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Asylum 16:
The Unusual Suspects

7:30 PM, Chicago.

Jarod held the door open for Scryer and followed the little man out of the room, with Crimson Dragon, Pan and Sanctuary bringing up the rear. The PRIMUS agent led the metas up the stairs and into the loading dock-cum-nerve center the men had walked through earlier. Morningstar, at the head of the line, wasn't nervous; he'd faced a variety of authority figures in his day and doubted anyone in the other room could hold a candle to some of them.

The room seemed to be acquiring equipment, technicians, and armed guards at an alarming rate. One side of the dock had been sectioned off with white sheets on aluminum poles.

"Line up over there," the agent said, pointing to a section of wall opposite the curtained area. "If you please."

Jarod raised his eyebrows in a look of polite surprise. They were going to test him now? This really was beginning to border on the absurd. He didn't come all this way to be treated like some newbie. PRIMUS was supposed to have vouched for him. So what was the deal?

The technicians turned to look at the line of metahumans, then went back to their screens and cell phones and palm pilots. The armed guards, however, never took their eyes off the men. The guards were a mix colors, armor and weaponry: PRIMUS field agents in blue jumpsuits and chrome weapons: black-clad SWAT officers in bulky kevlar hefting sniper rifles and smaller automatic weapons; uniformed police in CPD blue with shotguns and revolvers; National Guardsmen in full camo and assault rifles.

Jarod glanced back. Crimson Dragon was swinging his head back and forth, taking it all in. He looked more curious than concerned. From behind the martial artist, Pan muttered, "This is like a goddamned casting call."

"Feel like I'm on one of dem shows my wife watches," the Cajun man answered. "Gonna get voted of da damn island, I bet."

Jarod couldn't help but chuckle, some of his own tension washing away with the laugh. "That's exactly what it is, boys. A casting call." He glanced at the man called "Sanctuary." "They need us all here," he said reassuringly. "You won't get voted off." His smile faltered for just an instant. "Probably."

The Scryer stopped suddenly, and Morningstar nearly bumped into him. The man was staring at the white sheets across the room.

"Woah. 'Sup, dude?" Crimson Dragon asked, gracefully sidestepping in order to avoid crashing into Morningstar's back.

Jarod shot a look of frustration over his shoulder and accompanied it with a shrug. He turned back to Scryer, leaning forward slightly.

"Something the matter, Scryer?" He looked at the curtained area as if he, too, could see through it. "You're not undressing Ultraviolet with your eyes, are you?"

One of the sheets was pushed aside. A man in blue scrubs walked out, pulling off bloody latex gloves. Visible behind him were two men, a PRIMUS agent and a SWAT officer. The PRIMUS man was stretched out on the cot, his right arm in a sling across his chest. The leg of his uniform had been cut away from the thigh down, revealing a leg that ended at the knee in a lump of blood-soaked gauze. The SWAT man sat at his feet, talking despite a heavy bandage that covered the side of his head and all of his jaw. He noticed the metas and abruptly stopped talking.

"Oh." Jarod's voice was subdued. He straightened, his shoulders slumped somewhat. He tried to school his features to remove any evidence of discomfort. He knew he failed. He swallowed, tearing his eyes from the missing leg and meeting the SWAT member's eyes. He nodded once, acknowledging what he saw, a small part of the cost that had been paid thus far.

A measure of resolve washed over him, then, a reiteration of his commitment. He'd joked with Kelly about getting back into the game, but the scene before him reminded him that it was no game. This is the sort of thing he was supposed to help prevent, and he was damn well going to try and keep it from happening again.

He glanced around, getting his bearings again. He zeroed in on the guard who'd brought them this far and fixed him with a hard stare as if it was somehow his fault they'd seen this. A part of Morningstar wondered if perhaps they weren't meant to, to drive home the stakes, to weed out those who didn't have a stomach for this. Jarod wasn't that weak. He wondered if anyone here was.

From behind him, Crimson Dragon quietly muttered, "Bummer."

Jarod laid a hand on Scryer's shoulder in a consoling manner. "You okay?" he said softly.

The little man wheeled and batted Morningstar's hand away. "Keep your hands off me," Scryer hissed. He marched to the wall and took his place beside Pan, his arms crossed. The goggles made it hard to read his face, but his lips were drawn into a thin, tight line.

