo map, using that as a visual aid to the team briefing.

"Shisa, you and I, we've got something over two miles' trek above the treeline out to the Chandler Brook Trailhead. Then it's two and a half back on the leeward side before summiting again. If we see something below the treeline, I'll back you up from the trails. Derecha, you've got dual roles: search and overwatch. If you need a break, call us back up into visual range before doing anything courageous, tiring..."

"Or stupid," Shisa added.

"What aren't you sharing yet, Officer?"

"Anyone find it odd that no one else has called in about our missing person? Only one person missing on one of the country's most-visited peaks?" Looking around at dawning comprehension, she said, "Me too. We're up here first, with no cover, and a storm coming in. I want you two to treat this as a potential crime scene. Move nothing that doesn’t pose a hazard. Touch nothing without gloves: wear a second pair unless you personally know what you’re poking. If you get a feeling telling you to back away, do that first."

Sixpack's readings and visual data showing an oncoming storm out of the west ahead of schedule backed up the growing suspicions in Merida Gonzales's mind.

---

Great Gulf Wilderness, South of Mount Madison.

Rudolph "Red" Greene stretched and yawned. The snowy woods 'round here were perfect for digging up potential new friends, something folks back home simply refused to understand. But that's their loss. The only thing Red missed about back before he turned mutant was daylight. It might hurt his eyes some, but if he ever figured out where this Whateley school was (assuming he got in), he'd end up trading daylight time for classtime any which way. For now, he had his opossum friends. They did a good job of helping him avoid the scary things skulking in the woods.

However it had happened, you didn't need a GED to know that anything that chowed down on human hearts was more trouble than any H1! retards.

Okay. If he had to swear on some stack of Bibles, he'd admit that he wouldn't too much mind if something went looking for Russ Beavers's heart with a bottle of ketchup. He'd even lend them a magnifying glass and wish them luck on his sister's behalf. For now, though, breakfast. Maybe he'd go looking for a new place to hole up. Looked like some cold was coming on. He should move up-slope, get out of the beech and birch trees, and shelter under spruce and fir?

---

"This is getting ridiculous," thought Elom Raiford. They were all out here looking for a missing family member who might still be alive. Yet his little brother was checking emails every ten minutes, like he and Mollie had started dating again! Good god, they had a teenager! Elom snatched the distracting electronics from Butch's hands.

Elom noticed that the smartphone's glass screen was developing spiderweb cracks. Little brother was usually better controlled than that. What's eating him now?

"Butch, what's a Team 6502? Bricks and flyers?"

"More like one brick, one flyer, and the rest barely missed qualifying as Underdogs."

"Well, at least Petie's not out there... Nah, scratch that. If Permelia has to scale a rock wall, he could follow. Boy's pretty solid on his hooves."

"I don't think you understand how much he hated them. If he couldn't shift, we'd be looking at prosthetics."

"Damn."

"What got him over it? I haven't seen the boy much since certain people haven't been home in years. But he seemed okay over the holidays. Anyway, who did the school throw at the mountain this time?"

"Five sophomores. Including. One. Peter Arsenicker Raiford."

Butch's phone buzzed with an SMS.

Cee Lo Bean: Plus a freshman girl with TK claws for days.

"Got any more asinine comments about why I might be just a little bit goddamned worried?"

Elom stared back at his brother, taking in the worry and fear for what they were.

"Nope. Let's hurry up the trail and fetch our aunt before the boy takes all the credit."

---

King Ravine, Western Slope, Mount Adams.

Camshaft looked up at the Mount Adams summit, lit by wintry afternoon sunlight against a darkening backdrop of clouds. A mile to go, or so the map said, while skipping the whole seventeen hundred feet of elevation left to go.

Officer Plunkett watched the boy's face fall in real time.

"We won't be taking the Great Gully trail, Cam. It's a rough descent in good weather. This isn't good weather."

"Okay? We still need to reach the Madison Spring Hut before the weather shuts us down, don't we?"

"Yes, but from here we take the Chemin des Dames trail."

Plunkett gestured up to the left, then eastward.

"The ridge line's easier to follow. If our hiker is coming down, she's only got a rocky scramble to negotiate down to the tree line."

Cricket listened, but ended up shaking his head.

"If it's that risky, it doesn't make sense to come down this way at all. I'd stay at the tent sites or one of the cabins to wait the weather out."

"That's what we'd prefer. Keep that in mind once the weather's truly gone to shit on us and you're looking for any line of descent that offers a chance of getting down and out of the wind." Plunkett waited for that to register, then said, "Both of you need to be drinking more. Dehydration from exercise and dry air is just as deadly as it is any other time of year. Disorientation also makes you just as careless."

Cam looked at their electronic maps showing vegetation-covered mountains. Then he stared back at what he could see of the way they came. Even without leaves on the trees, the trunks and branches didn't leave much visible. There were no trail lines marked on the real ground either.

Officer Plunkett continued after a couple of long swigs from his own canteen.

"The other reason for going up Chemin des Dames is that we've got at most another hour before the sun goes down behind that spur to our right. This whole ravine's going to be pitch black."

Cam asked, "What about Icejack and 'Cheia? They're coming up a ravine like us."

Not to mention that, after Cricket, they were also two of the least outdoorsy members of the team. At least Rex had the excuse of being born in South Florida.

"Their trail isn't as technical as this route. It should stay easier to follow as it gets dark."

"Uh huh."

"And your team's modified helmets include night vision gear."

Oh. Right.

"Didn't think of that, did you? That's okay, guys, you're here to learn... We also brought you along to pull our asses out of the fire if the situation goes pear-shaped."

"How the Hell do you figure that, um, Officer?"

"Even without gear, you've got Cricket here with Exemplar senses, strength, and mobility. Derecha runs Overwatch: she's built to handle cold. Shisa's a Cat of Mass Destruction. And, so forth."

"Leaving Icejack and me as just techies and Entelecheia..."

"Just techies, not fighters and heroes, is that it? Empathic senses don't need light. Shifters adapt. Ghosts don't need light either. But even so, your medium is also a spell-slinger."

"Huh."

"Kid, don't make me call Officer Takenaka over to give you one of her pep talks. Because I will do so, and I will greatly enjoy watching the fireworks."

---

Parapet Trail, Eastern Slope, Mount Adams.

Nahele Jones napped in the deepening shadows high on Mount Adams's eastern slope. Staying low to the ground kept her scent off the west winds and her body heat under her clothing. She regretted losing track of the Edwards woman. This late in the day, she'd need to climb to reach shelter on the mountain. That, or the folks looking for her will. For now? Conserve energy.

The only things unaccounted for were the occasional whiffs of long-dead vermin. Coyotes had reached these mountains years ago, but there should be things even they shouldn't be digging back up.

---

Summit Parking Lot, Mount Washington.

"Y'all be careful going back down!" Derecha shouted at the dust kicked up by an aging Subaru. Poor thing was relying more on gravity and hope than on gasoline or prayers for a working suspension.

Shisa studiously groomed her ears.

"How many?"

"Ninth car, for some value of the descriptive term 'car'."

"Too much Cam and Jack."

"The boys aren't that bad. For one thing, they checked the weather before hitting the trails."

"Heh. Meetup?"

"Let me touch base with Gonzales. She's got to be tired of running interference every time someone wants to check my heroing license."

"Swap?"

"I don't think she's that tired."

---

Red could have sworn he was stepping onto a steady rock. But that was before it rolled out from under an ankle that'd be hurting something fierce tomorrow. His friends growled, rattled, and squeaked at the evil rock that could have hurt someone! Hadn't he made enough noise crashing through branches and undergrowth?

What the Devil?

From his landing spot, Red stared at a white granite slab hanging from oversized rusting iron hinges. The way it had been set into a recessed pocket of rock, there was no way anyone could've seen it unless they were standing right at the ancient entrance. He scraped dank moss and dirt from the moldering surface. There had to be some kind of handhold?

*click*-*click*

On the other hand, the coming storm wasn't topping Red's concerns right about now?

"Boy. You're going to back up, slowly, and explain to me just what you think you're doing here."

The woman sounded like someone's great aunt, one who was packing a double-barreled shotgun and more ammo than patience.

"I was looking for shelter?" Red offered.

"That's not shelter."

"It isn't."

It had a door! If only he were on the other side of it.

"Not for anything human, no."

"Er..."

"Not for your pet possums, either."

Someone had been watching for a while now.

"Don't I get a last cigarette?"

"Not for another six-seven years."

"If it's all the same to you, Ma'am, I'd rather not freeze to death tonight."

"Boy, if we survive the night, I expect we can do something more constructive than that."

"I-if?"

"There's someone waiting for us near the top of this gulf. I intend to meet them on my own terms. Oh, and by the way, I'm not exactly Medusa. You can turn around and look at me without turning to stone."

