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DATE:28th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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Aku slammed on the brakes, jerking the car to a halt in front of a nondescript four-story office building in the heart of the business district. The sign above the glass doors read "Concord Logistics & Solutions." Bland. Vague. The perfect camouflage for a paramilitary organization run by sociopaths.
"You're free to go," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride. Don't wait up."
Aku didn't argue. He just gripped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, likely traumatized by the last twenty-four hours. Smart for once.
I opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. The air here smelled of exhaust fumes and overpriced coffee.
I heard the passenger door click shut behind me. Pamela stood there, clutching her purse against her black dress.
"Go with him," I said, nodding at the car. "I have business here that doesn't concern ghosts or widows."
"I'm staying," she said. Her voice was shaky, but her feet were planted. "You said you needed my eyes. I'm not leaving until I know what you're planning."
I raised an eyebrow. "Suit yourself."
I raised an eyebrow. "Suit yourself. Just don't expect a tour."
I turned and walked toward the revolving doors.
We crossed the lobby. It was standard corporate sterile—fake plants, beige tile, and a receptionist who looked like he was sculpted out of granite. He glanced up as we approached. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he immediately looked back down at his screen.
Leaked, I thought. Definitely leaked.
I didn't bother covering my face. If the receptionist knew, then everyone downstairs knew. The masquerade was over.
We stepped into the elevator at the back of the hall, I hit the button combination, although it took a while to remember… whatever, it descended.
"William," Pamela whispered, watching the floor numbers drop. "Is this... a hero agency?" Oh right, she wasn't "living" in the time that they formed. Wow, she must not even know who UltraMan was…
"Technically," I said. "Though I'm not all that proud to be the leader. The "legion" doesn't have that good of a reputation."
The doors slid open. Yeah, it was about the same. More functional than glamorous, still the military base style. You'd think they were an army. Anyway.
I stepped out.
Silence rippled through the room like a cold draft.
Heads turned. Conversations died.
They weren't just looking at my face. They were looking at the rest of me.
The white t-shirt and gym shorts left nothing to the imagination. My arms were a roadmap of recent violence—jagged pink lines where skin had knitted back together, dark patches of bruising, the fresh burns from Yonezu's lightning that looked like Lichtenberg figures traced in red ink. My legs were just as bad, scarred and pale.
I looked like I'd been put through a meat grinder and reassembled by an amateur.
Let them look.
I walked down the main corridor. A few junior heroes stepped out of my way, pressing themselves against the walls. Their eyes tracked me with a mix of wariness and morbid curiosity. No one moved to stop me. No security guards blocked my path.
This confirmed it. They knew who I was. Or at least, they knew enough to be afraid.
"Keep up," I told Pamela, who was shrinking under the scrutiny. "I really don't want to be questioned."
She hurried to match my stride, the oversized mourning dress swishing around her ankles. We looked ridiculous—the scarred pedestrian and the grieving widow marching through the hall of justice. Well, not like these people deserved the effort to dress for the occasion.
I took a sharp left, heading away from the training rooms and toward the administrative wing.
Accounting.
The room was quieter here. Less testosterone, more spreadsheets. I walked up to the first desk I saw. A woman with glasses and a messy bun was typing furiously.
I tapped my knuckles on her desk.
She jumped, spinning her chair around. Her eyes darted to my scars, then up to my face. She paled.
"I..." she stammered. "Can I... help you?"
"Aionis?" She muttered, her fingers hesitating over the keys. "I don't have an authorization code for..."
Fuck me.
"Account holder: William Carter," I said, tapping my fingers on the laminate desk. "Just search the name. It's not complicated."
The accountant—a woman named Brenda, according to her nameplate—didn't look up from her screen. She had the bureaucratic thousand-yard stare down to a science.
"ID," she droned.
I blinked.
"Are you stupid or what?" I leaned over the desk, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I am the Agency President."
She stopped typing and looked up. She adjusted her glasses, completely unimpressed.
"Sir, without an ID, I cannot access secure financial records. Company policy."
"Policy?" I laughed, a sharp, jagged sound. "Well screw the policy."
I slammed my fist onto the desk. The impact made her stapler jump.
"Stop fucking with me, Brenda. Look at me!" I gestured to my face, then to the roadmap of scars on my arms. "Do you think I got these from a shaving accident? I got these bleeding for this damn job while you were sitting here color-coding spreadsheets!"
