Scarred

I wondered if Razorfire had ever tried to recruit Mike, and snorted. Good luck with that. Dad had a dark streak—no pun intended—but Mike is one of life's genuine good guys. Not a saint. Just a profoundly sensible man, who instinctively understood the difference between right and wrong.

But as I looked at him, my heart twisted. Mike looked so much like Dad. Except Dad would've speared me on his shadow-licked blue stare, and made some cutting remark about how some of his children—he meant Adonis, who aside from failing to marry some “nice girl” and crank out a brood of grandkids could do no wrong in Dad's eyes—could party all night and still show up in time for work.

Dad had loved me. In his distant way, he'd loved us all. Didn't mean he'd put up with our shit.

Thankfully, Adonis hadn't yet made an appearance at breakfast. The smell of baked tomatoes and French toast churned my abused stomach, but it watered my mouth, too, and when Peggy—cooking, of course, apron and oven mitts and all—offered me a plate, I steeled myself and took one.

"Thanks," I muttered, dredging up a watery smile. "You're a champion."

Truth was, my vision still blurred and my head hurt like someone had mistaken my brain for a hockey puck. Peg's existence was particularly infuriating this morning. But aside from a few extra throbs in my temples, politeness cost me nothing.

"You're welcome," Peg chirruped, like she meant it. Perky as usual, in cargo pants and a clean t-shirt, her ginger hair pulled into a cute ponytail. She was one of those stray augments who'd run to us for protection when Vincent got elected mayor, and it took Adonis about five minutes and a flirty smile to latch onto her. Dad would've approved of Peg. A “nice girl”. Pretty face, I admitted. Good cook. One of those happy people.

But this was all I knew about her. I frowned. Who was this chirpy cartoon housewife who was screwing my brother? What was her augment, even: baking the perfect soufflé? Did Adonis know? Had he even asked?

Still, unwanted sympathy nibbled my toes. Adonis had high standards, and I couldn't help wondering if she'd heard what he'd said about her last night. Give her a chance. It's not her fault she's…

Dumb? Boring? A lousy lay?

She'd definitely heard the part about the Stepford wife. I hadn't exactly been keeping my voice down, and besides, subtlety was never my specialty. She already knew what I thought of her. And sure, Adonis had lowered his girlfriend bar lately. He wasn't exactly dating celebrities and models right now, the way things were… but still, as I glanced sidelong at Peg again, my senses stung with nameless warning.

I found a seat on a table with Ebenezer (pasty-faced, greasy; situation normal) and Jeremiah (skinny and blond, coughing as he hunched over his coffee; looked like shit, in fact, damp and shivering like a waxed yeti) and plonked down my plate, reaching for the ketchup.

"Nice of you to join us." Eb shoved a clean knife and fork at me. "Get it out of your system?"

"Screw you, zombie boobs." I squirted ketchup onto my French toast and forked a slice into my mouth. Didn't look like Eb had moved since last night, except to pop a few pimples and swap his dirty tablet game for scrambled eggs. Dude could use a shower.

So could I, for that matter. My shirt was good and crusty, to say the least, and my trousers were probably a biohazard. I sniffed the fug around me and winced. I stank of… well, we all knew what I stank of. Better attend to that, before…

Flushing, I shrank into my seat. Too late.

Glimmer, fresh from the bath. Black jeans, plain black t-shirt, same as every day. Even after only a few hours’ sleep at his desk, he still managed to look great. He sat across from me—damn, why hadn't I picked a table without spare seats?—and gulped from a bottle of spring water. "Morning, all."

"Hi," I muttered. Munched another eggy mouthful. Waited for him to say, Jesus, Verity, you look like hell or what's that God-awful stink? or wow, here I was thinking you couldn't sink any lower but somehow you manage.

But he just drank his water, then cracked a can of high-caffeine cola. The white stripe in his hair poked up like a skunk's tail, and he ruffled it with a tired but cheerful yawn.

Goddamn it. He never said anything. Never judged me, at least not aloud.

I pushed my plate aside, appetite MIA all over again. He didn't need to judge. I did enough of that myself. Did that make it better, or worse?