---

Madison Spring Hut

The Appalachian Mountain Club's Madison Spring Hut had clearly started off as a single-room rock hut. Very alpine. It had been improved since then. Bunks, tables, power, water, a place to stomp off the snow and slush; all the amenities of home.

Officer Takenaka turned to her students and said, "I hope you two aren't expecting me to cook."

Entelecheia shook her head.

Icejack asked, "Can you even cook arctic rations?"

"Check to see if the directions are in Swedish or American. Please don't burn the place down trying to deep-fry chocolate bars."

"I think I'll bring my hexrotor in for a battery swap and camera change before pushing my luck."

"If one of you is willing to keep watch, I'd like to try contacting the spirit world."

"Looking out for you two is why they pay me the big bucks," Takenaka said. "What do you need help with?"

"Double check my casting circle for gaps, keep stupid people out of the way, don't let me wander off without saying anything. That sort of stuff. Usually, nothing unusual happens."

"That sounds depressingly like my dating life."

That's also how all three got to watch Icejack's drone return bearing Whitman Cottage's Most Dangerous Catgirl, striking a heroic red-caped pose like "Washington Crossing the Delaware". For a moment, it looked as though Peter was about to shed manly tears at the gear abuse.

"Hold on. I've got to check if Cam brought a spare joystick and foot pedal!"

Then he started pulling duct tape out of his pack.

"Hhrrrrhh?"

Shisa, for her own part, demonstrated exactly how far she could jump away from a teenage boy with spare duct tape and a manic gleam in their eyes. Cricket and his group needed ten minutes to calmly talk her down from the hut's roof, with solemn promises regarding how the duct tape would be used. Even those wouldn't have been enough if Entelechia hadn't reported that there were still hikers stuck on the mountain.

"According to one of the civilian search teams on the eastern slopes, there's also a hunter and an interloper in the area. I'm being told that 'family' is handling that. My informants want this group off the trail for their own safety."

Icejack spoke up.

"My father and uncle are sure to be out there looking for Aunt Permelia. That's got to be what they mean by family."

"Your family has got some strange-ass hobbies, Crash," Derecha commented from the hut entrance. "It's getting too dark out there for air search and rescue."

"If Cam and I rig manual controls for my drone, Shisa can pilot that. Cricket's got Exemplar senses and strength going for him. That is, if they're willing to take on the risk and Rhinewold signs off on it."

Officer Gonzales, having entered behind Derecha, carefully put on her game face before speaking. Plunkett and Takenaka were here. The two Security-only teams were still either at work or repositioning. They had options here.

"Takenaka, how good are your actual first aid certs?"

"I'm shocked, shocked I tell ya! That you could think I sandbagged my training records."

Yuki didn't look all that shocked.

"And?"

"And I'm still not fully EMT or First-Entry trained, but working on it. If Colombine's still connected to Icejack's drone, I can look up whatever I don't know. But what you want is physical backup, isn't it?"

Gonzales and Plunkett exchanged glances. Officer Takenaka was new to the force, but she wasn't probie-new. Jimmy nodded back to her.

"We don't send the kids off on their own. I want the two with firearms training to stay here."

"Alrighty then. Call the boss, tell him we hit the road in five." Takenaka asked Entelecheia, "Did the locals tell you which trail?"

"It felt like east from here?" Entelecheia checked her map file. "I think it's... Yeah. It looks like the Osgood Trail is it."

---

Osgood Trail, 0.5 km below the tree line on the ridge.

Brandon Sullivan returned with an armload of branches to where his girlfriend lay. She'd gone off the trail, less than a hundred meters, to manage her business. Coming back, she'd tried stepping over a deadfall. But her foot had slipped into a hidden hole, likely tearing a ligament. Worse, with the deadfall now over her knee, she was, for all intents and purposes, pinned.

That both their phones and Personal Locator Beacons had all gone dead added insult to the injury. Brandon's response was to build a lean-to around her to hold heat. She was cold, but they could still pull through if the night's storm dumped enough snow to insulate their shelter. A fire in the morning should guide searchers to their spot.

Hell, it might have been a beautiful night without the cold and the pain.

Brandon stopped fussing over the branches.

"Ya hear that?"

"No. Just you working on getting frostbite."

"Ha! I'll be fine. I told you I used to be a Boy Scout."

"You won't be getting any brownies tonight."

An unfamiliar voice came from the direction of the trail.

"The Keebler elves are going to be so disappointed. Hey, guys, they're in the scrub over here!"

An Asian woman (a park ranger?) pushed through the undergrowth, followed by a young man and what looked like a cat riding a toy drone. There was something about the way Rex stood, but every time Brenda tried staring at him, her eyes slid off to one side or the other. She could have sworn the cat made swiping motions at the deadfall. It must have been partly sawn through, because the log came apart in two-foot sections that were easier to clear.

The woman, who introduced herself as Yuki, gave Brenda a hefty shot of anesthetic before splinting the injured leg. She could have cried at feeling the pain going away.

"There you go! That should last long enough to get you two to shelter."

"The trailhead's a good eight kilometers back the way we came," Brandon objected. "Even then, getting a ride to the hospital's—"

"We're taking you up to ride out the storm. No way you two are going to make it downhill in the dark."

That made sense. It was overcast before, pitch dark now.

"And my friend here," Yuki pointed to Rex, "was missing arms day something fierce before. It all works out.

Brenda could have sworn the cat laughed. Good drugs are a magical thing.

---

Mount Madison, overlooking Star Lake Trail.

From her vantage point among the rocks and boulders, Nahele could see her prey working their way up the mountain. They'd have to get past her to get to shelter. By then, though their hearts would be warm, they'd be tired and weak. She'd seen three fools head out into the dark. Were they looking to help others? If so, that meant those left inside the hut could be lured out. She wasn't greedy. That was a sure way to get hunted down! If all she caught were the two lost ones, fine. Any extra would keep overnight in the fresh snow and cold winds.

---

Inside the hut, there weren't many things to do other than listen to the fire and emergency radio bands. A pot fell off its shelf in the kitchen. The wind had been rattling the windows like a beast that wanted to escape the cold, but it wasn't that bad yet.

Entelecheia looked up from the tarot cards she'd brought.

"The hunter's watching us too."

Derecha looked up from her own cards. Solitaire, not tarot.

"Aerial view or from higher ground? There's that ridge close to us."

The security officers checked their maps, like the others.

Officer Plunkett said, "I'd set up on the ridge and save my energy instead of flying around."

"Cam, can you cover comms?" Icejack asked as he pulled off his boots. "I've got the best footing in this mess. Someone's gotta cover 'Cheia here."

"Think it's causing a distraction?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Good point."

---

Out in the dark, Derecha's helmet optics quickly picked up one heat signature moving to head off two others approaching the trail below.

"Icejack? Derecha. You've got to reposition uphill to avoid hitting the friendlies."

"Do I have time?"

"No."

"Light up the target anyway."

After several horrible seconds and twice as many doom scenarios rattling through his head, Icejack heard, "Willco, out."

The smaller prey hit the ground milliseconds before a shotgun was fired. Because, of course, life couldn't cooperate. Nahele screeched like a dozen steel nails ripping into chalkboards and launched itself into the air.

Derecha wasn't certain what the half-owl half-murderhobo thing that slammed into her was. That didn't mean the woman down on the ground was on their side. Either way, she was one hundred percent certain she didn't want its beak and claws digging into her!

Hootie the Homiecidal Raptor circled back way too fast for something flying through the punishing turbulence pounding her. Why didn't BMA cover this?

Think! How would Crash have described it? Some Avengers movie stunt where they always somehow stop midair? Derecha let go of the air mass her telekinesis had been holding. A half-spin had her falling in reverse into a frozen chunk of night seized, held, and compressed into a solid thing like the fear holding her heart.

She stopped.

Was that all there was to it?

Hell, yeah!

She remembered a discussion from last year's Flight class, about how trailed vortices form in aircraft wakes. Just what the doctor ordered. No borrowed arena space this time. And, this time, it wasn't going to be Mama Aldo's girl eating pavement on broken wings.

The storm swallowed the sounds of gunfire.

It was all still cleaner up here. Tiring, but cleaner.

Rhinewold's voice on the radio, clipped accent and all, was a welcome relief.

"All search and rescue units, this is Playground One. Muster at the Spring Hut for debrief. Anyone going off-site to stand down — coordinate with me before dropping out of sight."

---

Sunday morning, January 22, 2017,
Madison Spring Hut, White Mountain National Forest.

The early morning light woke Camshaft up. A sheet of foam ground sheet had been shielding him from the worst the floor had to offer. Nothing shielded his poor, overworked feet. He reluctantly opened his eyes.

Over by the door, a gray-haired kid slept tangled up in an old blanket. By "slept", he meant the guy was muttering to himself, eyes closed and all. On the other side of the door, the ugliest, rattiest opossums Cam had ever seen peeked in. Were they related somehow? That could explain why he was hiding out in the National Forest.

