Something is going on between Kai, Vivienne, and Nobody. I'm used to not knowing every single aspect of Nobody's plans. He balances so many plates and plots that I don’t expect him to explain everything. But whatever happened back there set off alarms in my head. Have I done something wrong?

  “So, how do you want to do this?” Tuesday asked me.

  We're across the street from the bar Rorschach found, looking down from a nearby building's roof. The bar is nondescript; it looks nice enough to avoid suspicion but rundown enough to stop most people from patronizing the place. There isn't a name on the place, only a barely lit neon sign that says drinks. There aren't any windows or other openings. The door is solid wood from what I can tell, with a sliding peephole to vet people before they come in. There must be a password or code needed to get in.

  I could transform into smoke and sneak my way in, but they could have any number of contingencies for intangible enemies. We could break the door down, guns blazing, and demand answers, but Nobody wants us low-key. Looking at Tuesday, I figure we'll go with option three.

  “Door is definitely guarded. Probably going to need to smooth-talk our way in. Don't attack anyone until I give you the signal. I mean it, Tuesday,” I warned.

  “I understand duh necessitee of sneakin’ round, Watson, but that don't mean I ave to like it. When we get in ere, follow my lead,” she responded, ignoring me completely.

  “What accent is that supposed to be? It doesn't even make sense for Sherlock,” I replied.

  Rather than continue entertaining her bullshit, I take a step off of the roof and start falling. Before I hit the ground, I change into smoke, billowing out in rings when I hit the ground. The power is something special. Whenever I activate it, it feels like my body fills with embers. It's a pleasant warmth, like sitting by a campfire or inhaling a cigarette on a cold day. I constantly feel like that now since large portions of my insides are condensed smoke. I emerge out of the cloud, and before I can step to the sidewalk, I hear Tuesday yelling.

  “Incomin’! Catch me, Watson,” she shouted.

  She flies through me, dulling her landing with a somersault.

  “That wasn't very gentlemanly of you. I could've been hurt, and then you'd be lost without me,” Tuesday said, feigning hurt.

  “You're a woman, but you aren't a lady. I was hoping a head injury might help adjust your terrible personality.”

  “You wound me, sir. Why do you have such a bad opinion of me? We have a lot in common. You're full of the same darkness that I am,” she said, her voice deep and gravelly.

  “You're trying too hard. You're an empty doll who thinks being edgy is quirky. There is no substance to you; you're like a sad pickup artist peacocking in a bar. Now focus; we have a job to do,” I said, walking across the street.

  I hear her follow behind me, thankfully silent. I'm all for joking around, but there comes a time to lock in. Being loud doesn't equal funny. I knock on the door and wait for a response. It takes a few seconds, but a slot at eye level slides out of the way, and I see the blunted face of a man. Caucasian, thirties, with multiple facial reconstructions, so he's someone used to fighting.

  “Password?”

  Before Tuesday can say something stupid, I answer. “We're new around here, just looking for a drink. Not here to cause trouble.”

  “Without the password or an invitation, you ain't getting in,” the man said, shutting the slot.

  “So that went well. What's the plan now? Go tell Nobody that you screwed up?” Tuesday asked mockingly.

  “Quiet. We're getting in there one way or another. I'll let you in; don't fight unless attacked. And absolutely don't kill anyone,” I said.

  I knock a few times, putting more strength into it. The slot whips open, and before the guy can say a word, I'm through the opening and inside. I ignore him and undo the bolt, letting Tuesday in. The doorman draws on us and fires. The bullets pass through me and my clothes harmlessly, leaving smoke trails coming out of the entrance and exit wounds. I'm bulletproof, but why advertise that?

  Tuesday hops in front of him and places her palm on his arm. The gun drops out of his hand, and then his arms droop to his sides. I look around to see if reinforcements are coming. We're in a small room with wood floors and walls with peeling wallpaper so faded I can’t identify the pattern. It’s pleasant in the same way that a BNB run by a methhead might be. There are several coat racks, and I see all sorts of clothes left behind. A locked chest is over in the corner, with a small coffee table that has a lit cigarette burning on a glass ashtray to the left of it. There's a door to our right that leads to a staircase down.

