“Yep!”

“The headlines are saying war,” I said. “And you’re being brought in.”

“Could go that way,” Crystal said. “It’s wonky. Two sides are butting heads and we’ve got another world that’s pretty upset.”

“I’ve only heard bits and pieces from some others and the news. Is it a strike?”

“Not a strike. I’m dressed now, you can come through,” Crystal said. The forcefield disappeared, and I used flight to keep from falling, turning myself around before walking down the hallway and around the bend to Crystal’s room.

Crystal had already been in costume and with her group when she’d been ordered to get ready and be at the location within half an hour. She was using the opportunity to help get me organized. She’d showered while waiting for me, she’d donned her costume, and she was combing wet hair now.

Her costume was white, with her usual symbol on it, the arrow pointing down and to the side, with a stream of lines flowing from the back of the arrow, over one shoulder. She wore a jacket with it, a near-black gray, given a faint magenta-red tint. ‘PRTCJ’ was printed on the back in big white letters. A lone stylized chevron was on the sleeve.

There were things to be said about it, about the militaristic tilt of the group, the way the PRT and the Protectorate had broken in such a way that the Wardens had sprung up from one large chunk of the image, presentation and ideals. Crystal’s parahuman miltary thing was crudely forged from another chunk of what the PRT had been: the PRT’s old laws, rules, and discipline. A military-esque force without a government to serve or a hard and fast system of law to back it up.

But it was Crystal’s call. Crystal’s thing. I held my tongue.

“My closet,” she said. “Black trash bags. Never throwing things away pays off. It’s one of the sample batches.”

The bags made the clothes easy to find, even in the jam-packed closet. The contents were hidden within the trash bags, the hooks of the hangers poking up and through. Crystal indicated the bed, and I laid them out, peeling the plastic back. White costumes without icons or decoration, a variety of cuts and styles.

It was a familiar range. Back in the day, companies had periodically reached out to New Wave, wanting to pitch their product and get us to use them for our costuming. Mom had handled those talks and periodically singled out a family member to send a bunch of proto-costumes to. Later she would nag us for feedback that she could send the companies.

I didn’t want to think about Mom.