"Sir, if you continue to raise your voice, I will call security," she shot back, her voice rising. "I don't care who you say you are, the rules are—"
"Is there a problem here?"
A deep voice cut through the noise.
I turned. A hero was standing in the doorway of the accounting bullpen. He was wearing a suit that looked like it was made of liquid chrome, shimmering under the fluorescent lights. I didn't recognize him.
He squinted at me, his eyes widening as they landed on my scars.
"President Carter?" he asked, sounding unsure.
" finally," I muttered. "Someone with eyes."
"What's wrong?" Reflector asked, stepping closer. "You... you look..."
"Like I've been through hell? Yes. Thank you for the observation." I pointed at Brenda. "I need access to my accounts. I don't have my card, my wallet, or my patience. And she is giving me a lecture on protocol."
Reflector looked at Brenda. "Just print it, Brenda. It's him."
Brenda huffed, aggressively hitting the enter key. "Fine. But the system shows a flag."
She squinted at the screen.
"On the last quarterly report, the account holder—that's you—restricted access. You decided to manage the accounts personally. No remote withdrawals. No proxy access."
I stared at her. Fuuuuuuuuk. Damn you Emily. Why did I even have her do everything for me?
"In my current state," I said, gesturing to my shorts and t-shirt, "do I look like I am managing anything personally?"
"I'm just telling you what the screen says," she snapped. The printer whirred to life behind her.
She snatched the papers from the tray and slapped them onto the desk.
"Here. Your statement."
I grabbed them.
"But you can't withdraw anything here," she added with a smirk. "Since you locked it down, you have to go to the Toyahon Bank branch in person to reset your credentials and get a new card."
I stared at the paper in my hand. What the fuck even was that? No, who owns it is unimportant, but where even was it? If only I had that AI to tell me.
"Fine," I hissed. "Thank you for your... service."
I turned on my heel and marched out, brushing past the hero without a word.
Pamela was waiting by the door, looking terrified.
"We're leaving," I said. "But not yet. I have a rat to catch."
Before I left the building, I needed to find Crater. The man who "saved" me in that van. The problem? I realized I didn't know a single soul in this place besides Alice.
Who would I even ask? That ice girl? Amara... no, Amelia was it?
I rubbed my temples. The names were foggy.
How do I even find her?
I backtracked to the HR department. The same woman, Brenda, glared at me as I walked past her desk to the personnel office. I ignored her.
The HR rep was a young man who looked like he'd never seen a scar before. I leaned against his doorframe.
"I'm looking for an agent," I said. "Ice powers. Blue suit. Looks perpetually annoyed. Name is... Amelia? Amanda?"
"Amelia Islehaght?" he squeaked. Isle… What? Like I admit, i'm not good with names, but who would remember that?
"Sure. Where is she?"
"She's... she's off duty today, sir." Convenient…
"Fine," I sighed. "What about Crater? Big guy. Earth powers. Probably has a guilty conscience."
The rep typed something into his computer, frowning.
"Agent Crater... actually, sir, he resigned from the Agency three days ago. Effective immediately."
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
Haah.
"Well," I muttered. "That was certainly incriminating."
I looked at the rep. "Give me your phone."
"Sir, this is a personal devi—"
I held out my hand. He placed the phone in my palm.
I walked to the corner of the room, putting some distance between us and Pamela. I dialed a number I had memorized years ago.
It rang twice.
"Mundi," a voice answered. Dry as parchment.
"Professor," I said. "It's William."
Silence on the other end. Then, a rustle of papers.
"William. I must say, I am surprised to hear from you. Given the reports of your... condition. I assumed you were incapacitated." Not assume. He KNEW. He should also know my current state. Don't I still have that pump for the drug? Who knows what sensors are there…
"Le's not bother with the pretenses" I shrugged. "I've mostly recovered. Enough to be annoyed, at least."
"Good. Then perhaps you can come so I can observe you closer."
"I'm working on it," I said. "Listen. When I woke up in the hospital, Emily was gone. And the man who seemingly saved me from the Combine's clutches—Crater—was nowhere to be found. HR just told me he resigned three days ago." Like was he stupid? He should have killed me if he was serious about stealing her.
This made me think that he actually didn't notice the phone. But then why quit?
"Crater..." Mundi mused. "Yes. The Earth manipulator. I will have him tracked down."
"You haven't done that already?" I asked, genuine surprise coloring my tone. "You usually keep better tabs on my assets." I deliberately didn't call Emily "his".