The SWAT man shook his head as if he were disappointed. He stood up and pulled the curtain closed.

Jarod's expression mirrored the SWAT officer's for a moment, then tightened as he shot a glare after Goggle-Boy. Tact was something this guy was going to have to work on. If this little bastard was going to be that thin-skinned he was definitely in the wrong line of work. Jarod followed him to the wall, allowing himself one more harsh look directed at Scryer before leaning back slightly, taking deep breaths to release some of the annoyance and frustration at having to stand here in a line-up, as well as put the wounded man's image out of his head.

Ultraviolet strode into the room, followed by an entourage of suits: three-piece Armani, two-piece Sears Men's Department, one-piece spandex, gazillion-piece power armor. Morningstar recognized almost half of the people in the group. Mark Forrester, the Golden Avenger of PRIMUS, wore the Armani. Agent Fahey, Morningstar's PRIMUS contact, was behind him, wearing an off-the-rack blue suit familiar to middle managers everywhere.

Agent Fahey gave Jarod a discreet nod, but Forrester gave no indication that he new who Jarod was. Forrester's presence wasn't a surprise, but he certainly commanded respect. Appearances notwithstanding, this was arguably one of the best guys in the business. It was a wonder he wasn't going in with them, but Jarod had had enough experience with PRIMUS to know that they usually had a reason for everything they did or didn't do, and it wasn't likely going to be the one you thought it was.

Maggie Thorin, long blond hair flowing, looked like her pictures. The armor was bigger and badder than the last model he'd seen, but it was definitely in the weirdly organic style of Magnitude. She was a definite big-leaguer. The armor was certainly impressive, but Jarod was beyond being impressed by appearances. He'd come up against a pair of guys who'd make Ahnold look small, and they'd gone down like tenpins. Thorin, though, had the reputation to back her up.

The glowing Cajun smiled. "Hello Maggie," he said warmly. "It been a while."

The hyperactive genius gave Sanctuary a pleased smile in spit of the grimness of the situation. "Hey there, Sanctuary. Good to see you here." She looked at the lineup, her expression turning to the bemused. "What's this, the Usual Suspects or something?"

Crimson Dragon looked up from Ultraviolet's chest and shrugged. "More like the unusual suspects, if you ask me."

The bald man in blue spandex right behind Magnitude was Bolt, the showoff and probable poser that hosted his own reality show.

The rest were strangers. Most of them were white, all of them were male, and all except one dressed like standard TV detectives. The exception was a tall, athletic looking white man in a leather duster over street clothes. The duster swung heavy—armored, maybe?—but the man moved easily, despite something asymmetrical in his gait.

Jarod gave him the twice over. This was a player. Big league or not the guy had something going for him. He just looked too… confident. Controlled.

Jarod's eyes, though, couldn't stay off Ultraviolet. For the hundredth time since getting into the superhero game he made a mental note to send the inventor of Spandex a thank you note. And Ultraviolet could fill out the stuff like no one he'd ever seen. She was glowing slightly, and he had to smile. Between UV, Morningstar, and the Cajun dude, no one would have trouble finding them in the dark.

Ultraviolet stepped up to the five metas lined up against the wall. She looked confident, despite, if the Scryer wasn't lying, having already survived a battle in the sewers with Stranger and a giant alligator. Maybe the thing with Air Force One was no fluke, and Ultraviolet did have what it took to lead a team of metahumans into combat.

Jarod, like everyone else in the country, knew the Air Force One story by now. It had happened a little over a week ago, and ever since Ultraviolet had been on practically every news magazine, morning show, and late-night talk show talking about it. Unfortunately, in a bar, the TV was on a lot.

Ten days ago the President had dropped into New Orleans for a fifteen-minute campaign stop on behalf of a local senator. All air traffic was stopped for the fifteen minutes he was supposed to be there, and Air Force One was out on the runway being kept warm while the President was in the airport terminal. Five minutes into the speech, the runways outside the terminal went dark: every light went out. The television cameras kept rolling though. They caught everything that happened next.