Jem wheezed and barked a cough into cupped hands, ash-blond hair flopping wet over his sharp cheekbones. I grimaced in sympathy. He sounded like a sick Saint Bernard. His pale eyes were running, and his pointy face glowed pink underneath, like he was coming down with the creeping plague.

Glimmer pushed the water bottle toward him. "That sounds nasty. Take it easy, man. Rehydrate."

Jem twitched, and disappeared. Jem's secret name is Phantasm, and he's a lightbender, a trickster of the eye. Disappearing is what he does, and he does it more often when he's angry or confused or feeling just plain contrary. Uncle Mike's kids aren't exactly a well-adjusted bunch, but who am I to point fingers?

Glimmer eyed the shimmering Jem-space archly. "No goodbye? The manners of kids these days."

Ebenezer snickered, ratlike, and gulped coffee. "You spooked him, dude. You know he can't drink that water. He'll freak out unless he counts all the bottles in the shrink wrap first."

"What for?" I contributed, ever-helpful. "There are always twenty-four."

"He knows that," said Eb cheerfully, "but he counts them anyway. Why'd you think he's so antsy?" He leaned towards his big brother and raised his voice. "Hey, you: obsessive-compulsive. I can see your twitchy ass. Try harder."

The Jem-shaped shimmer cuffed Eb over the head, making him duck and wince and grab at his greasy hair, and then it slouched away, coughing.

Glimmer ate his Peg-fried tomatoes thoughtfully. "Hey, I saw that thing you brought me last night."

His voice was low and rough, yet sweet, like old bourbon. It took me a second to realize he was talking to me. "Oh, right. The museum. What a bust, eh?"

"Looked like a rough fight. You okay?"

"Sure." Automatic response. "Um… thanks for asking," I added belatedly, amid a searing rush of gratitude peppered with shame. What a bitch. I'd no right to be angry with him just because my own stupid antics embarrassed me.

I checked a sigh. Damn him for being the best friend in the world, when I was such a lousy one in return.

He winked, and I found a smile. Everything was okay. Well, as okay as it'd ever be.

"Haven't had time to do much digging," Glimmer added, "but I know the Latino guy with the glitter. Calls himself El Espectro."

"Specter," I supplied. "Nice brand. Unimaginative, but it definitely says villain."

"Pain in the ass is what it says. He jumped me once in some mansion's bedroom in Ocean Heights, long time ago. Cocky. Typical Gallery sticky-fingers."

"Yeah? What were you doing in the bedroom of a mansion in Ocean Heights, young man?"

"Nothing."

"Right. Same nothing he was intending, presumably. Thought you were above ordinary break and enter."

"Who said I wasn't invited?"

"Eww." I mimed sticking a finger down my throat. "I'm not even gonna ask. So did those storm troopers arrest this Espectro character last night, or just beat him to death?"

Glimmer finished his tomatoes and started on the eggs. He has this enviable ability to munch down food at any hour of the day. "Option A, bless 'em," he said with his mouth full. "They've got him in restraints. He's not going anywhere."

The PD had augmentium cuffs now, courtesy of Razorfire's City Hall. Perfect for banging up your discerning augmented crook. "Did you get a real name?"

"Arrest report says Jesus J. Flores, priors a mile long. Odd one to claim if it's false."

Gallery villains were notorious for taking a beating, pretending to give in and then giving the cops patently false information and smart-ass aliases, like Sawney Beane the short-order cook, or Dougal O'Pooball who works at the sewerage farm. They liked to play games. Still, you had to admire their intestinal fortitude. Sapphire City PD didn't exactly do Miranda warnings by the book these days.

But as usual, Glimmer had squeezed out the good oil. "You naughty boy," I said. "Thought your data-stealing gear was broken."

"It is." A piratical grin. "Depends on your definition of 'broken'. Still a few fakements I can pull."

I reached for coffee, but the jug was empty. Instead, I drank from Glimmer's water bottle. A faint curl of his vanilla-spice scent sweetened my mouth. "How goes the salvage mission?"