Asides from the morning's attempt at digging into Wes's personal life, getting to work is uneventful. No buildings fall on me, no one has some untimely gossip to share as I quickly rifle through the mail that a cooing Bambi balances for me on its headscarf, and checking out my surroundings as I start off comes back fruitless. There's nothing except app games, articles, music and searches accessed by the dozens of civilian and super commuters trying to just head to work like anyone else. Some traffic helicopters and a cluster of reporting drones fly over the city, and about three building satellites are blinking red on standby. None seem to be a big, immediate threat.

I twiddle my thumb against the volume buttons of my phone in my jacket pocket as I cross the States and Way intersection, and catch the regular bus heading south. My feet drag on each step. Neither the pulsations of its electrical engine or a just-freed seat calm me. Nerves itch my palms, have me scratch incessantly at the back of my neck. Static brushes through my mind as the bus GPS digitizes the location of the next stop.

My knee starts jittering. As we get closer, I wring my hands together, twisting and rubbing digits roughly into the junctions where muscles meet ligaments. Confidence. I need confidence.

Wes isn't there yet when I arrive. I raise the fence myself, and enter the museum alone. Like the first day, nothing electronic except the desktops answer when I call.

I arrive almost exactly on time for work; Josh, still in his swivel chair, looks up, unimpressed, as I trudge down the stairs.

He flicks his eyes behind me only momentarily before refocusing. It’s a simple enough gesture; I bite the inside of my cheek.

"We're not talking details about the day before yesterday," Josh says, by way of greeting. "But congratulations on surviving a first day. You did good work. I'm glad you'll be in my team. We'll figure out what your best role here will be in the upcoming days."

My stomach twists out into relief. I raise one lip slightly to the side instead of answering.

"Right," Josh says, clearing his throat. I've made the right choice. "I've got a small job for you--one that's a little bit more suited to the kind of surveillance, sabotage, or subterfuge skills I see you excel at."

I hold my tongue. My transcript from the Institute—what he’s accessing now on his phone—has only as much as the classes and a summary of best transferrable skills. I know the drill: a good team lead will be able to learn, as time passes, how to maximize your uses; otherwise, good luck.

"I've received some information from an anonymous informant," Josh continues. With one raised hand, he spins his phone into the air and halts before my face. "Memorize this."

I’m expecting a high-priority text or an email of similar importance that tells something but isn’t as specific. What I get is—

"A photo?"

"Yes, genius." Josh's voice is impatient. “You did a placement with Cypher-Slam Industries, didn’t you? Recognize anything?”

I swivel my eyes back to the photo, having to take a step back because the phone is too close. It’s a blurry snapshot, low resolution and shaky. Someone’s sharpened it so that the two figures are crisper. One’s closer than the other, the closer one set enough of at an angle I can only see the back of head and shoulder.

I’d recognize that back anywhere, though.

“Burner,” I say, in surprise. This must’ve been taken yesterday, because his clothes are the same. He’s standing across an android of sorts—not the Sentinel. This one seems more vehicular-turned-humanoid. Strong, boxy machine shapes and a tread belt along its sides. Its head has been blasted off, revealing the complicated mash of more archaic wires at its throat and the chamber of its interior anatomy, but its hands—some joints torn at the ball-joints, one chunk blown off—are spread out at waist-level, palms facing downwards in the universal Alliance surrender.

“Correct. Graduated class of last year. The informant’s the one who took the photo.”

“And the—“

“The android’s out of commission,” Josh says. “More specifically, detonated, but someone higher up wants to know if its safety protocols were overridden or it overrode and rewrote them itself. You will be working to find, salvage and recover its memory banks. What model is it?”

"I--" I study it carefully, unfamiliar with parts that are smoother, or more modern. Scanning the grooves and colour modifications, I’m starting to wish I’d paid more attention to the basic android rigs we’d gone over in the Unravelling Technology class. “I recognize the base frame—“

“Good enough.”

“I know the Doctor’s people were on scene,” I say, before anything else, eager to prove myself more than just simply barely satisfactory. “And I—I saw them walking away.” At Josh's blank gaze, I elaborate. "CCTV cameras can corroborate this. Maybe they know--"

“Inconclusive,” Josh replies. His mouth tugs in displeasure at the side. “The Doctor has eyes in every city in the country. He’s denied involvement. His supervillains happened to be patrolling.”

I don't believe that, but Josh is finished with this line of thought.

“East Park is technically out of our jurisdiction,” he says, “but we’re one of several groups its local operatives have contacted for additional support, mostly because the superheroes brought on League assistance.”

I remember--something about the League observing?

Nothing follows. I shift uneasily on my feet. “I’m going alone this time too, right?”

“Wrong. It’s a little too invasive. You’re going with Wes. And you’re going to be monitored.”

“Monitored, like...earpiece overhearing everything I do and say?”

With a flick of the wrist, Josh sends not a backpack and an earpiece at me, but a calling card. I catch it in one hand, and then instantly regret it.

“Monitored,” Josh says, as I stare down at the shield, the laurels, and the syringe, “like no contact, but watching you at all times.”