The couple that Cricket and Shisa had rescued were huddled together. The woman's, Brenda's, ankle was still conspicuously splinted.

That had to be hurting more than Cam's feet.

Speaking of Shisa, she nudged a couple of packages of arctic rations into his side.

"Need help."

"Let's set up in the kitchen. No use freaking the mundanes."

She pointed to another part of the dining room. Icejack was totally unconscious, wedged between two much bigger men. The big guy with tattoos had his arm around Icejack. Pack a hundred or so pounds of muscle onto the guy – and a lot of ink – there might be a family resemblance. Aside from all that, the rest of the teams looked almost normal.

Family confirmed the resemblance when Butch and Elom Raiford announced in no uncertain terms who was going home before returning to school. Permelia Hyde added that the new kid, Rudolph "Call me Red" Greene, was going straight to campus. Otherwise, she was coming looking for him and his little furry friends.

They stunk worse than the body bag full of dead owl-woman-thing.

They ended up with two body bags of dead stikini to drop off at Arkham Research Consortium's closest facilities. Cricket had volunteered himself and Cam to suit up in Tyvek suits taped to nitrile gloves and boot covers. Mrs. Hyde went out to find the stikini's vomited-up guts while the two rescued hikers were bundled off to the nearest road to Berlin's hospital.

Cam decided to swear off sausages until his future nightmares settled down.

---

Sunday midday,
Raiford House, Arkham.

Peter's father had barely pulled into the drive when Aunt Permelia announced, "Young men! You are all to thoroughly scrub the dirt and grime off before even thinking of coming down for food. You hear me? I'll not have the kitchen and dining room reeking like... I don't know where that poor child could have been raised, but I'm sure he was left to his own devices way too much."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Like any of them didn't know better than to sit down without washing their hands. After having to scrape up the owl monster woman thing, Peter hoped and prayed the meal had no resemblance to pizza.

Peter asked, "Do we even have brain bleach?"

Or, anything resembling roadkill. That could bounce.

"One part bleach, nine parts water. Out back. Don't get it on your good clothes! Your mother will be pissed."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Don't thank me yet. We've still got to pull together a report for Security that doesn't make them afraid to patrol the woods."

"Er... Doesn't Whateley Security work with the Medawihla?"

Butch Raiford waved his hand in a vague yes-and-no gesture.

"Depends on whose rice bowl is getting kicked over. Keeping the graveyard shift security holes synchronized between Third Platoon and Were egos is best left to experts."

---

Thursday afternoon, January 26, 2017,
Briefing Room 1, Arena 91.

Mr. Shane arrived first for a change, which left him waiting for everyone on Team 6502 to file in. Satisfied, he began the scenario debriefing with all the candor the students had learned to expect.

"I hope that you all enjoyed your hiking trip this past weekend. Security forwarded your reports. The format doesn't match what we expect in this course, but I can let it slide this time. Let's start with our future con. Icejack. Your report contains significant amounts of outside assistance. This training we're affording you here is meant to teach you to stand on your own two feet. Asking others to do that job for you doesn't build anything resembling success."

"May I ask which parts of my report contain outside material?"

"You know which sections I'm talking about."

"Mr. Shane, I'm not a telepath. So, I'll have to ask again for the record."

"How about the material that supposedly discusses what the other search parties did? Or, and this might be a wild stretch, the sections that you claim to have obtained by interviewing the lost hiker?"

Peter counted to ten and then back down to one, in hexadecimal.

"Mr. Shane, are you telling me that the Raifords were not on that mountain?"

"I'm telling you that building a fantastical account from details you weren't even present to observe is unacceptable. As to Mrs. Edwards, I've heard better lies from grade school students."

"Mr. Shane, we are talking about three of my relatives. Locals, even. You could fact-check my report by calling them. Or should I ask them to contact the Headmaster regarding academic honesty? As to, um, Possummancer, I believe he's in Twain Cottage."

"Hm. Camshaft! I would have expected something more – I don't know – helpful for transportation?"

"Uh. Well, Sir. We were told that the National Forest doesn't allow off-road vehicles on the trails."

"That's what we in the Combat Simulators call an opportunity for improvisation."

"I did get pictures! You should check them out. The boulders on those trails would totally wreck the undercarriage of a Humvee!"

"That's a challenge, not an obstacle. Let's move on."

---

Officer Takenaka happened to be passing by when the meeting let out. Peter suspected inside information had more to do with that than coincidence. But he appreciated her commitment to the bit.

"Ladies, gentlemen, Icejack. Today must be my lucky day!"

Katrina winced, "Is it? To hear our instructor, lucky would mean you've never met any of us."

"Mostly lucky then. I'm old enough to take what I can get or dish out what I can give without leaving blood behind. For instance, I have pre-filled passes for each of you to take a time out for some constructive head-shrinking."

"That bad?"

"Eh. No. Maybe. See, among others, Security's in the 'shit hitting a turbocharged fan' business. That includes dealing with unexpected deaths. Keep your heads straight, and you might find yourself going off-campus more often than the usual chucklefucks in neon tights."

Peter grumbled, "Not sure if that's a promise or a threat."

"Seriously? Can't it be both? And here I thought you were going pro someday."

"Not before graduation."

"I'm looking forward to finding whether that's a promise or a threat. Don't let us down, folks."

Yuki's eyes widened, betraying bad news transmitted over Security channels.

"Roger that, Dispatch. Sending Icejack now."

"Sending me where, exactly?" Peter asked.

"Doyle Medical. There's been an accident at Twain. They're going to 'port Benjie straight to the ER. You'll want to be there i— when he wakes up. Tell him I'll wait till I'm off-duty to slap him like the bitch he's being."

Later, Peter never could remember how he got to Doyle, just that he did. That would have to be enough.

---

Friday morning, January 27, 2017,
Bad Seeds Table, Crystal Hall Cafeteria.

Judging by the look on Gideon's face, Peter guessed he looked as gutted as he felt. Although, to be honest, Gideon's body language skills needed to hire a better translation team.

"How's your friend doing?"

"Benjamin? Still at Doyle, though he's mostly out of immediate danger."

Peter's PDA buzzed with an incoming text.

"The betting pool's running 4 to 3 on restraints. Handcuffs are a complete waste of time. C."

He pinched the bridge of his nose to forestall the headache.

"According to the smoke signals, he's awake and complaining. As long as I've known the guy, he doesn't cope well with nothing to do."

Gideon nodded to something unspoken.

"I plan to remember you said that the next time you start climbing the clinic walls."

Peter was still glaring back at his roommate as Raccoon and Tek Witch sat down. Tek Witch – better known as Twitch – looked from one to the other, reading Gideon's wry expression and Peter's hunched shoulders.

"Someone get hurt?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Doyle Medical's good, but he's probably working on making his injuries worse."

"Oh."

...

"Have you tried duct tape? Karma's got a good line on a supplier."

"Please tell me Belfry's not her supplier."

Twitch brightened.

"Okay. I won't!"

---

Thursday evening, February 2, 2017,
Team 6502 table, Crystal Hall.

Team 6502 didn't have a reserved table in the cafeteria. They made a habit of sitting at one set out of the way enough to not cause much in the way of conflicts. For some reason, that now qualified the school's most recently minted Thornie for the table. It's not that Peter minded having Benjamin present. Far from it! But he still felt streams crossing in the Force.

Benjamin asked, "Avoiding your assigned combat training?"

Benjamin only sounded like he didn't care one way or another. The razor-sharp knife in his right hand gave his real focus away. The raked ball cap on his head concealed a ventricular drain that, hopefully, could be removed by Saturday. That should be what he was concerned with.

"The extra 'voluntary' training that none of us signed up for? Yeah. I wish. Cricket managed to book a briefing room in Laird Hall to review our so-called official run before Mr. Shane makes up more of his own interpretations. 'Final answer,' as they say on TV."

"I think I'd like to see that too."

"We're supposed to be doing our own work."

"Which, in the real world, includes jobbing out tasks to your own forensics, consultants, and legal team before handing in your own report," Benjamin said, shrugging like it was something he quietly managed on the regular.

Come to think of it, he did.

"I've met the crew already. They've met me. So, you going to deal me in, or what?"

"I'd have to forward you the after-action reports, debriefs, that stuff."

Benjamin frowned, then speared a French fry from where it was swimming in ketchup.

"Do I look like someone who wouldn't already have copies?"

"Those materials are supposed to be confidential."

"Hawthorne Cottage could really use a better student library. That's all I'm saying."

---

Monday afternoon, February 6, 2017,
Doyle Medical Center.

Peter looked down at his "Get out of Class Free" slip. It hadn't changed wording since Yuki had handed it to him a week and a half ago. He could imagine that it weighed more, somehow. Benjamin could have been using some sleight-of-hand trick when he pointed a half-eaten spring roll at him while announcing that there was an open counseling spot in the mental health clinic.