Air Force One was still dimly visible in the moonlight. Then explosions sounded on the tarmac, and huge clouds of oily smoke erupted from dozens of locations surrounding the jet. For long moments nothing was visible, and then the jet emerged from the smoke, running lights blinking. It rolled down the runway. It's engines weren't on, but amazingly it picked up speed as if pushed by an invisible hand, and then it took off.

Fighter jets, circling high above waiting to escort the jet like they'd done every flight since September 11, immediately pursued. A moment later they were joined by another streak of light: Ultraviolet.

Air Force One was visible by its running lights, but the fighter jets could barely track it on radar, and the air traffic controllers couldn't detect it at all. Ultraviolet later said that she quickly realized that the jet they were following was a hologram. Sure enough, the "jet" abruptly dove into the ocean with a much-too-tiny splash. A day later, Navy divers would recover the flying drone with its high tech projectors.

"A clever bit of engineering that might have fooled, say, the Secret Service," Ultraviolet later told Diane Sawyer, "but for someone with my abilities, it wasn't hard to see it for what it was. And that was what the Wild Hunt hadn't counted on."

The Wild Hunt was the "acquisition squad" used by the mad collector and sometime supervillain, Professor Paris. Ultraviolet, Maggie Thorin, and others had tangled with the group two years earlier when they tried to kidnap their friend the Black Talon. UV knew the Wild Hunt were in the area ("How, Ted? I'm sorry, I can't give away trade secrets.") and felt sure their presence was connected to the President's appearance in New Orleans. Naturally, she kept a close eye on him and on Air Force One from afar, never interacting with his security. ("Trust me, Dave, it works out better for everyone that way.")

After realizing that the hologram was a decoy, Ultraviolet returned to the scene of the crime. Catching what photons she could from the sun's rays bouncing faintly off the crescent moon, she redirected the light toward the end of the runway, opposite where Air Force One took off… and saw triple tire tracks on the damp grass. The tracks weren't as deep as they should have been-someone had been doing quite a bit of lifting—but they were there.

UV followed the tracks to the seawall, where they abruptly ended. Beyond was inky, impenetrable black. She couldn't see anything, not even the water. Based on what she knew of the Wild Hunt ("After all, Bill, I'd tangled with them once before."), she knew this blindness could very well be the work of the darkness-wielding Persephone. Ultraviolet hovered in mid-air, closed her eyes ("For concentration purposes, Regis,"), and listened. First, nothing… but then a pebble, knocked loose by a shifting foot, clicked against a rock, and she hit the entire area with a brilliant burst of light. It had the intended effect, and that's when she saw the barge they would use to haul the plane away, and all four of the supervillains: Persephone, Antaeus, Atalanta, and Helen ("Whom I'd beaten the tar out of last time we'd met, Katie."). There were a handful of bizarrely-dressed goons as well, but Ultraviolet paid them little mind. She only had eyes for Helen. The mentalist was holding Air Force One aloft some twenty feet above them, and even in that flash-bulb instant she could see Helen glaring up at her. Quickly assessing the situation, Ultraviolet saw her opportunity to bring down the whole house of cards in one fell swoop. Another flash, directed this time solely at Helen, dazzled her, breaking her concentration.

The enormous airplane started to drop. ("Time seemed to slow, Connie, like a rubber band stretched to its elastic limits.") Antaeus shouted and knocked his female accomplices to the ground in an attempt to bear the brunt of the impact himself. ("Brave, but foolish.") Even he couldn't save them, although to his credit, he did prevent them from being pulped. Violet caught a split-second glimpse of horror in Antaeus's eyes before tons of steel slammed down onto him. For a moment all was still—she caught her breath—then the fuselage began a slow, painful roll, revealing the quartet unconscious and quite possibly dead. Certainly anyone else would've been killed had Air Force One fallen on them, but UV knew these were a hardier bunch. Sure enough, upon inspection she confirmed they'd all survived, although not by much.

("The rest, Jon,"—how the Secret Service agents had cautiously opened the hatch to find her floating there in her halo, smiling back at them with the Wild Hunt in a heap beneath her—"is history.")

It was an incredible story, but Jarod had heard weirder. Hell, he'd lived through weirder.