  “What did you do to me? Why can't I feel my arms? Fucking crazy bitch. Don't you know who backs this place?” The goon shouted.

  Tuesday twirls in place and then kicks him in the face, knocking him out. She sticks her tongue out at the unconscious guy and blows a raspberry. I take his gun and pour the bullets out onto the ground. Then, I wreath the gun in smoke and squeeze the barrel just enough to alter the shape of it. It shouldn’t be obvious at first glance, so the rest of my powers should remain a secret. He might wake up and think about shooting us. We walk through the door and go down a metal spiral staircase. The lighting in the staircase is moody, with polished bronze sconces attached to the walls every few feet, creating contrasting shadows on the walls. The staircase ends rather abruptly with saloon-style half doors. This place is so ugly.

  I push forward, ready for a fight. My eyes adjust to the brightly lit room quickly. Five patrons, one bartender, and a single waitress. I can smell food cooking, so there must be kitchen staff as well. The walls are made of some kind of black soundproof material, and there are booths all along the walls. Each booth is separate, probably for privacy reasons, and even has a thin, lace-like curtain pulled around it. Behind the bar is a shelf flush with hundreds of liquor bottles. There are regular tables dotted around the room with varying amounts of chairs, each with a red and black spiraled tablecloth. It's a cozy, high-class bar completely at odds with the saloon doors and unassuming upstairs.

  Two of the patrons are at a booth, their forms hidden behind the curtain. Two female Cowls are sitting at a table, eating a delectable-looking roasted duck with vegetables. Both look enough alike that they must be related—deep blue hair, high cheekbones, and bodies that lead my mind in a singular direction. One of them catches me staring, and they both glare at me. I notice another trait they share: stormy gray eyes. One hundred percent related. A man dressed like a stage magician with a white domino mask is sitting at the bar, flirting with the bartender. The bartender is certainly worth the attention. She's got ruby-red skin, black eyes, and curved horns coming out of the sides of her head. Her long black hair cascades around it, and she's wearing a white blouse that's struggling to contain her impressive chest. A thin, pointed tail is swaying behind her, coming from underneath a skirt that shows off thick thighs that go on and on and on. Holy shit.

  I head for the bar, and only because bartenders tend to know what's going on. I swear that's the only reason. Leaning over the bar, I wait for her to approach me. She's giggling, laughing at a joke the magician told. There's a tell I notice; she's faking her laugh. It's too high-pitched and even. Eventually, she comes over to talk to me.

  “What can I get you?” She asked, leaning forward to give me a glimpse at the aforementioned impressive chest.

  “I’ll take two fingers of the twenty-year Macallan neat.”

  “Good choice. It's delicious,” she said.

  “You like it? How do you take yours?”

  “I’m more of a three fingers girl; I’m not sure if I can handle any more than that,” she smiled.

  Oh, she’s my type of woman.

  “Pour yourself a glass on me. And you can have as many fingers as you want.”

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  Flirting and seduction are all about confidence. Despite not being able to see my face, she can tell the type of man I am by how I carry myself. The Macallan floats off the shelf along with two whiskey glasses. The bottle pours our drinks perfectly, and my glass floats over to me. She's a telekinetic. Those two women are purposely avoiding looking at her. She must be the boss of this place.

  “Buying me a drink doesn't guarantee anything. You know that, right?” She said.

  “Perish the thought. I have no ulterior motives, Scout’s honor,” I said.

  “I’m having trouble believing you were ever in the boy’s scouts. You don’t seem like the type,” she countered.

  “Well, I may not have been a scout, but I know a thing or two about rope play.”

  “Silver-tongued, aren’t we? I bet this works for you a lot, doesn’t it? Saunter up, buy her a drink, and then talk her into your bed,” she accused.

  “I have a pretty high success rate, but that’s not why I’m offering. You can treat it as a peace offering,” I said.

  “A peace offering?”

  “Yeah, I got into a disagreement with the doorman upstairs, and seeing as you seem to be the boss of this place, I'm making amends.”

  The room stills at my statement. Tuesday is the one to break it.