Colombine followed up with an email notice of the finalized appointment. How the Hell was that kind of ganging up on him fair?

Peter began questioning his life choices more seriously when Dr. Delacroix invited him into her office. She was ordinary in the way only a woman 'of a certain age' could be: average height, average weight, average build, light brown or dark blonde hair. Even her clothing and jewelry left no details worth noting. Yet, by the time he sat down in the chair across from her desk, he knew that she could describe him in enough detail for a blind man to pick him out of a crowd.

"So you're the Talking Cricket."

Say what?

"Don't kids grow up with Pinocchio anymore?" Dr. Delacroix asked, clicking her pen against a tooth.

"I'm not sure what to say to that."

"What part of that bothers you?"

"Because Benjamin's not a fricking puppet! You know what? I'm not sure I like being compared to some busybody cricket either."

"Crickets do get out more."

"I already know I don't have flashy powers or famous parents or movie star good looks. That doesn't mean I don't have anything to offer, just more than what you see. So does Benjamin, for that matter."

"So, what you're telling me is that you feel comfortable in your own skin?"

"I— I mean, I'm working on it. Having toes is an improvement. Except for worrying about athlete's foot. What's your angle here?"

"I'm wondering which of you two thinks he's dating out of his league."

"Duh? I am."

Dr. Delacroix sighed as she caught up on her note-taking.

Was she taking a break, stalling, or waiting?

"Are you taking Benjamin's side? Sure, he can be infuriating, but he's good at looking after his team. Good at keeping his cool when things go sideways, too."

"Keeping his cool, not looking cool?"

Peter reddened, from his shirt collar to the top of his scalp.

"I didn't say that! In fact, he's, no, I'm not finishing that sentence."

"Oh?"

Peter crossed his arms.

"I'm an adaptive shifter. Benjamin's probably been affected by my pheromones — which is me being... never mind. It's a matter of time before he figures it out."

"About two years ago, but I didn't tell you that."

"He's never said a thing about it."

Dr. Delacroix set her notes down.

"Peter, how often do you discuss your feelings or nontechnical opinions with Benjamin or anyone else?"

"Why should I? Feelings might be 'valid', but there's only so much you can do about them. Being sad doesn't make homework go away."

Why is she acting like she has a headache? I'm the kid here!

"Let's touch on that, shall we? Do Benjamin's feelings matter? To you as a person, not at work on a field assignment or in a food fight."

Oof. That was a good question. Too little difference between those categories.

"That's one guy who very much needs to be taught that..."

That son of a bitch.

"Fine. HOW does he not know that his injuries affect other people who actually give a damn? I should book a meeting with his supervisor. Supervisors."

"Injuries. What about his happiness?"

Peter thought back to playing first-person shooters on lazy summer afternoons, before Whateley. He suspected that Benjamin threw some of the games. Don't bodyguards do stuff to keep their principals on track? Everyone else was so cut-throat that he could excuse the possible insult. Besides, it felt good to have a friend (for whatever reason) sitting beside him, smelling of spices from lunch, and roses and woods in his cologne. Celebrating small victories like trying out an obscure tactic against the computer or Max. But then there were times he'd catch Benjamin staring through him like he was searching for the clues that would prove the good times weren't.

"Peter?"

"He only acts happy around... God, I could probably name every one of them. That's including Colombine. Even then, I don't even know if he knows whether he's happy or if he's acting like he should if he were."

"I asked about his happiness, not your frustrations."

"You asked about whether it matters."

"So I did. And?"

"How I feel about how he feels."

"Under the general categories of 'feelings' intersecting yours and theirs."

Hadn't Max said that, after the accident, Benjamin had been way too touchy whenever Peter wasn't around? What if that wasn't him beating himself – again, for no good reason – about his professional rep?

Had he been afraid?

I really, really missed everything going on. Some friend I am. And he cared anyway.

"Excuse me," Peter rasped out. He pulled out a handkerchief and faked blowing his nose. "I think that his happiness matters more than the rest of us think about it.

"And yours?"

"Is it too much to wish for more of what you don't think you have when you don't know what you want more of?"

"It's just human."

---

The thing about dealing with teens who were too intelligent for anyone's mental well-being was to keep a supply of emotional curveballs on hand. So, as Peter's description of the search and rescue event wound down, and Dr. Delacroix's list of things omitted from her employment briefing expanded, the doctor prompted, "Tell me about the first time Benjamin ran away with you."

"It sounds bad when you put it that way," Peter objected. "I'd recently manifested and, well, I needed to get away from the house. It's not that strange."

"You ran away from home, using the Capitol's tourist foot traffic to disguise your status and intent. The next position information anyone had on you was a Syndicate safe house that... Our Mr. Keeling has a misfortunate pattern of behavior when arranging accommodations. What happened in between those situations is unknown."

"He took me to the International Spy Museum, then Max got us pizza."

"That sounds more like a first date than anything either of you has described."

"He kept the change from a twenty-dollar bill he stole from my wallet!"

"And that definitely sounds like Benjamin. What about the second time?"

"He grabbed me off the street, dressed me up as a policeman, and then introduced me to his parents."

"In that order?"

"Doctor, do I look like the sort of person who'd make that up as a romantic fantasy?"

"This session is more about establishing common ground, not about any preexisting theories I might have."

"I'm not sure I believe that. Not entirely."

"Then consider it a learning opportunity."

---

Thursday afternoon, February 9, 2017,
Team 6502 meeting, Laird Hall.

Benjamin brought an old cardboard box to the meeting like he was playing "Show and Tell". In fact, someone had labeled the box exactly that with a Sharpie marker. Actually, it was labeled "witnesses" because they can't testify about whatever you don't show them. Max had clearly "helped" with the humor.

Peter wondered, for the twelfth time in the past week, what had driven him to say yes to Benjamin's request. That both Derecha and Cam had agreed immediately after they stopped laughing left him more worried.

Benjamin dragged his box to the front of the room, saying, "I've called around a few places, so what I've got here are some potential problem-solvers for the team. Now, sure, some of the gear is expensive, because of course it is. If possible, it would be nice to get as much back in working condition, minus usual operating wear and tear."

"Does that mean these are all loaners?" Becky "Archeopterix" Green asked. Even if her EMT course kept her out of the team training picture, it was great that she was paying attention.

Peter smiled faintly and said, "Even the Bad Seeds don't keep loaners for reuse. The good gear turns obsolete too fast. Usually, our parents say they want the stuff back for a return credit or an upgrade. But, really, it's to keep proprietary designs out of the others' grubby little hands. It so doesn't help that seniors have sick ideas about what constitutes pranking the probies."

"That's more cynical than I expected."

"There's always recycle bin diving!" Cam suggested.

Peter's smile faded to a frown that matched Cricket's.

"Benjamin. No."

"Benjamin, oh yes."

Derecha coughed.

"Boys, play nice. Cam, Crash, what are you two twidgets not sharing with the class?"

Cam said, "Pfft. The Workshop always has broken or failed projects, leftovers, scraps, all sorts of stuff coming out of the labs and classrooms. Some of it's... recyclable. You can stretch your project allowance and pick up some design tips by going through the discards." His expression suggested the refuse tips were his first choice for supplies.

Cricket added that "That's one of the reasons that gadgeteers' and devisors' roommates are asked to look for missing fingers and match blood stains to known injuries."

Benjamin brightened, "Nah. That's Max being Max."

"Did the Powers Testing staff even check you for a gadgeteering trait?" Peter asked. "Because I know Max couldn't have gotten all his ideas from the internet."

"I might have pocketed a few spare parts no one's ever going to miss."

Derecha asked, "And you, for some unknown reason, believe you got away with that?"

"Enough to discourage that line of inquiry, balanced against pending complaints. Anyway, this stuff," Benjamin patted the box he'd brought in, "is reputably sourced. Let me explain:

"Everything I've obtained is meant to be used. If it comes back new and unopened, I need to know why you didn't feel safe using it. Shiny broken pieces? Tell me what the Hell happened and leave no details unspoken. Best case is coming back beat to shit and still ticking.

"And, therefore, I've got NDAs to hand out. You'll notice that they're to be signed, initialed, yadda yadda, by code name. No one should be coming back on you over honest opinions."

Cricket spoke up to say, "Just show me where to sign so we can work it all out later."

"No."

"No?"

When was the last time Benjamin answered with a flat 'no'? He might not be the king of deniability, but, nonetheless...

"Fields, these are legally binding agreements. The most offensive play you can make is to sign them like you or your cousin can ignore the fine print today, then pay Judge Judy to vacate the contract tomorrow. Look them over, realize that you don't know half of what's being agreed to, and then get a real lawyer's opinion. I believe Ms. Dawson's retainer from the school is good for this. If not, she or someone from Legal can refer you. Peter, ask your parents."