His mind briefly flitted through past adventures. The island with the Old Man, where he and another hastily assembled group of metas had cleaned the clocks of a group of villains and soldiers before letting the Old Man slip through their fingers. At least they'd stopped The Plan, whatever it was. The problem was, the last few years it seemed like half his encounters were classified by PRIMUS or the NSA or someone else. The more involved he became in the whole "national security" angle of being a hero the less it looked like he was doing anything. That's why he went after the basic burglars, car jackers and drug runners every so often. He didn't want anyone to think he'd sold out.

He idly wondered if Ultraviolet would go through the same thing in the near future.

Jarod shook his head, both to break the unintentional eye lock he seemed to have on Ultraviolet's form and to get his mind back on the present. Unfortunately for his higher brain functions, the focus of the present was Ultraviolet herself.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," she began. "Today we'll be auditioning for the role of Willy Loman." It was lame, and it got absolutely no response, but she wore it like a champion, and her confident golden-white glow persisted through the awkward silence. "Seriously, Chicago thanks you all for being here today to free the Tower from whatever it is Stranger and his cadre have planned. We expect more arrivals as the day goes on, but those gathered here will likely form the core of the strike team. Though we are strangers, I'm already aware of all—nearly all of you by reputation alone. The authorities have made their recommendations as to who will accompany Dr. Thorin and myself into the heart of darkness, as it were, but as the leader of this team, I will have final say."

She let that hang there for effect, then strode smoothly towards them. They were all lined up in a row against the white-sheet partition, and she began with Crimson Dragon. The big red-skinned man dwarfed her in size and bulk, and was a colorful bloke to boot. Ultraviolet smiled warmly at him and shook his hand politely. Jarod couldn't help but be reminded of the Queen greeting visitors at a public function.

"Crimson Dragon. I'm familiar with the—shall we say, 'exploits' of your parents. It's my understanding that they've turned over a new leaf."

Travis smirked. "Gonna have to do better than that, hon. Mom an' dad did their time, and they've been makin' an honest living as long as I've been alive."

"Admirable," she replied. It sounded sincere, but she was smirking, too. "I can assure you your parents' past won't influence things here one way or another. They're not here today: you are. So apart from being big and red, what do you bring to the table?"

The big man shrugged, still smirking. "Badass kung fu moves. The reflexes and balance of a cat. Bulletproof skin. I can throw loaded semi trailers. I can sneak with the best of 'em despite being big, I know CPR, and I've shrugged off grenades, rocket launchers, and machine gun fire. 'Course you pretty much said you already knew all that, so what you're really after is if I can work with a team. The answer's yes."

"And," Maggie chimed in with a half-smile, "he's sharp and quick-thinking."

Crimson Dragon shrugged and shot a fanged grin at the armored heroine.

She stepped back and gave him a knowing look even as she moved down the line to Sanctuary. "Mr. Varrett," she began, sounding genuinely pleased. Her yellow-white glow modulated to a warm amber, matching his. "This is indeed a pleasure. How is it we live and work in the same city, but it takes a national crisis for us to meet?"

"I 'spect you a touch busy ta be huntin down an ol' swamp rat like me," Van said with a smile, extending his hand. "It a pleasure to finally meet you girl."

"Likewise," she replied, accepting his hand in hers. "When this is all over, you'll have to treat me to some of your wife's jambalaya. I've heard it's to die for."

Like they ran into each other at the supermarket, Jarod mused, suppressing a chuckle. She was so composed he had to wonder how much of it was an act, and Sanctuary… well, he seemed the sort who didn't shake hands with a stranger without parting as friends. And so they did.

Ultraviolet stopped in front of the little guy, Pan, and looked down at him with unabashed curiosity. She put her hands on her knees and leaned forward, now at eye level with him.

"You're a long way from La-La Land," she stated, and it seemed to have a few layers of meaning somehow.

Pan cocked his head slightly, then took a step towards her.

"I can appreciate how it looks," said Pan, curling his lips, and fixing her with his bright blue eyes. "About fifteen years ago, a kiddy porn ring got busted up—literally—in the Hollywood Hills. PRIMUS should have records of it. If not, I know LAPD does. I can give you detailed descriptions. Stuff that didn't make the papers. Names and addresses, casualties. I'm quick on my feet, I fly, and I can fit into places the others can't. I look small, but I can pick up an SUV and I don't get hit. Plus, when you get up to the floor with those daycare kids on it, they're going to be scared out of their wits. If some two-ton big ugly bashes through the wall…." He turned to Crimson Dragon then, and shrugged. "No offense meant."

