Hamza was a big guy, maybe eighty pounds heavier than Gary Nieves, bald at the top with hair only at the sides and back of his head, a thick beard and thick eyebrows that were shot through with white. Dark brown spots flecked already deep brown, damaged skin. I would have taken him for homeless, going by the skin, hair, and the natural angry-at-the-world glower, but his clothes were nice, tailored well to his frame.

He shook Capricorn’s hand, leaning in close to say something, one or two words.

“…Tonight, for those of you catching up, is the second episode of our series looking at the rogues, heroes, and villains of the city, and the dynamic that all of us are having to adjust to…”

Hamza shook my hand, clasping it in both of his, leaning in close enough that I could smell cigars. An expensive habit to have, after the end of the world, when supply was next to nil. He was barely audible. “Good to have you.”

“Thanks for having us,” I murmured back, offering a smile.

Lynn continued, “…talked about duty, about law, and the shifts in attitude that seemed to surround our heroes in the years just before Gold Morning…”

Hamza, where he’d bent over me and Capricorn, stood very straight and stuck his hand down at an angle for Lookout. She shook it, her hand disappearing in his. She tugged, and he bent down, and she said something, while pointing at Swansong.

I shook John Combs’s hand. He was a good looking guy, clean shaven, black hair styled down to the strand, button-up shirt with no tie worn under a suit jacket. When I glanced down at his hand to shake it, I saw his shoes. Earth Bet shoes, like Hamza’s cigars. His grip was aggressively firm, but he actually smiled as he murmured a pleasantry.

“…Tonight, our focus shifts to the present, and how the authorities are handling this, if they’re handling it at all. Today we’re focusing on the question marks. Our investigative reporters brought three cases to our attention. A pair of killers in black raincoats. A husband and wife are held hostage by a family member that was taken into PRT custody years ago. An actual, literal warlord rules over a disconnected section of the city, and it’s not the only one,” Lynn said. Her eyes lit up. “One of the alleged culprits is with us tonight.”

I raised an eyebrow at that.

John had wrapped up the handshakes. He touched Lynn’s arm as he moved back to center, joining Hamza. “Joining us again at our table tonight, we have the recent candidate and contender for the city’s first run at Mayor, and an outspoken, authoritative voice when it comes to figuring out where the costumed fit into things. Mr. Gary Nieves.”