My numb lips drooled. I dragged my swimming head up, forcing my blurry eyes to focus. There he was, leaning against the dumpster. Long legs in jeans and boots, a scuffed leather coat. A glimpse of tousled black hair and white teeth, mingled with shimmering shadows. I couldn't see his face. Need to see…
I fought my clogged tongue, my sinking wits. Who are you? I wanted to say, but the drug overcame me. I caught the warm scent of vanilla as the stranger lifted my limp body in his arms, and the world dissolved into murky nothing.
I awoke sluggishly, in dim electric light that hurt my eyes. Soft cushions squished beneath me, a whiff of dark vanilla. An ancient incandescent bulb swung above on its cord, an inch one way, an inch the other. The tiny breeze stirred my hair. The air smelled crisp, recycled. Overhead, I heard rushing water, and something large and mechanical rumbled distantly.
The subway, I registered dimly. I was underground. But where? And how?
I sat up on the bed, wincing. Thirst tore my throat, and my body ached like poison. I stretched, popping my vertebrae one by one. Bruises everywhere, purple and yellow. Those assholes had really kicked the shit out of me. And… uh.
I wore a man's white shirt. Soft and clean, buttoned over my chest. Underneath, I was naked.
My ribs itched, and when I scratched them I found gauze and white paper tape. Someone had washed me, tended my bruises. I touched my face gingerly, and my fingers came away clean and smelling of antiseptic ointment.
Whoever had tended me, they didn't necessarily mean well.
But hey, at least I wasn't wearing hospital scrubs and an augmentium helmet. That had to be an improvement. Right?
I swung my legs over the bed's edge and tried to stand. Instead, I fell, a six-foot drop. I landed, shaken, on a cool concrete floor. Roughly, I tugged the shirt down over my butt. Very funny.
The bunk bed was jammed into an alcove behind me. I squinted into the gloom. Large square room, low ceiling, walls fading into darkness. Next to the bed, in another alcove, sat a claw-foot bathtub with a rusted shower. Somewhere, a generator hummed, and a keyboard clattered as someone typed.
I swallowed, my throat crispy. Would I discover my shadowy rescuer's identity at last? I might not like what I found. Sapphire City vomited up new villains as fast as we could wash the old ones down the drain.
But I had to know. Mr. Mysterious had probably saved my life—not to mention my dignity—from the haters at least, and probably from Mengele's goons too. Presuming it wasn't all a trap, of course. If we didn't get along, I'd just flip him a quick thanks for nothing and run again. I was getting good at running.
I followed the clickety-clack of keys, tiptoeing past gray metal shelves loaded with books, files, boxes of photographs, newspapers, cables and electrical components I didn't recognize. Light flickered between the shelves. I clenched my fist, readying my power for a swift onslaught, and crept out.
A double row of screens gleamed—websites, television channels, CCTV—above a long desk covered in a mess of paper and photographs six inches deep. In a high-backed chair hunched a long lean figure, his shadow looming huge and monstrous on the wall.
He didn't stop typing. Didn't look up. Just jerked his head towards the corner of the room. "Door's that way."
So much for stealth. I cleared my throat, and stepped out where he could see me. But I still clasped my hands tightly behind my back, ready. "Excuse me?"
"You can leave whenever you want. I won't stop you. No need to break things." His voice was rough and rich, like old bourbon. His battered leather coat hung over the back of his wheeled chair. He finished whatever he was doing, and swung his chair around, skidding into the light.
Strong, lean, the same tight black T-shirt and jeans he'd worn before. A few days of beard shadowed his chin, dark against his olive skin, and his wild black hair had a single albino splash at the front. He wore a leather band buckled around one wrist, and a silver ring on his right ring finger.
Intriguing. Younger than I'd expected, for a guy who'd sent a gang of haters screaming. Warmer, somehow. I wanted to see the rest of his face.
But I couldn't. He wore a mask. A black one, like mine, tied at the back of his head and cut around sharp cheekbones that made him look feral or crazy. All I could see were his eyes, deep and starlit black.
Uh-huh. I wanted to fidget. Handsome devil, to be sure. The crazies often are, in that offbeat, intriguing sort of way. It's a rule of the universe, or something. Sick equals sexy.
But suddenly I was conscious of my scarred cheek, my bruises, the fact that I was wearing his shirt and nothing else.
I dragged in a fistful of power and swept a pile of books off his desk. "That's close enough."
Paper drifted in dust, and settled. He didn't move. Just glanced at the mess I'd made, and then back at me. His black-and-white hair stuck up in odd directions, like a skunk who'd partied too hard. He reminded me of my little brother Chance, only Chance was cheerful and careless. This guy looked neither. "Threat taken," he said calmly. "You done?"
I studied him, wary. No reaction. No move to retaliate. Whatever his augment was, he was keeping it holstered for now. Was that stripe in his hair real? He didn't seem the type to make like a skunk. "For the moment," I said at last. "But you'll talk, or maybe I will start breaking stuff. Starting with you. Who are you?"
"You can call me Glimmer."
I recalled my assailants, clawing for their eyeballs though nothing was there. Glimmer. A hypnosis trick, maybe? "Is that what your friends call you?"
"I don't have any friends." He folded his arms, and muscles bulged in the sleeves of his T-shirt.
"Figures. You always wear your mask in the house, Glimmer?"
"I have a guest. It's only polite… oh, wait." He stuffed a hand into his back pocket and offered me a little black bundle. "This was in your jeans. I kept it for you."
My mask. I snatched it, careful not to touch him, and unrolled it, enjoying the warm softness in my fingers. It smelled of him: vanilla and danger.
Okay. So he knew I was augmented. I knew the same about him. Not a recipe for friendship.
Glimmer smiled, bittersweet. "Don't mention it."
"I didn't. How did you chase those idiots away?"
Strange watery shadows flickered over his face, from no light source that I could see. "I poured acid in their eyes," he said at last, and his black eyes gleamed with eerie starlight.
"No, you didn't," I accused. "I was there."
He scrunched his hair in one fist, and showed me a crooked smile. Bashful. Harmless. For an instant, I almost believed it. "Very astute. Of course I didn't. But they didn't know that. It's just a little illusion."
"A glimmer?"
"If you like."
"Okay." I fidgeted, relaxing only slightly. We had mindbenders at FortuneCorp. Adonis, for one, and our shifty cousin Ebenezer with the fear talent. If this Glimmer used his hypno-mojo on me, he'd be sorry. "Why did you help me?"
He shrugged. "I don't like haters."
"Not good enough." It came out harsher than I'd intended. I was grateful, after all, that he'd saved me from another round of Dr. Mengele's sadistic games. But it didn't mean I had to like this, or him. "You could've chased them off and left me."
"I was passing by. You needed help. And you were drugged, probably against your will. Somehow, I didn't think hospital was a good idea. I'm no medic, but…" He indicated my bandages. "You feeling okay? You've been out for two days."
Great. More lost time. I shrugged, brusque. "What've you done with