He turned back to Ultraviolet. "Well anyway, chances are they're not gonna come without kicking and screaming. I'm not as scary. I can talk to them, and they'll listen. I haven't worked on a team before, but I learn quick. And lastly, well… I understand me being bad PR for this outfit. But the fact is, I'm going, one way or the other. You can toss me in a sack if you have to and smuggle me in. But I'm just here for the children."

Her mouth opened, slowly and wordlessly, and she seemed to consider the boy anew. One corner of her lips drew up into a crooked, bemused smile.

A chuckle rose from the back. The man in trench coat, the one that Jarod thought oozed confidence, spoke up for the first time. "Determination and common sense. I want him with me."

Once, years ago, Jarod had worked with a team he knew nothing about. They’d been thrown together by circumstance to help combat a particularly threatening menace, and together they’d managed to defeat it. There were still dynamics within the group, of course, and things had started out a little bumpy before they'd all settled into their roles. But this time there wasn’t time for any settling, and frankly, Jarod was more than a little worried about how this crew was going to interact.

He’d already voiced his concerns over the boy, Pan. Whether he was fifteen or fifty didn’t really matter to Jarod. The kid—Jarod couldn’t help thinking of him as such—could get them into trouble. But like the guy in the trench coat said, determination and common sense went a long way.

And who was the guy in the coat? Definitely not a team player under ordinary circumstances. This was a guy who liked to operate alone, and not always within the rules. A killer? Maybe. Not that it mattered right now. Jarod had worked with far worse than this guy, no matter his story.

"Well…" Ultraviolet finally said, still facing him as she stepped down the line to Jarod himself. "Didn't think we'd have a celebrity with us," she mused, and only then did she turn her head to face Jarod, "but it's a pleasure to meet you, Morningstar."

Jarod couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. Was she talking about him, or Pan? "Celebrity?" He shook his head, his eyes bright with mischief. "No more than you, I’d think." He offered his hand.

"Well, I don't know if you're as famous as all that," she quipped, and shook his hand. "Glad you could make it."

"I’m just sorry I couldn’t have been here sooner. I’m looking forward to working with you." His eyes flicked up, included the rest of the group. "All of you, actually."

Her voice dropped to a sotto voce. "Believe me, PRIMUS wouldn't have it any other way," she said, and she moved on to the last of the prospective heroes, Jarod's new best friend, Goggles.

"Scryer," she began, then paused as if considering what one says to a guy wearing goggles and a table-cloth. "Where do you hail from?"

"Uh, Darien. Illinois." Jarod noticed that he'd dropped the sulky kid act he'd been maintaining the past hour. The plump little guy was practically standing at attention. "It's about thirty or forty minutes, depending on traffic. You take the LSD down to 55 and go west, then get off at Route 83." He gulped. "It's nice, we have a library and an indoor soccer center and I mean, the Wickes Furniture closed and no one knows what they're going to put there, but really, it's nice."

There was some movement at the other end of the line. When Jarod glanced over, he noticed that Crimson Dragon had turned his back to the scene. He appeared to be rubbing his face with one of his massive hands.

She nodded slowly. "Yes. Well, it does sound nice. Soccer fan, are you?"

The man flushed beet red. Jarod looked away, and avoided making eye contact with anyone else in the line, in case they were cracking up or shaking their heads.

"No," Scryer said. "I was just… That wasn't important. I don't know why I said that. Never mind what I said about Darien."

Ultraviolet pushed on. "So what is it you do? I've been told you can see through walls."

"I can see through anything. Even lead." Jarod glanced sideways. Scryer was twisting his lips, as if attempting a smile he was already taking back. "There's a constant rain of neutrinos hitting the planet, and I can see the distortions they make in the gravitational fields of objects, at least, that's what Derek says, and when I—gah!"

