I HAD TO hand it to whoever was running things: They’d learned to take regular humans out of the equation. We’d always beaten them, confused them, gotten through them somehow. Which was why we were left with BoxBoy, the Incredible Humorless Hulk, and a bunch of Transformer-bots.

With a slight electronic crackle, the wall of TV screens came to life. One by one, their screen snow was replaced by a person. There were both men and women, in all kinds of settings. The one thing they had in common was that they all oozed power like radiation. Clearly they were looking at screens of their own — I saw their eyes dart around, linger for just a second on the UD with a hint of distaste, then fasten on us.

I looked at the UD. “What, eBay isn’t good enough for us?”

If anyone had been familiar with the evil smile on Iggy’s face, they would have questioned the decision to put us on camera. But oh well. Live and learn, is what I say.

“Here are the objects available for auction.” The UD’s voice was surprisingly strong and commanding. “They are in decent shape, though one is damaged.”

That would be Angel’s broken arm. I got mad all over again.

“Do they have any . . . liabilities?” A woman with dark hair and eyes, wearing a severe navy suit, spoke first.

“Besides our woeful fashion sense?” I asked before the UD could respond.

Every face on the screens looked surprised. No one was expecting us to talk.

“Our lack of commitment to personal hygiene?”

“You will be silent!” the UD hissed at me. But since Gozen stayed where he was, I didn’t take him seriously.

I raised my eyebrows, looking directly at the faces on the screens. “I guess it depends on whether you consider a complete inability to follow orders a liability.”

“Silence!” the UD said again as the people on the screens began to murmur to their unseen partners. He spoke to them: “As you can see, they are functional, with a limited, though useful, intelligence.”

“Limited intelligence?” I broke in, outraged. “Bite me! You’re kind of the last person to talk about limitations! At least I can . . . swim! And fly! And digest by myself!”

“Yeah, or how about this?” the Gasman said, and then he erupted . . . his new skill. I’d been wondering if he would develop one, and what form it would take. Maybe he’d be able to read minds, like Angel? Fly superfast, like me? Feel colors, like Iggy? It could have been anything.

But of course it wasn’t.

I swear to you, it was literally a green mushroom cloud. I mean, he’d always had a messed-up digestive system. Gazzy in a small room with you meant you’d soon have tears in your eyes. And I guess most boys hone their ability to let rip on command to a fine, subtle art.