"I have been... preoccupied," he said smoothly. "Another project has required my full attention."
Another project. Right.
"Fine," I said. "While you play detective, I'm unlocking my finances. The bank locked me out."
"Sensible," he said. Then, his tone shifted. Slightly more casual. "Did you and Alice have a fight?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Did you fight?" he repeated, uncaring.
"Why does that matter to you?" I asked, confused. "Since when are you interested in my interpersonal drama?"
"I see Alice as family," he said simply.
"Bullshit," I scoffed. "You don't have family. You have employees and obstacles."
He ignored the jab. "Do you need equipment?"
"Yes."
"The usual? An exosuit?"
"No," I said, looking down at my shaking hand. "Without Emily to interface with the neural link, I'd just be a man trapped in a very expensive metal coffin. I can't control it efficiently."
"Then what do you require?"
"Something lighter," I said. "Bulletproof armor. Kevlar weave, maybe ceramic plates if you have them. But it needs to look casual. I don't want to attract attention."
"And weapons?"
"A concealable blade," I said. "And a gun. Something reliable, preferably concealable."
"And what, pray tell, do you need this arsenal for?" Mundi asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
"I have to infiltrate a lab."
Silence.
"William," he sighed, sounding like a disappointed parent. "I agreed to provide resources for the recovery of Emily. I did not agree to fund your personal vendettas or side-projects. If you need petty equipment for unauthorized raids, ask the Legion's requisition officer. Do not waste my time."
"Petty?" I chuckled, leaning closer to the wall. "You might want to reconsider that stance, Professor. Because this isn't just some random meth lab. It's where a certain Doctor Karl Meyer is currently working."
I paused for effect.
"You know the name, right? The man is also researching countermeasures against Ultraman's resurrection."
"Oh," Mundi said.
It was a flat, completely unsurprised sound.
"That... changes things," he admitted, the boredom evaporating from his tone.
"I thought it might."
"Very well," he said. "I will arrange the drop. Also... I have heard reports that your scarring is extensive. It would be counterproductive for you to be identified so easily."
I looked down at my arms. The red lightning burns were practically glowing under the office lights.
"It's a distinct possibility," I admitted.
"I will include a masking powder. It is a temporary dermal filler. It will conceal the discoloration and texture for a few hours. Apply it liberally."
"Thanks," I said. "Where should I—"
Click.
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
"Bastard," I muttered, handing the device back to the HR rep, who was now trembling.
I didn't even tell him where to send the equipment. Knowing Mundi, he probably already knew my location, my heart rate, and what I had for breakfast.
Hopefully not at Alice's, I thought, shuddering at the idea of returning to that apartment. I'd rather sleep in a dumpster.
"Come on," I said to Pamela. "We have a bank to rob. Or visit. Whichever is faster."
She looked at me with wide eyes. "I... I hope you're joking."
"About the robbery? Maybe. About the speed? Never."
We stepped out into the mid-morning glare. The air was thick with city noise—sirens, honking, the dull roar of millions of people pretending to be important.
"Do you have money for a cab?" I asked, patting my empty pockets. "I left my wallet at the Academy."
It was a lie. The money at the Academy was technically "borrowed" from the English teacher anyway. But stealing from a ghost's widow felt more poetic than pragmatic.
Pamela sighed, digging into her purse. She pulled out a sleek smartphone. There's no way she knew how to use that.
"I can call a ride," she said.
____
She got it surprisingly fast. Did Aku show her? No, he couldn't have had the time…
The taxi driver was a man who clearly hated his life almost as much as I hated mine. He didn't ask about the scars or the funeral attire. He just looked at the address on the crumpled bank statement I held up, grunted, and drove.
Toyahon Bank was a fortress of glass and steel. Inside, the air conditioning was set to "morgue," and the line was long enough to make me reconsider the robbery idea.
We waited. For forty-five minutes.
When I finally reached the desk, the functionary—a man with a hairline that was retreating in terror—told me exactly what I didn't want to hear.
"Your new card will be mailed to your registered address of residence within five to seven business days."
Alice's apartment.
"I need access to cash now," I said, leaning in. "Not in five days. Not at an address I am currently avoiding. Now."
He started to argue, but then he pulled up my account balance. His eyes widened.
"Oh. I see here a... substantial indemnization deposit. Ninety thousand Zols for 'administrative allowance' and another seventy-five thousand for... 'hazardous working conditions'."