Jarod looked at him, one eyebrow raised. The man's fists were balled tight at his sides, and he was staring at the floor. "Never mind what I said about Derek." He took a deep breath, and his voice lowered. "The point is, I can help you find the hostages. I can do this." He raised his head and looked at Ultraviolet, his big red-tinted goggles glinting in the fluorescent lights. "I can do this."

Next to him, Jarod again repressed a smile. He, too, looked at Ultraviolet. "He can do this," he added, then smiled. "We're like a team."

She looked at Jarod, and back to Scryer. "Well, that's a start.

"I'll bet a lot of people in Darien laugh at you, don't they? I'll bet they look at you and see a guy in a shower curtain and a pair of red goggles, and tell you Halloween's in October. Am I right?"

Scryer slowly nodded.

"That's not what I see, Scryer. I see a man who wants to help people. I see a man with power. I see a hero who needs a chance to prove it." Her tone was dead serious. "This is that chance. Are you going to take it?"

The little man shifted his gaze toward the curtained area where the wounded agents were waiting, then at Jarod. "Did you mean that, about being a team? Or were you being sarcastic?"

Jarod was a little surprised at being addressed by the geek, but he hoped he covered it well. He also reconsidered his initial answer.

"Yeah, I meant it," he said with a smile, and surprised himself by meaning it. "Like the lady said, you're here. It's obvious you're scared but you're still here. That tells me you got heart, and even if you can't lift a truck or fly or shoot fire from your hands, I'm willing to bet on heart any day of the week." He winked once for good measure, then leaned in close. "And between you and me, I'm usually scared, too."

Everything seemed fine until the wink, and then Scryer's face closed like a fist. "Oh, gee, even you?" the little man said. It was the same sneering tone he'd used when Jarod had patted him on the shoulder a few minutes ago.

What the hell was the geek's problem?

Scryer wheeled to face Ultraviolet. "I'm in," he said. "Way in."

Jarod turned to say something to Scryer but stopped when Magnitude spoke.

"So we have a fair idea of what everyone can do," the scientist said. There was a coffee stick in her mouth she'd been chewing on, and she pulled it out and began fiddling with it. "Everyone except you, Scryer, since you're so new on the scene. Well, you can see neutrino patterns—that's great, very useful, we'll have to chat about the science of that sometime. But what else can you do?"

Jarod looked over as the guy in the heavy trench coat laughed out loud, but it didn't sound like it was full of humor. "I'll tell you what else he can do - he can see through people's bullshit."

He walked over and looked Scryer in the eye. "Look, you want in, great. Personally, I like knowing what's on the other side of doors before we open them. But keep up or be left behind." He stepped back and faced them all. "That goes for all of you. Hold us, you go. Screw this up, we all go. No offense, but I got plans for later on and I'd rather get this show on the road."

The smile that had been on Van's face vanished, his lips compressing into a thin line as the fellow in the trench coat made his declaration. "You da boss, den?" he asked.

This time the trench-coated man's laugh seemed genuine. "Right. Do I strike you as the leader type? That's UV's job. I get to play the jerk that gets it ten minutes after everyone goes in after the monster."

"My name is Crossfire, and sorry all, but I got reason to be cautious." He pulled back his duster to reveal the leg brace that surrounded his left knee. "I'm lucky the whole thing is still there."

"As long as we're being open," Jarod began, eyeing the guy in the trench coat. "Back off the attitude at little unless you're wearing asbestos underwear. We're here because we want to be, just like you, and I, for one, am damn sure going to do my best to fix the problem that you haven't been able to fix yet. I'd hate for you to get burned just for being in the way."

"And you." Jarod whirled to face Goggles again with barely a pause for breath. "I don't know what your fucking problem is but you need to get a grip. I meant what I said about you having heart, but if you don't pull your head out of your ass you're not gonna make it, and if you keep pissing on anyone trying to be nice to you, no one's gonna care if you do or not."

The Miami hero crossed his arms and stepped back, offering a curt nod meant for Ultraviolet and Magnitude. "Sorry, ladies. If you know anything about me you know I can play on a team as well as anyone, but I'm not used to being treated like a rookie, especially not by a street thug and a homophobic geek." He took a deep breath and made an effort to calm himself. "Sorry," he said again. "I'll try to hold my tongue from now on."