  “He's fine. Just sleeping. Pinky promise,” she said, holding her arm up. No one can see her hands due to the sleeves, but I'm betting that's on purpose.

  “The rules in this bar are sacrosanct. No one breaks them without heavily compensating for it,” the bartender said, all traces of fun gone from her face.

  “We know. And we're prepared to, but only if we can speak to a Broker. Preferably a higher-ranking one,” I said.

  “You assaulted an employee of this place, and now you're trying to make a deal? You got guts, man, and Trixie has disemboweled people for less,” the magician said.

  “Don't you have a children's party to attend? They don't normally pay if you're late,” I responded.

  “Hah,” Tuesday snorted. “Do a trick, Mister Magician,” she said, her voice childlike.

  “Trixie, if I handle these two, will you clear my tab?” He asked, getting off his stool.

  “Sit your ass down before you get hurt,” I warned.

  “You should be worried about your own safety. Then great Cowl magician, Hocus Pocus, doesn't back down,” Hocus Pocus said.

  “No fucking way your name is Hocus Pocus and you're talking in third person? Holy shit that sucks,” Tuesday laughed.

  “Your name's Tuesday, and you speak in third person. You're throwing kettles at a glass house,” I said.

  “There is no fighting on the premises, HP. And you two knew this was a business owned by The Merchants and still went ahead and violated the rules?” Trixie asked us.

  “We’ve been searching for a way to get in touch with a Broker for a while; I couldn't let something like a door or a bouncer stop me. When I want something, I pursue it,” I said.

  “If you went to all this trouble for the chance of meeting a Broker, then you know the rules. What do you have to sell?” Trixie asked.

  Once again, her demeanor shifts. Neither the angry owner nor the seductive flirt is anywhere to be seen. She's showing us a different, new face. A professional. She's been evaluating us probably since we entered the room. We clearly passed some sort of test, given that no one attacked us. But unfortunately for her, we need someone much higher to speak to. Nobody's secret is too great to trust to a small fry.

  “Something priceless, and I'm not being hyperbolic; there is no way to properly estimate the value of what we have to offer. We’re offering something that cannot be bought, until now,” I answered.

  “I'll be the judge of that,” Trixie responded.

  “No, you won't. We're going to need to speak to a Broker or someone higher.”

  “I am a Broker. Let's talk in private. Ronnie, come watch the bar,” Trixie said.

  An androgynous person comes out of the back, wearing the same outfit as Trixie but with black pants instead of a skirt. Ronnie’s hair is buzzed down, and they have a silver septum piercing. They have a bored expression on their face and sleepy eyes. They must be strong if Trixie trusts them to watch the bar, but how strong? Surviving in our world of superpowers and danger means you have to know how to identify a threat properly.

  Tuesday and I follow Trixie as she walks into the kitchen, which does have a staff, and into a stocked pantry. There's a door at the end of the room, and through there leads us to a bare-bones elevator. It's more of a dumbwaiter than an elevator. The ride down is steady, and Tuesday keeps her mouth closed the whole time. From where I'm standing behind Trixie, I have a direct view of her cleavage. Her tail keeps moving, occasionally brushing against my legs. It happens enough times that it's clearly intentional. If this goes well, I don't see why I can't get in some cardio as well.

  After a ten-minute ride, we arrive at a long hallway reminiscent of a hospital ward with five doors on each side. Trixie takes us to the first door on the left, and it's a lounge you'd find at a hunting lodge or a gentleman's club. A roaring fireplace warms the room despite the impossibility of this place having a chimney that reaches down here. An expansive collection of books and trophies of hunted predators covers the walls. Ornate, carved cherry wood furniture with fur linings and padded leather are set up around a large crystal table. There are several sofas made to seat one and comfy, lounging chairs. What a display. The Merchants are living up to their mystique. We all take a seat. Tuesday is sitting upside down in her chair, but she's at least being silent. It’s like babysitting a raccoon with a switch blade. I take a center sofa across from Trixie.

  “This room is completely sealed off; no electronics work in here, and no one can hear what is said. I’m including Tinkertech in that as well. Are you ready to tell me what you have to offer?”