Hazardous working conditions. That was a polite way of saying 'Sorry we let you risk your life daily'. Or was it because, as a leader, I basically had a target on my back? I didn't meet any assassins yet. Perhaps I overstated my importance.
"Yes," I said. "I would like some of that hazard pay. Today."
He typed furiously for a moment, then printed a slip. "Take this to the teller at window four."
Window four handed me twelve thousand Zols. In cash. They didn't have large bills, so I ended up with two heavy duffel bags filled with stacks of twenties and fifties.
"Discreet," I muttered, hoisting the bags.
___
We took another taxi to the city center. I picked a hotel that looked expensive enough to be private but new enough to not have a reputation yet. The Aurora Grand.
I slapped six thousand Zols onto the marble counter.
"One month. Suite. Top floor if possible. No housekeeping unless requested."
The concierge didn't blink at the cash or my appearance. He just counted the money, handed me a key card, and pointed to the elevators.
"Room 404, sir."
Fitting.
The suite was excessive. King-sized bed, a velvet couch that probably cost more than my kidney, a kitchenette with marble counters, and a view of the skyline that almost made the city look clean.
I dropped the duffel bags on the floor with a heavy thud.
"Make yourself comfortable," I told Pamela, who was standing awkwardly by the door. "I'm going to wash off the smell of death and chemicals."
I grabbed a towel and headed for the bathroom.
"If room service knocks, don't answer."
I closed the door before she could respond. I stank. Like dirt, sweat, and dried blood. I needed to scrub until I felt like a human being again. Or at least, a cleaner monster.
I emerged from the bathroom after what felt like half an hour of painstaking effort. The water had turned gray, then red, then finally clear.
I think I was finally clean.
I wiped the steam from the mirror and inspected the damage. The aspirin was doing its job. The jagged lines on my chest and arms were already fading from angry crimson to a dull, silvery pink. The texture was smoother. At this rate, I would be whole again in a week, maybe less.
Astounding.
I wondered, with morbid curiosity, how long it would take to regrow a limb. Would it be weeks? Days?
Not that I wanted to test it.
I'd scrubbed my clothes by hand—the bloodstains were stubborn, but soap and scalding water managed to get most of the grime out. I left them draped over the shower rod to dry, dripping steadily into the tub.
I found a plush white dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. It was soft, thick, and blessedly clean. I wrapped it around myself, tying the belt tight.
I exited the bathroom, steam trailing behind me like a dramatic entrance.
Pamela was sitting on the edge of the couch, her eyes glued to the massive flat-screen TV. A science fiction movie was playing—spaceships, lasers, people in chrome suits pretending to understand physics.
She turned as I entered, and her hands immediately flew to her face.
"Oh my god!" she squeaked, turning her head away.
"Grow up," I said, walking past her. "It covers my whole body. I'm showing less skin now than I was ten minutes ago."
I flopped onto the other end of the couch. The cushions swallowed me whole. It was heaven.
"Is... is that real?" she asked, peeking through her fingers at the TV screen. "Has technology really advanced that much? I didn't see any flying cars outside."
I looked at the screen. A man was teleporting across a neon city.
"It's fiction, Pamela," I said, closing my eyes. "CGI. Green screens. Lies for entertainment."
"Oh," she said. Her voice dropped, heavy with disappointment. "I thought... maybe I missed more than I realized."
I chuckled, a low rumble in my chest. "You're surprisingly naive for a ghost who spent twenty years watching people from the ceiling."
She didn't answer.
After a moment of silence, she spoke again. "What is your actual plan, William?"
I opened one eye. "I told you. I'm going to find a hero—Crater—who was involved in losing something precious to me. Once I get answers out of him, I'm going to infiltrate a lab."
"That's not what I mean," she said, turning to face me. Her expression was serious. "You said you wanted to sever the leash. To free yourself. How does finding a lost item help you find your contractor? The Necromancer?"
I shrugged, sinking deeper into the plush velvet.
"The thing I lost... it's not just an item."
I stared at the ceiling, tracing the patterns in the molding.
"What is it, then?" she asked.
"You wouldn't even know what the words mean," I muttered.
I raised both hands in the air, wiggling my fingers theatrically. "An AI."
She sat motionless, staring at me with blank confusion. Her expression was the visual equivalent of a 404 error.
"Exactly," I said, dropping my hands. "You wouldn't get it. Think of it as... a sort of intelligent library. A library that talks back and occasionally insults my life choices."