"If we can't trust you not to screw us over, why should we trust the paper?"

"Because I could be Holy Mother Saint Mary Theresa of God, but I'm not a corporate lawyer. Far from it. Say your prayers and get it all in writing. I'll sign as one of your witnesses if needed."

"Well then," Derecha asked, "Mr. God's Baby Momma, what do you have for us?"

Benjamin reached in and pulled out a box of 40mm minigrenades.

"The payload in these little puppies is based on Knock-Out #3, a broad-dispersal contact hypnagogic. Forty millimeter form factor. Compatible with those of us who prefer M203 launchers when working crowd control. I've got a box of Number Seven available and locked up at Range 4 because none of us is stupid. I could probably commission 20mm rounds for linear pistols, but I'm told Cherry Bomb's reliable for specialty rounds that devisor suppliers won't ship."

"We are never introducing you to Cherry Bomb." Derecha sobered. "Too bad that longarms aren't built for use by flyers."

"I've heard the same about archery from horseback. If the Team were on one of the combat-focused tracks – I can't see that as viable by the way – I'd point out that Archeo—"

"Call me Becky," Archeopterix said. "If we're not on-camera, Trina and I prefer folks call us by name."

"Got it. That said, you and Derecha, maybe Cricket too, could be freaking perfect snipers. Combining your mobility with a well-kept .50 caliber Barrett? Brutality. Then you throw Ent— Trina's surveillance and dual C&C operators into the mix."

"Could we not?"

"I'd rather not see any of you going into wetwork. However, based on what I've seen of what you'll be facing in next year's Combat Finals, I'm recommending that you book time to practice your worst-case tactics."

Cricket said, "I'll see what I can book next term. Not all the guys in the JROTC unit get to run with The Grunts. We might have to add weapons classes."

"It's always good to know how to recognize risks when you see them," Benjamin agreed. "Where was I? Right. Derecha, asking you to pack a grenade launcher while using air turbulence is a crap idea." He spoke into his Personal Assistant mic.

"Colombine, please send Derecha the good video clips on using a sling."

"Crash modeled a sling half of last year already."

Peter felt his face get warm. Benjamin and everyone knew all about it, but there was no need to remind him.

Trina said, "Copy the rest of us on that, if you would."

Soon, multiple supersonic cracks played through various devices. Those were followed by half a dozen impressed teens.

"Lead bullets are nice, but UV dye, tritium, or nanite-tagged minigrenades that only need to be 'close enough' to identify looters are well worth the price to law enforcement."

"Rex's an exemplar. That could turn nasty," said Cam.

Benjamin thought for a moment.

"So's Max. He's got some interesting designs for use with one-pound and larger propane tanks. He's also pretending to have misplaced the plans he used for arrow-mounted RPG rounds. Cam. You want them, or should I send to both of you?"

"Both."

"Cool."

Benjamin dug out a modified light plate carrier and tossed it to Peter. To the rest of the team, he passed out forms.

"This is designed and field-tested for carrying ceramic or steel armor plates, with enough soft points for ammo, comms, holdouts, data displays, power packs, etc. For everyone but Icejack, I need size information. That includes Becky," who looked confused.

"We know your size and shape vary, but every shifter has favorites. For simpler forms, see if we've got room to adjust straps. If that's not consistent, book some time with Miss Rogers in Dunwich. Tell her to bill my account for the fittings and write-up.

He passed out six other boxes that had been liberally spray-painted to hide stock markings.

"PFGs. No Excuses. Most folks wear them at waist level. The stupid ones wear them in front of their groin plate. If you hit the dirt, you wear out the power supply trying to repel Mother Earth while leaving your back and head exposed.

Benjamin looked around the table, looking each team member in the eye.

"Please don't do that. Since I, like everyone else, pack heavy stuff low, my PFG is placed on top. That puts most force around my shoulders, neck, and head. I'm told it's helpful to keep those parts attached.

"Yeah, I can hear the complaining now: 'But what if we're just headed to the grocery on the way back of nowhere?' Wear a PFG because scraping your remains off pavement takes forever and gives EMTs PTSD. Ever wonder why so much red paint gets splashed on highways? That's not paint. If I have to nag Possummancer or Trina into bringing you back to chew you out— okay, that could get interesting."

No one in the conference room missed Benjamin directing that last part at Peter. Considering last year's combat finals, he had a point.

The real question was why Peter was glowering right back at him and tapping his fingers slowly, deliberately, and in both directions. If looks could kill, someone would be hosting a double funeral. Boys.

"... if you don't have a trenching tool, get one. Your tentmate will thank you. Your foxhole will have more depth than some of the bricks running around here. Not to mention that foxholes are great places to hunker down when swapping out PFG power supplies. Get the picture?"

Cricket had one, all right.

"Benjamin? Where did you get the field experience and training you're hinting at? I could ask around some more, but I'd rather hear from you."

Nods all around.

Peter felt a March Hare-sized hole open below his stomach. He should have thought about getting with everyone to get all the stories straight.

"That's because I've been skipping recess, working for folks who worried more about my reputation for results than about my paperwork. Working for Peter's family as a bodyguard has been... an interesting work experience. Since then, my position as a Special Constable in the British Overseas Territory of Kapalangpur is public record, but I am on an extended leave of absence while pursuing my education here."

Now that was a heavily redacted view of reality.

"So, don't poke the hornet's nest?"

"Not unless you're asking about a murder case in Boston. In that case, I'm waiting for my next formal deposition appointment."

---

---

Sunday breakfast, February 12, 2017,
Crystal Hall Cafeteria.

Another weekend morning, another "rescue" from the school IT labs. You'd think a certain someone would let one project weekend go without requiring a wellness check. It's not like skipping a meal or two ever really harmed anyone. Peter still owed Max payback for showing Benjamin a certain page from the Powers Theory textbook that hinted otherwise.

Benjamin looked up from dissecting his own breakfast to ask, "How'd the tuxedo turn out?"

"It fits. Why? It'd be strange if it didn't."

If Peter ate like Benjamin or Max, the suit wouldn't fit very long. Max had the excuse of being an exemplar who wouldn't lose or gain weight. His roommate, Gideon, was a high-end telekinetic who could burn calories with his mind.

Then here was Benjamin, who wouldn't sit still long enough to gain weight.

"I hope everything's set for Friday. Because, if there's time, I'd like to check out the tunnel system."

Peter put down his fork loaded with scrambled eggs.

"The tunnel system? The one beneath this school, which no one's successfully mapped?"

"The one that sits way above N'kai, yes."

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. He might not be fully in the know, but he'd heard things. He hissed, "Where the Hells – and I mean that literally – did you hear that name?"

"When I got sent down to clean the sub-basement heads in Hawthorne. I don't remember everything said, cause I was on the good drugs for my knee injury. Some things kind of stick with you."

Colombine added over Peter's earpiece, "The same bathrooms he's now banned from, even though he behaved himself. Mostly. For some values of 'behaved'. There have been... concerns expressed afterward."

"Anyhoo, nothing about the tunnels is natural. And that means that there's no certainty that they don't include outside access points."

"You want to know if there are any backdoor ways in or out, aside from the bootleg teleport devises."

"Yep."

"You want to map the unmappable, ever-changing tunnel system."

"With inertial navigation and help!"

"When?"

"This morning? We'll need to pack the usual field gear and then stop along the way for you to actually log out instead of locking your screen long enough to circle back around."

"Have you asked Colombine about this?"

"She said she'd brick all my gear except for the neural inducer (hint, hint) if I 'wandered off alone'."

"Tell her thank you for me."

"Max said the same thing. It's clearly a conspiracy."

---

One thing it clearly wasn't going to be was a date. Benjamin showed up at Peter's IT lab in clean field gear and scuffed boots. In the muted tunnel lighting, the modified uniform reflected light in a way that spoke of expensive synthetics. Peter himself had opted for a sturdy pack and a nondescript jumpsuit made from similar material to Workshop lab coats.

"Logged out yet?"

"Hello to you too, nice to know you're packed and ready to go."

"That wasn't an answer."

"I just walked out of the lab. What did you think I was doing?"

Benjamin's mouth twitched, but he managed to say, "I have a vivid and varied portfolio of ideas," with a straight face.

Is he flirting? Or being Benjamin?

"Some day I'm going to hold you to that: with duct tape."

"Sounds like a plan. Have you updated your mapping app?"

"Sunday's the day I usually load the Workshop updates. I've also got some of the available commercial listings."

"None of which includes the Melville underground neighborhoods that I simply don't have the social capital to risk?" Benjamin drawled in a vaguely posh accent.

"Aim for more Hamptons or Cape Cod, less Oxford."

Benjamin smiled and said, "As you wish."