  “Something's off here. Why did you agree to hear us out after we admitted to attacking your man? The Merchants are supposedly this supergroup that is so vast and powerful that Capes and Cowls don't dare cross them. But you're letting us walk all over that reputation. My mystery sense is tingling, Big Guy,” Tuesday said.

  Big Guy? What a terrible name. She's right, though.

  “How perceptive of you, Miss Tuesday. The answer is simple: if you had done this at any other Merchant-owned establishment, or on a night I wasn’t working, then you probably wouldn’t be alive. I have the wonderful ability to sense intent and whether a person means harm. At no point did either of you show any sort of ill intent toward me, my bar, or The Merchants. Besides random spikes of impulsiveness from you, the two of you have only acted with goodwill,” Trixie answered.

  She has telekinesis and an ability reminiscent of Veritas. Despite the physical changes, Nobody would want that power. Is there a way to acquire it?

  “What was that?” Trixie asked.

  “What?”

  “For a brief moment, you thought about harming me,” she said, tone icy.

  Wow. That thing is on a hair trigger. Calm your thoughts; put that idea out of your mind. I need to salvage this. I focus on her body and what it would feel like to fuck her.

  “Apologies. I was testing to see if you were lying. Forgive my impropriety,” I said confidently.

  Let’s kick it up a notch. I transform my mask into smoke and inhale it all into my body. Letting my eyes roam across her and channeling nothing but sexual intent—this better work.

  “You're forgiven. I gotta say that very few people are as blatant with their lust as you are,” Trixie said without admonishment.

  I wouldn't be opposed to it.

  “I believe in being direct, especially when it comes to the fairer sex.”

  “Can we focus? You can do your best Jim Henson bedroom session later,” Tuesday interrupted.

  Both Trixie and I stare at her, confused by the reference.

  “The creator of the Muppets? One of the greatest puppeteers to have ever lived?” Tuesday continued.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It was a fisting joke. God, you make it really hard to be your wingman,” Tuesday said exasperatedly.

  What?

  “You certainly have a way with words. So what are you bringing to sell that requires this much secrecy?” Trixie asked.

  “Superpowers. We are here to sell powers or come to some kind of agreement around the distribution,” I said.

  Trixie doesn't say anything, and the minutes stretch out awkwardly. What's she doing?

  “Are you two in a rush? I’m going to need to request a higher-ranked member to come here, but it might take a bit. Is that acceptable?” Trixie asked.

  Her demeanor shifted to almost subservient. Nobody said this was the last step before we could start getting down to business. I can't disappoint him. I can’t fall behind the other two.

  “As long as it's within reason, I don't mind waiting,” I said.

  “What about meeeeee?” Tuesday asked, her voice mimicking a child’s tantrum.

  “Ignore her.”

  “I'll take my leave and return when I have confirmed a timeframe,” Trixie said, leaving us alone.

  “Okay, let's play two truths and a lie. My name is Tuesday, I was raised as a Scientologist, and I once used a needle to inject warm gravy into a dead guy's dick so I could fuck him.”

  “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Current Powers/Personality Pieces Nobody has:

  1. Alter ability to choose where your center of gravity is/ Addictive personality (Froggy)

  2. Manipulator ability to absorb electricity, control and wield electricity/ Envy (Lee Daeshim)

  3. Manipulator ability to create up to three orbs of sound that can absorb all sound within and then be released all at once at a later time/ Joy (Murmur)

  4. Mentalist/Alter ability to see trajectories of moving objects and can make themselves and other nonliving things bouncy in a way that defies physics/ Pride (Tramp)

  5. Traveller ability to pull objects to themselves, pull themselves to objects, and swap themselves or objects through tunnels in reality/ Compassion (Callback)

  6. Caster ability to create short-range kinetic beams from their extremities/ Aggression (Punch)

  7. Traveller/Alter/Manipulator ability to separate their body into sections, dissolve said sections, clone pieces of their body, and rematerialize them anywhere in sight/ Increased libido and voyeuristic tendencies (Jeremy Swaim)

  8. Caster/Traveller/Manipulator/Alter/Ruler ability to create constructs, weapons, and objects out of different forms of energy/ Flair for drama and theatrics (Father Forward)