I went silent, letting the conversation die. I didn't have the energy to explain the nuances of artificial intelligence to a woman who had been haunting a radiator since the dial-up era.
I directed my attention to the movie. It was actually decent. Some dystopian thriller about a society under extreme surveillance, fighting to break free from an authoritarian regime.
Relatable.
Suddenly, warmth touched my hand.
I flinched, my muscles locking up instantly. I jerked my hand away, turning to her with a glare that had sent students running for the hills.
Pamela froze. She immediately raised both hands, palms open, showing me she wasn't a threat. Her eyes were wide, fearful. She remembered the last time.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to startle you."
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to drop. "Don't touch me while I'm thinking. It's a bad habit."
She lowered her hands slowly.
"Is that it?" she asked softly.
I frowned. "Is what it?"
"The plan," she said. "Is that really all of it?"
"What else?" I asked, genuinely confused. "I find my AI. I find the Necromancer. I fix my life. It's a linear progression."
"No, I mean..." She gestured to the room. "For tonight."
"Yes," I said, turning back to the TV. "Tonight, I am going to order room service, watch fictional people overthrow a fictional government, and sleep in a bed that doesn't smell like mildew. That is the extent of my ambition until sunrise."
She let out a sharp, annoyed breath—a sound that was surprisingly loud in the quiet suite.
"I wasted the whole day waiting around for you," she muttered, glaring at the carpet. "For something you could have just messaged me? Or told me in five minutes?"
I chuckled, the sound dry and devoid of sympathy. "No one forced you, Pamela. In fact, if memory serves—and it does—I explicitly told you to leave when we got to the HQ. You insisted on playing sidekick."
Her face turned a shade of yellow I hadn't seen since she was a corpse. Annoyance suited her better than fear.
"What did you expect?" I asked, leaning back. "A revelation? A grand conspiracy revealed over tea time? My life is mostly paperwork and violence, usually in that order." Well I dont really write the paperwork, but she wouldn't know that.
She didn't respond. She just sat there, fuming.
"You're free to take a taxi back," I added, waving a hand toward the door. "I'll even pay for it. Consider it a severance package."
She didn't move. Instead, she crossed her arms, turned her head away, and let out a definitive "Hmph."
What?
I stared at her. Was she... pouting? Was she playing with me? A forthy-year-old ghost throwing a tantrum like a teenager?
I scoffed, shaking my head. "Unbelievable."
I looked at the digital clock on the wall. It was just past five. My stomach gave a timely rumble, reminding me that two slices of stolen bread wasn't exactly a balanced diet.
"We might as well have dinner together," I said, standing up.
She turned back, raising an eyebrow so high it almost disappeared into her hairline.
"Relax," I said, holding up a hand. "It's not romantic. Don't flatter yourself. I'm just curious what passes for gourmet cuisine in this city. I've been surviving on stale bread and spite for the past few days. I want to see if real food still exists."
That seemed to catch her interest. Her arms loosened slightly.
I started toward the door. "Come on. Let's go find the restaurant."
"We can't go like this," she said, gesturing to my bathrobe and her oversized, borrowed funeral dress. "They won't even let us in the lobby."
I looked down at myself. A white terry-cloth robe and bare feet.
Yeah. I suppose she's right. Even confidence has its limits.
"Fine," I sighed.
I walked over to the room phone and dialed the concierge.
"Room service," a polite voice answered.
"I need clothes," I said. "Simple. Nothing flashy. A shirt and trousers for a man, size large. And something casual for a woman... size small? Medium?" I glanced at Pamela. She shrugged. "Medium. And bring two baseball caps. Black. Also some sneakers, whatever model. Sizes… Uhhh, 44 and 39 respectively?"
"Sir, we don't usually—"
"Put it on the bill," I interrupted. "And include a generous tip for the runner who goes to the store across the street."
There was a pause. "Of course, sir. Right away."
I hung up.
"They're bringing hats," I told Pamela. "You really need to cover that hideous grandma haircut. It's depressing me. I'll even join you so you aren't out of place!"
We finished the movie while we waited. The protagonist escaped the dystopia—or died trying, it was ambiguous—but I found myself less interested in the plot and more interested in the company.
It was... nice.
Pamela was a surprisingly decent movie partner. Alice would have been insufferable by now, pausing every ten minutes to dissect the physics of the spaceships or launching into a diatribe about the socio-economic implications of the villain's monologue. It usually bored me to tears.