"Speaking of wishes, do you have a starting point and direction in mind? I don't expect there to be unmapped exits from basement levels 1 or 2."

"I heard that basement level 4 is where it starts to get spicy. Sprawling, like a cave, I guess? Over a longer distance, it's easy to lose track of how close to the surface you really are."

Peter shook his head.

"I think we're going to regret not downloading the Mysty Arts maps. They work with Maintenance to keep track of the Class X sites."

"What's Class X? Sixties rock?"

"Things that go bump in the night that don't belong in our world."

"So... That would be all of Max's song collection."

---

At some point, probably the point they'd reached, there should be a stairwell down to one of the stable level 4 tunnels. For certain working definitions of 'stable' at a place like Whateley, Peter reminded himself.

"How do we want to track cases in which more than one passage overlaps in space but not in route? Some tunnels run through the same place without intersecting. Others are one-way, no matter which direction you go."

"Like an electronic valve?" Benjamin asked. "One track triggers which of the others is true? Or the trigger could be a toggle switch or a lead tapping a timing signal?"

"When did you take electronics?"

"I haven't yet. But I have buggered a security system or two."

"Please don't put it like that."

Colombine piped up via speaker, "That's another thing he's going to pay for someday. I have a running list."

Peter asked, "Anything on the list I need to know about today?"

"I hope not. However, HIVE has forwarded a list of known and suspected hazards. Some have proven challenging for faculty and staff."

"How many died?"

"Chief Everheart says your guess is as good as anyone else's."

"What?"

"She also wishes to remind you two to not make her come down here and drag your sorry asses back to Security."

Benjamin shrugged, "It shouldn't matter too much as long as they never ID who or what they scraped off the floor and walls."

Peter bit his lower lip, trying to stay quiet. The stikini incident was still playing the unwanted guest in his nightmares.

He's going to pay for that one.

"Going down, Mister Raiford?"

If they end up in "Hoe furnishings and Ladies' Lingerie", make it two and counting.

Four flights of stairs later, no hoes in sight. Somehow, that was less comforting than Peter would have very privately thought. Maybe it was the way the tunnel was so clearly hewn from the rock with intent? The sparse lighting had been set into the walls, not run through patched-together electrical conduit, tacked to the walls as a second thought.

Benjamin spoke first.

"Nice digs, hunh?"

"Different."

"Like how the ceiling's more than eight units up to the five units over?"

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Western art favors those proportions. Some Asian roof designs put the eight on the hypotenuse."

"Overdosing on your algebra homework?"

"I'm doing my work-study with the art teacher. I hear things now and then." Benjamin asked, "Any preferences for direction?"

He also had three pennies out, tossing them from hand to hand like rolling dice.

"Nope."

"Then right it is!"

---

Farther down the passage, the ceiling vaulted higher and darker. What had started out as impressions of support ribs became bunched pillars of green-mottled basalt. Here in the White Mountains, made of white granite, black and green weren't part of the palette, not in the real world.

It would really suck, wouldn't it, if those upper vaults intersected one of the higher levels? Just one small step through an unmarked door and then *splat*. What would it be like if you had enough time to understand what went wrong?

Benjamin called back.

"You're being quiet."

"Nothing to say. I haven't been through here before."

"Sure."

Peter caught up.

"Fine. If I hadn't said anything, what would you be doing Tuesday?"

"That's easy. Nothing. Homework. Stuff."

"And that's different, how?"

"Well, I wouldn't have to feel bad about not being able to go in to Dunwich or not having reservations for one of the nicer space rentals. I'd still have to check up on you, make sure you're not running a marathon coding session. Again."

"Why shouldn't I try to get ahead?"

"On a date night? As Max would say: no bueno."

What do you even say to that?

Safest to say nothing?

---

Benjamin was halfway between his depressingly standard to-go sandwich and an apple. The passageway they'd been following had come to a fork, which seemed as good a place for eating lunch as any. He knew he'd screwed up somewhere along the line, because that's all they were doing: eating lunch. What if that was all Peter really wanted? Humor Benjamin a bit, do something in common, break it all off easy later? Or not. There ought to be a user's manual for this stuff. Say something!

"Your eyes. Er, I mean, do you have your contacts in?"

I. Are. An idiot!

"You could've asked before I touched a sandwich loaded with hot peppers. Thanks for asking, yes."

"Wait! That's my sandwich! Trade?"

Peter sighed but said, "Sure. My tongue's already burning."

"Better swap the jalapeno chips, too, while you can."

"Those, I've learned to like. Get your own."

"It's too far to walk back now... Are you getting the same messages I am?"

"Unusual subsonics, unauthorized excavation, Workshoppers blamed, watch out for—"

Two hooves planted themselves firmly in Benjamin's side. Too close to call, whether he was punted to the side before or after the rocks started falling.

Benjamin held his breath for a gut-wrenching, eternal moment. He listened for any sound that wasn't dust bouncing off the rockfall that had cut him off from retreat. He'd cleared his goggles and made it through two prayers in Arabic before he heard a voice.

Peter's voice.

He was safe! Yes!

"Good God. Some things don't ever change, do they? The first time I've seen your face in years, and you're scrambling to get away. Where do you think you're off to now? Provincetown? Another 'working vacation' with a client? Some guaranteed growth investment pitch? You know what? Don't bother to answer. It'll just be another stubbed-out cigarette in your pack of lies."

Peter was on this side of the cave-in?

How?

Did he hit his head? He looked mostly the same, more filled out, perhaps. More frown lines. Hair dye? Maybe. Wearing too much black with a rumpled shirt that used to be white. Why the fast clothes change? A cane? That was new.

Peter's dark eyes caught the target of Benjamin's gaze.

"Like what you see? I paid enough for it."

He took an unsteady, pained step forward.

"I had the joint replaced with solid ebidium when the doctors finally admitted they couldn't regrow a drilled-through and hexed kneecap. That's right! I forgot. You were already long gone when the doorbell rang. No time to spare for a cripple holding you back."

The Hell?

"And don't give me that look, Matthew. You knew your dealers' thugs were coming over to shake me down that day when you disabled the security system on your way out of town. Such a convenient accident."

---

Peter had his field kit out, working to raise any comms, even pirate wi-fi, if he could. A pile of rocks could be shifted, with enough time. Even with a school full of superpowers, it would go faster with equipment and backup. On the other hand, there could be casualties stuck in the main tunnels that need more help sooner.

"Peter, Peter, Peter. Really? Still playing with your toys instead of facing your shit head-on?"

The speaker stood, one hand on a hip, the other stroking a close-cropped beard lining his jaw. He dressed like a fashion plate: gelled sandy hair, a blue Oxford shirt, and a loose rep tie, and finished with khaki chinos and brown deck shoes. If Benjamin were taller, older, and blue-eyed, he could pull off this guy's look.

The sharp and shiny edge of his voice carried more malice than sneer.

Whoever this was, Peter knew in his bones he didn't want to hear more.

"I do like seeing you back to rocking the schoolboy look. If you'd done that more for Daddy Hal when he asked you to, you might have stayed useful. Entertaining, even. Muties usually are. But here you are, already on your knees. Just like old times."

Peter missed the sudden motion.

Matthew's kick didn't miss.

---

"Dealers? I don't have any dealers! Who came up with that bullshit?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask the human trash you work with?"

He's older, too much older, like a tweaker who's snorted too much meth and swallowed too little food.

Benjamin stood up slowly. If someone's slipped Peter some uppers, he's going to be paranoid. Just his luck, facing a shifter with jacked reflexes.

"Look. You know me."

"I thought I did! What did it get me? Nothing. Less than nothing!" Peter closed in. "You got me hooked on that shit! You're the one who laughed when I was kicked out of school. You're the one whose so-called help getting me back on my feet only landed me on my back!"

Now is not the time to joke about where his heels were.

"Cee? Page Icejack?"

"Who's Cee? Your latest 'starring talent'?"

How the Hell does he not know Colombine?

"More of a work partner. Keeps me honest."

"Honest? You?"

Benjamin ducked under the first haymaker and blocked the left fist with his forearm. Backing up kept a badly telegraphed roundhouse kick away from his teeth. What Peter missed in technique, he was making up for it with intent to maim.

A manifested side-handle police baton took the brunt of the next kick. If he didn't figure out a fast way to stop Peter without hurting him? Being kicked to death wasn't in the top ten ways he wanted to die.

---

"What the Hell, Benjamin?"

"Who's Benjamin? Found a new gravy chain to hook your candy-snorting ass to?"

"Matthew?"

"Duh! This Benjie guy already screwed whatever brains you had left? Serves me right for letting you think you're a free agent. Nah, Pete, we're going to have to fix that."

"Peter. My name is Peter."

"The only Peter around here is between your legs, and I own that."

Peter rolled out of the follow-up kick into an upright stance. He hoped Benjamin wasn't in a similar trap. He'd better not be!

