I shrugged a little, trying to defuse the moment. "Well, I've got a couple more leads now." I really didn't feel like getting into how I feel about all of this—that is to say, the usual Cuisinart of unpleasant emotions. I've been doing much better lately, just not thinking about it at all, but Travis has pretty much blown that effort away.
     After another quiet moment he finally decided to change the subject. "Oh, one thing about that meeting with Winters. I went and checked their menu, I can't figure out why anyone would eat at the Green Room. It's the most repulsive looking restaurant I've seen in my life."
     I allowed that it wasn't one of my favorite hangouts, either. Before I left I finally remembered to ask him something that's been bothering me for months, namely how Yasmina had known about me, but the only thing he could tell me that it has to do with her status as a Twilight mage, which instantly moved the conversation to things I just don't understand. It's a place of possibilities and potentialities, ideas made real, which is how she could use the resonance of Phoenix's personal metaphor in the ritual with Dawn, and somehow she saw straight through me. Bitch.
     "If you see Lucky, try and explain what happened the other night to her," he added. "I have the feeling she's avoiding me because it was a very uncomfortable scene."
     "I can only imagine. I'll try to convey that to her. Thanks."
     After I left I decided to walk for a while, reluctantly thinking over the morning's revelations. An actor. That explained away two years of memory, but left quite a bit else. Did they use the same technique for the rest of it? How many other people might have been innocently involved in this? The amount of work that went into the scheme astounds me; Occam's Razor gave up on the whole mess a while ago and went out for a smoke, I think.
     I realized then, with a certain amount of resignation, that I would almost certainly be talking to him again.

[Switch perspective: Lucky]

    My phone rang.
     "This is Winters, Lucky's gotten into some sort of trouble in Chinatown. She thinks she's being set up for something, she's staying in the place and not walking out into what is probably an ambush. She said she ran into one of the hitters."
     "Great. Where?" She gave me the address. "On my way."
     Nothing wrong from the air; no one in sight outside, a crowd of curious pedestrians attracted by Promethean's spectacular arrival. Night was falling quickly.
     I noted the blown-open door; Promethean was inside, listening to Lucky's explanation of what had happened. As I landed he came out and tried to shoo the crowd away from the area; Lucky was bending over a fresh corpse over by the counter. I scanned the immediate vicinity for the presence of anyone I couldn't see while she went to investigate the back room; the door creaked open and a shocking crash made us both jump about six feet. A cat dashed madly out past us, past Promethean as he reentered the shop.
     Scott showed up in gaseous form. "So, is someone beating up Lucky?" he asked brightly.
     "Not at the moment. Of course, we have no idea where the person who did this went. Lucky? Tracking?" I inquired.
     "Forget it, the scent's gone," she yelled back, poking around in God-knows-what. I was about to go back and see what she was up to when we were all quite thoroughly distracted.
     "Well I'm glad to see you made it," a booming voice announced from outside the shop—deep and thunderous as any from the depths of Hell. "Prepare to die, Revolution."
     I took a quick step to the window and looked out. A brilliant light emanated from a seven and a half foot tall man floating outside, driving away the evening shadows, silhouetting the four people around him, all of them wearing full opera costumes.
     We weren't exactly prepared for this.
     To one side of the tall man floated a relatively normal-looking man. In front of them was a huge man with his face painted with a monster's image; he was the only one with his feet on the ground. Beside him floated a man in red clothing with flames painted on his face. Then a frail-looking woman off to one side, whose clothes were grey and black.
     This didn't look like a good time to pull punches, and they had already announced their intentions toward us. I went after the central figure with intent to wound, made the contact and it was like grabbing the sun, far too much power for me to force my way through.
     Promethean's shield whooshed to life as he fired off a plasma blast through the empty doorway, straight at Monster, with no apparent effect. Flame-face looked at me through the window; the glass melted. That gave me just enough time to hit the floor before the table behind me exploded. A crash sounded as Lucky went through the back wall, God only knows what she had in mind—either a diversion or an attempt to come at them from behind, I figured. Monster jumped toward Promethean through the hole where the door used to be; Hans ducked aside from a two-handed blow which shattered a good part of the floor.
     Scott moved out of the shop in liquid form and struck at the nondescript one standing next to the tall man—call him No-name. The man was agile in the air; he flipped himself over and around and yelled, "Now!" The frail woman turned and raised her hand in Scott's direction. He fell to the ground in a puddle; whatever she did had drained him of most of his power almost instantly.
     The tall man floated into the shop, heading in my direction; one of his arms passed through the doorframe insubstantially. The light was blinding—Oh God not again. I shielded my eyes for a moment, then struck as hard as I could against Flame-Face, unwilling to face that other power again.

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