But Pamela? She just watched. Patiently. Silently. Absorbing the story without feeling the need to prove she was smarter than the writers.
Finally. Some maturity.
I shifted slightly on the couch, sliding closer while her attention was glued to the credits rolling on the screen.
I looked at her arms. They were resting on her lap, pale and smooth.
I narrowed my eyes.
No stretch marks. No loose skin. No sores or discoloration.
This was a woman who, until twenty-four hours ago, had been a mountain of flesh that required a reinforced chair. Two decades of obesity should have left a roadmap of damage on her dermis. But there was nothing. It was like her body had been reset to a factory default.
Impressive.
I raised my gaze to her face. Her profile was sharp, clean. No acne scars, no pockmarks from the Math teacher's legendary diet of grease and sugar. Her skin had a young quality that was almost unnatural. She looked around thirty, despite technically being closer if I remember to mid-forties.
All of this from a superpower alone?
But it was more than that. As I scanned closer, I realized something else. No moles. No freckles. No fine hairs on her arms or neck. Just smooth, unbroken skin. Well, she had a few scars, but those looked like from battle. It was not from mistreating her body.
It reminded me of my own body. The way the contract kept me frozen in a state of perfect, unchanging stasis—unable to age, unable to scar permanently.
But hers wasn't a contract. She wasn't bound to… something. She was just... manipulated.
Merely a superpower?
I frowned, my mind racing through biological impossibilities.
Was her body closer to an inorganic material, like Mr. Perfect? No. That didn't track. She had to fatten up to use her power. The adipose tissue itself possessed the anti-kinetic properties. Her baseline body shouldn't have any special durability.
Unless...
Was the fat a shell? A biological cocoon that absorbed all environmental harm—UV radiation, friction, time—leaving the "core" body underneath perfectly preserved?
It was plausible. But then, why was she hairless? The Math teacher certainly wouldn't have maintained a waxing regimen. I vividly remembered sitting across from her in faculty meetings, trying not to stare at the faint, dark mustache on her upper lip.
But Pamela? Nothing. Smooth as glass.
I leaned in closer, squinting.
Her face was getting redder by the second. A deep, flustered crimson spreading from her neck to her hairline.
Is this also a power? Some kind of thermoregulatory response?
Then I saw her eyes tremble. She wasn't using a power. She was panicking.
Ah.
She realized what I was doing. Or rather, what it looked like I was doing. I was hovering about ten centimeters from her face, staring intensely at her pores in a dimly lit hotel room.
Right. Social boundaries.
I leaned back casually, sinking into the cushions as if I hadn't just been dissecting her dermatology with my eyes.
"Interesting," I muttered to no one in particular.
Half an hour later, a soft bing echoed from the door.
I got up, grateful for the interruption. A valet stood there with a garment bag. He handed it over with a bow that cost more than my previous monthly salary.
"Thank you," I said, shutting the door.
I unzipped the bag. Inside were two sets of clothes. Both black. Shorts and t-shirts, made of a material that felt softer than silk but sturdier than cotton. A small, discreet logo of an owl and the word "Herman" was stitched on the hem.
Expensive I guess.
One set was clearly smaller. Women's cut.
I tossed them to Pamela. "Yours. I'll change in the bathroom."
When I emerged five minutes later, dressed in the surprisingly comfortable gear, I found her waiting by the window.
She had tucked the oversized t-shirt into the shorts, giving the outfit a bit of structure. The black fabric contrasted sharply with her pale skin. She was adjusting the black baseball cap, pulling the brim low.
She turned to me, her cheeks still retaining a faint flush. "Do I look... ridiculous?"
I looked her over. The cap hid the bad haircut. The clothes fit well enough to stop her looking like a runaway.
"Actually," I said, tilting my head. "You look functional. And with the cap..." I gestured vaguely to her face. "I can appreciate the features without being distracted by the tragedy on your scalp. You look pretty nice."
She blinked, stunned.
"The shoes are a little tight," I added, wiggling my toes in the new sneakers. "And yours look like clown shoes on you, but we aren't running a marathon. Let's go."
I glanced at our reflections in the mirror by the door. We were dressed identically. Black on black. Matching logos. We looked like a very depressing sports team.
Why did they give us matching clothes? Is this a couple's package?
"Whatever," I muttered, opening the door. "Let's go downstairs and see if the menu has anything that isn't bread."