Crossfire shook his head. "You've just done a damn good job of proving my point. We're a team, sure. We're going to go in there, do our jobs and do it right. But none of us are friends. We haven't even gone in yet and two of you have hurt feelings. I don't want you to like me. I want you to do your job, whether you like me or not."

Any other time Jarod would've just washed his hands of the whole affair. This kind of fractiousness wasn't going to do anyone any good. He knew that from experience. But being who he was he just couldn't let it go.

"Glad to hear you're not concerned about being liked," Jarod replied with a hint of edge. "That means you came to the right place. And for the record, my feelings aren't hurt, but I'm having serious doubts about working with unknown quantities right now. Ultraviolet and Magnitude I know about. I'm willing to give just about anyone the benefit of the doubt in this thing," he added, "But you've got to give me a reason to. Doesn't seem reasonable to piss off the guy who's about to cover your ass, does it?"

"That's just it. I need you to cover my ass and Scryer's ass. And I need Scryer to cover ours. We all need to do that and keep our personal feelings out of it. If we don't, we won't succeed. Look, I appreciate you're unsure about unknown quantities, but that isn't going to change before we go in." The hardness had left his voice, it seemed to Jarod the archer sincerely meant what he said.

"Hey, y'all," Crimson Dragon called from his end of the line, "could we skip right to the part where everyone hugs and we're all friends? There're kids and other hostages over there that need all of us right now. So long as that's true, it don't matter who's a fag or who's a nerd or who's hittin' on whose girlfriend. Let's keep our eyes on the prize."

Jarod heard Scryer mumble something that sounded suspiciously like "condescending pricks." The man's arms were crossed over his chest, and he was staring at the floor.

"Okay children," Ultraviolet scolded. She'd stood there a few steps away from Scryer, arms folded, waiting for it all to die down. "Don't make me flick the lights on and off. I'm willing to bet not even Stranger's people have already fallen prey to petty arguments like this, and by my calculations, that puts them ahead of us. Crossfire, you could do with some Emily Post if you're going to be a part of this. And Scryer, you have to understand that you have to act like a hero if you want to be treated like one. We all have skills and talents to contribute to this effort, and we're each going to do just that. But we're not going to get anywhere like this. Now I suggest we all settle down, have a seat, and take stock of our resources. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

"Nope," Crossfire took a chair and flipped it around so he could sit properly. Jarod noticed the arrows held in the quiver on his back. "I reckon everyone got my point. You keep doing the leader thing, boss."

The urge to speak again was strong, but Jarod refrained. He didn't want to be seen as the 'have the last word' type. He simply shook his head, repressing a smile. He was glad he hadn't been singled out. He wasn't so self-absorbed that he couldn't see it was a childish thought, but he wasn't one to miss an ego-stroke if he got the chance.

Pan had remained quiet through the whole discussion, but at that point he cleared his throat.

"Right," he said, his boyish voice sounding small after the hard voices of the other men. "As an out of towner, I'd like to know just what it is we're facing. PRIMUS must be better informed than I am. And I'd like to voice a concern." He turned to the archer sitting in his chair. "Crossfire, is that leg of your's going to be an impairment? Chances are we won't be using the elevators, after all."

"If it was going to do more harm than good, I wouldn't be here. I can't run as fast as I used to but I could probably do backflips over most of you." Crossfire nodded to the Crimson Dragon. "Except maybe you big fella, but I wouldn't arm wrestle you either."

Jarod chuckled. Crossfire certainly wasn't lacking in the self-confidence department. Then again, neither was Jarod.

"I'm a little curious about what you've come up against, myself," Jarod added. He nodded toward Crossfire's leg. "Is that recent or a leftover from something else?"

Jarod watched the archer turn towards him. His eyes were as flat and cold as slate. "Both. Recent is a relative term." The next few seconds were part of an uncomfortable silence only Crossfire had the nerve to break. "Now is anyone else going to grab a seat? I'm getting self-conscious here."

"Well, not everyone can wear a coat like that," Ultraviolet told him. "But I agree. Let's everyone have a seat and start planning. There's no two-meter wide exhaust port right below the main port, and it'll take more than a bucket of water to melt this witch. We have a lot to talk about."

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