"We'll see about that."

"Shall we now?" Matthew dug into a pocket for a baggie of white powder. "Look what I got! Bet you'd turn any trick in your book, anything for this, won't you? All you have to do is ask nicely."

---

Psycho Peter may be sloppy, but feeling no pain is a one-way deal.

"Cee. Could use some intel here!"

"Security and maintenance are busy. Let me check your visual fee— That's not. Heads up!"

Even a semi-starving Peter packed a punch in a bull rush. Thank heaven that God created helmets! The guy must really like his snacks hawt. Benjamin couldn't help but snicker at the bad pun.

"Do you find what you've done to me funny? I'll wipe that smile on your face off on the pavement!"

What pavement? Delusional much?

What happens to Peter as a result of my getting too close to his life? I didn't do this, but could I? As far as drugs went...

"Do you know why the First Step is admitting that you have the problem? Because no matter who gave you your first taste, you're the motherfucker who keeps going back for seconds."

Peter shouted, "It's not my fault!" before shakily pulling out a handgun.

That must be his ace in the hole. Which means he's forgotten anything he learned at Whateley.

Everyone's a civvie until they pull heat.

Jackass.

Benjamin rushed the target low and close to their bad leg, forcing a pivot on the damaged knee. One bullet ricocheted off a manifested shield before slamming the shield edge into the back of the target's leg. Too far to touch-manifest something for a distraction. Mini grenades here would be a maxi complication. What else? Come on! Rocks fall, everybody loses. Flash-bangs were awful in terms of risk, and who doesn't wear flash protection? He cut loose with his perception-mangling ability, counted two while he watched for a reaction, then rushed the target with a stunner at the ready.

The howl of pain – from overloaded sensory neurons and crippling amperage – shouldn't have ripped at his hearts. He wasn't hurting enough to leave off the cuffs, though. This only looked like Peter. He hadn't enabled this, whatever this is.

His former masters should have sent a competent body double of Peter after him. The hatred alone, fed by burning emotional wreckage, would have done him in.

"I will promise you one thing."

"Mmphuu."

"Sorry, but I have a real date. You? You're getting sober the hard way."

Note to self: look into LED strobes wired to howler circuits. Low power force-field to negate hot potato/keep-away games? And for self-pitying shits like this: a cloud of glitter spray.

---

"What's in the bag? Your sweetener substitute?"

Lame.

"The sweetest. Eight parts meth ground with one part Colombian rock and one part Afghani first cuts, just like you love it."

Assuming it wasn't enough fentanyl to murder a herd of elephants.

"That's it? You're going to hand it over?"

Which would be the stupidest thing he'd heard all day. No. There's a price.

"Standard rates. I want inside info on a few, shall we say, prospects. A quarter up front, another quarter midway to keep you sharp, and the rest on final delivery." Benjamin smirked like he'd invented blackmail on his own, saying, "I'll also see to it you remain satisfied. You know my services don't come cheaply."

Peter kept a few fantasies stored away in his head. This Matthew could play a stand-in. All he had to do was give up his soul to the pretty young man. He knew, on some primal level, that Benjamin could have looked like this. No scars he refused to explain. No jade orb for an eye. No Max and his uncomfortable interests in plasma implosions.

"Put your stash away. I'm not buying whatever shit you're selling."

"Sure. Play the hero while you can here, you'll always come crawling back to me."

"I never said I wanted to be a hero." Peter pulled out his VP9 and put two 9mm bullets into his tormentor.

He thought he'd feel worse, that this time would be personal. It wasn't. All he'd done was put a sick animal down.

---

Security Offices, Kane Hall.

Security Chief Samantha Everheart didn't need to "clear her mind" or meditate to reach the AIs on campus. However, those methods were quite useful for reducing stress. With her job being as it was, she could use stress reduction.

"Colombine, what can you tell us about our two amateur spelunkers?"

It was probably too much to hope they'd been avoiding trouble.

"Dead reckoning data from Belfry's equipment places them three-quarters of a mile northwest of campus. Alternatively, they could be anywhere within ten miles of campus. The dimensional stability of the lower tunnels is questionable."

"But they aren't flattened to a paste under metric meters of rock, just inconvenienced. Now for the parts you aren't telling me."

"Based on what has been happening, my estimate is that they are located either beneath an active Class X site, or too damned close to it."

Why am I not surprised?

"Can we narrow down their location enough to safely send a warper after them?"

A young woman with flame-red hair, pulled back in a ponytail trailing her in an unseen breeze, bounced into the Chief's office. She limited her armor to cinnabar and gold bracers and greaves in a show of casual confidence that body armor or breastplate was for lesser warriors.

She made Samantha's trigger finger twitch. Worst of all, according to stories and security reports, she was that damned good a fighter.

"Never fear! The Great Sage Equal to Heaven is on the case!"

What on earth had she ever done to deserve this? Surely, she'd paid off the karma from being a Navy sniper by now.

"If you're looking for more students to help, we have two believed to be cut off in another part of the tunnel system. However—"

"There's always a 'however', isn't there? Luckily, I'm good at howevers."

"This is an important one," the chief said. "They're very close to or within the affected area of a Class X site. Based on the limited notes passed down, I should probably assign the recovery to Miss Reilly from the Mystic Arts Department."

"Nikki! Oh, how she and her friends could light up a room once they got out of their own way. They were very appreciative of the work I put into getting them to lighten up."

Sun must not be remembering the same conversations she'd had with the Kimbas of that time.

"So! About this great task? Very dangerous and important, is it? Are the children pining for the sunlight yet?"

Everheart only had the Medical Center's word on the matter, that Icejack wasn't allergic to sunlight. After ten years of interacting with Information Technologies students, she still wasn't sure of the differences between them and cinema vampires. And Belfry? There were rumors that the Goobers were beginning to take an unhealthy interest in him.

"Peter Raiford and Benjamin Keeling were exploring, for the lack of a better word, the tunnel system for unmapped back doors. Crawling around in the roots of a small mountain doesn't mean there's danger."

Colombine added over their link, "Except for the gunshots my microphones picked up."

"However, there could be, depending on who was shooting at what or whom."

"Ah! That Benjamin Keeling. I've been hoping to run across him!"

Oh, crap.

"May I ask why, before your paths cross?"

"He has a, hrm, poetic sense of justice. This day and those that follow from it were meant to happen at some point."

"Whatever he's done, he's still a student here at Whateley."

"Yes! So many things there are to learn, and who better than I, the Great Sage, to teach! We could start with 'restraint'. Please tell his wondrous machine spirit to let it be a surprise."

With a bounce up from the chair she'd commandeered and a flick of her tail, Sun Wukong was gone.

"Colombine, did you catch that last part?"

"I think I shall err on the side of 'I told you so'."

---

Logic suggested that the optimal approach was to check out the undamaged section of the tunnel. That would put Benjamin ever further away from the Peter who might need him. It also involved turning his back to addict–Peter. That dog wasn't about to hunt. Not now, not ever.

"Handcuffs and wire ties. Nice. Am I interrupting something?"

Benjamin spun on his heel, manifesting a staff in position for blocking. What? How did this girl get in here?

"Nothing that a few months in rehab won't fix."

Maybe a decade or ten extra to let her chi settle? There was something about her fiery eyes and golden pupils he was supposed to remember. But today had turned out more stressful than fun — or fair!

The newcomer scrutinized Benjamin more closely than he could her. She was used to her superlative chi, while he could stand to eat more peaches. Everyone could stand to eat more excellent peaches, but this one especially.

"Or the fleas of a thousand mangy camels?"

The slightest suggestion and he guiltily scratched his pen hand. So busted, as the kids would say. Most were too young to realize that getting caught in audacious deeds is how the wise build their own lore. Not the school's lovely art teacher. There's one whose chi shines brightly!

A traffic ticket might balance her currents, do her some good?

"I didn't release those!"

Argh! What am I thinking? He hadn't even been brought in for questioning!

"Good. Once the itching starts, it goes on forever!"

"I just said I didn't!"

Considering her ample cleavage, is this one the Monkey Princess? Should have paid more attention to the tail.

"Excuse me," Not-Peter grumbled, "I think I should be a higher priority than you two trumped up who—"

"Ah ah ah! Let's not use our naughty words!"

"Says the woman wearing more boob window than blouse."

"Said totally excellent boobs are up here."

Benjamin shook his head and spoke to the Important Monkey Person in a practically antique version of Yue dialect:

< More to the point, this person claiming my friend's name and face is lost beyond my ability to fix. He does not have a place in this world. >

< That is why the Tao pointed me here! That and someone being very naughty with my name. >

< I can explain! >

< I await the chance to be amazed. >

< Would you settle for being only somewhat appalled? >

Sun reached out her gold-hooped rod and bopped "Peter" lightly on the head. The apparition disappeared.

"He'd have disappeared eventually. Your paths through the tapestry in this world don't lead to them."

She turned at an unusual sound. Sniffling. Benjamin was sitting on the dusty stone floor, repacking his gear. He was also crying in that silent, broken way that children in fear of the danger or pain coming back learn. Hunching over protected his throat and gut, but not so much the heart. Sun let him keep his hands busy for the minutes needed to regain composure. Only then, did she kneel down.

"Benjamin. Whatever happened here, you didn't cause it. That wasn't Peter. Not yours, not in any way."

If only the child could believe in his own innocence.

"He... I got him hooked on speed and then sat back to watch it destroy him. You say I didn't, but you didn't see his eyes. He believed. It would be easy to do, too."

"Easy? To do to someone you care about?"

"I should end it before I start d-doing l-like what he did."

"You've had many chances, but you didn't. Instead, you sat with Peter in his pain."

Benjamin hugged himself harder.

"I didn't wanna."

"Does anyone?"

No one wants to watch over someone pushing through pain. Bad days in physical therapy could be brutal.

"Please get up. We still have one more pickup. Luckily for you, I was born a stone monkey. Getting through a bitty pile of rocks like this is nothing."

On the other side of the pile of rubble, Peter was still trying to call out, signal or no signal. A few feet away from him was a cooling body. Benjamin got to it before Peter could stop him.

"That's..."

Benjamin pulled up the corpse's left eyelid.

Blue. Not hazel or green or a jade orb. Blue eyes.

"What the Hell?"

"He said he went by Matthew. Nasty piece of work by any name."

Why is there a fucking boot print on Peter's face?

The darkness clouding the edges of his vision threatened to take it all. Benjamin took a couple of steadying breaths, then deflected like a starship.

"Double tap. Good shot."

"I'm so glad you approve."

"Don't be. He deserved to be taken down slow, begging and screaming."

Peter choked back what he wanted to say in front of witnesses.

"Who's your date?"

"Would you believe the Monkey King?"

"Not with those curves."

The Curvy Monkey One winked and said, "It's a difficult job, being me, but I do say I carry it well."

Peter eyed the interloper up one side and down the other.

"Right. Where's the rest of your armor?"

"I'm an Immortal! I don't need armor: it's armor that needs me!"

Security, being Security, needed lots of reports. Some yahoo had posted on the school's internal message boards something about seeing strange symbols in the wreckage. To Security, that meant more questions for the only three persons who'd been in an area where strange symbols belonged. Not belonging in said area took a back seat to the paranoia.

---

Monday afternoon, February 13, 2017,
Twain Cottage, Whateley Academy.

Benjamin shivered at the washroom sink. He'd gotten through his English and Escape classes. But, damn! He washed his hands and stripped off his shirt to better scrub his forearms and face. The tap water still failed him. Wasn't the dorm supposed to be a hundred years old, despite a basement to attic renovation a few years ago. That must be it. That, or a bad batch of soap, or a stiffer brush was needed to do the job.

Didn't anyone else feel the cold in here? Freezing!

"Thanks for clearing the washroom, Shawn. Any luck reaching Max?"

"He's on his way."

Who are they talking about? Sounds bad, whoever it is.

Mr. Filbert was talking to someone, saying, "This is going to hurt a bit, but it's a mild sedative to help you calm down."

Sedative?

Drugs.

"Do you find what you've done to me funny?"

No! Don't! I won't. Please, no!

"Get away! Don't touch me!"

Shawn "Shaggy" Padilla held on to Benjamin with his PK until the thrashing and screaming died down. Then he kept it up until he no longer tasted amperage or saw a kaleidoscope of construction materials.

The kid looked so broken, lying on the wet tiles. The blood where he'd scalded and rubbed his skin raw made the scene ten times worse. They'd have to wrap him up in a beach towel or something to hide the injuries.

---

Another day, another pounding. Why in the name of all the unholy do they have to crank up the lights over the beds?

Benjamin twisted, trying to roll over and get his head under the pillow. Hospital rooms are supposed to have pillows.

Restraints. Mittens. The dirty rats.

"You might as well relax, Benjamin," Nurse Tanuyan said. "I've got to check your vitals and circulation."

"Could you look the other way for a few minutes? This won't take long at all."

A familiar male voice cut in.

"Not a chance in Hell."

Specifically, that was Peter's I'm still allergic to active stupidity voice.

"Not you too?"

"You haven't seen your hands and arms yet. We have. The hospital's ethics board forbids using the Cone of Shame to keep you from scratching through your bandages in your sleep."

Okay. That could suck.

"But!"

Nurse Tanuyan said, "The doctors ordered you hydration packs with purifying herbs. If you're at all attached to keeping your liver and kidneys, you need to get through two overnight. Actually, both of you do, just in case. If that doesn't do the trick, we transfer both of you to ARC for further decontamination. We haven't had to that since Josie Gillman graduated."

Benjamin countered, "I still have classes, you know."

"I'm sure you both remember how the distance learning equipment works."

After the nurse left, Benjamin turned to Peter.

"Does anyone know what actually happened?"

"Working theory? Post-traumatic response to Mythos exposure. Basically, you overworked your last two functioning neurons."

"Closer to the flagged site than we thought?"

"Yep."

"I should have thought about that more ahead of time."

"Benjamin, no. You don't get to blame yourself for this one."

"Why?"

"Because that's the shit that keeps the experts flying blind. Dad says that it hits everyone differently. One day you're coping, the next it's acid eating its way along some small cut that you thought had healed."

"Sounds like you've been going through your fabrication lab notes."

"I've got them in my backpack."

A strike and a miss by a mile.

"So, since we're stuck here anyway..."

Peter bent over the guardrails of Benjamin's hospital bed. Close, but still maddenly far away. The over-bright lighting left his face in shadow.

"No."

"Why?"

Oh, that didn't sound like the needy half of a bad romance ship. At all.

"We're not changing the sheets again. Give the herbs time to work," Peter said. Trailing a finger over the restraint belt across Benjamin's chest with only a feather's touch, ignoring how Benjamin's stopped breathing. He added, "Anything else can wait until you're up for it."

Benjamin was pretty sure he was up for it right now.

If someone would just let him loose.

Back on his own bed, just a couple of feet away, Peter restacked his class notes.

"By the way, Colombine's way better at blackmail than you are."

What Peter wouldn't say was that they knew better than Benjamin how ectoplasmic manifestors emulate healing. The trouble with Theseus Syndrome was that the body delayed replacing the replacements with living tissue. Shut down the manifesting trait, watch the "healing" revert. Replace too much of the body with psychomimetic goo, watch the person fade away anyway as they forget themselves.

Was that any worse than watching them give in to their inner demons?

"I don't hear any pages turning!"

Intrusive demons?

"It's not that kind of handout!"

"... Good to know."

Peter slammed his head back into his own pillow. With friends like this maniac, who needs inner demons?

---

Tuesday breakfast, February 14, 2017,
Crystal Hall Cafeteria.

"I've been thinking: were we fighting our own demons or each other's?" Peter asked, around a piece of French toast. He knew that he should be "processing."

What's there to process about killing corruption personified?

Benjamin stifled an urge to scratch by studying his coffee as if it hid the answer. Not that it wasn't black or corrosive enough to dispose of small answers.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. I'd like to know if I need to walk away for my sanity and your safety."

"I won't go back to what they made me for. Ever. Death would be better than following where that road goes."

"Not my call, but I won't mind seeing that 'Matthew Groenwald' identity burned," Peter agreed. "But, I got the impression that I was the one who'd left, or tried to."

Benjamin was doing that thing: chewing his lower lip, chin out, measuring the other person's relative height and reach before committing to the bit.

"No judging, but Peter, you have absolutely no taste in men."

"I'm taking you to the dance, not Mr. Roofie Colada. Don't you dare complete the rest of that thought."

Sun bounced into the nearest seat to the boys promising an interesting view of the cafeteria.

"Ah sai lóu! You're going over escape routes in your head. Not a sexy look. You do want to look sexy for your leng3 zai2, don't you?"

Even hiding behind his powers, Benjamin's collar-to-crown blush was kind of cute. Peter decided he could get used to it—right after he decided what to do about whatever Sun Wukong had just called him.

"Sun, have you ever met a dragongirl?"

"I've met many dragons, of course. All things in the Tao."

Peter drank from his own coffee cup before asking Benjamin.

"Are you still letting them believe that you're the innocent cinnamon roll here?"

Sun coughed, then gasped for air.

"Unbelievers, all of you," Benjamin scoffed. He stretched his arm out and snapped the fingers of that hand. For that instant, his hand was wreathed in flame.

He winked at Sun and said, "All things in the timing."

---

"Oh, it's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you
Oh, such a perfect day, you just keep me hanging on
You just keep me hanging on"
— Lou Reed, "Perfect Day"

---

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