The orange-red light flared between him and Papa. A will-o-the-wisp from a video game, The diffuse light of a tinted lightbulb without the glass to encase it, condensed into a ball a couple of inches across.

“…sparks and lines.”

“Dios mio,” Papa said. He stepped away. Mama’s hands dropped from Tristan’s back. The lights traced thin lines through the air, just as intense as the lights were at their center, but without the diffuse glow around them.

Byron might have been the least surprised of all of them. Deep down, he’d realized something like this had happened.

Tristan seemed to belatedly realize what was happening. He pulled away, and the lights and the lines drew together into something solid—a tangle of metal that had been twisted and bent, with razor-thin strips twisting and branching up and out. It crashed into the kitchen floor, and Tristan nearly fell from the stool in his haste to move away.

In the retreat, Tristan receded. Byron felt the void he was in fill up, pushing him out—

Byron emerged, and the metal growth exploded into a spray of steam with no heat to it, only a sharp chemical smell. His parents backed away to the far end of the kitchen.

Byron gasped, much as if he’d surfaced after being held underwater for a very long time. He found his breath, and then he screamed. Neither parent could do much more than stare.

“My boys,” Papa said, his eyes wide, his voice filled with heartbreak. “What have you done to yourselves?”

He felt the void he could slip into so easily, more a sentiment than anything he could touch. It was as if he was standing with his back to a ledge, an impossibly long drop below that ledge. With that knowledge came the realization that Tristan was inside him.

Nausea and shock overwhelmed him, and he vomited onto the floor.

⊙

Danger. How much risk do we face? Is there a chance we get hurt? What’s medical care like? Does it involve fighting Endbringers?

Organization. How many people in the group? How are arguments resolved? Is there a human resources department? Manager? Team leader? How is that stuff handled?

Secret identity. How many people will see our faces? Know our names?

School. What do we do about school?

For that matter, what happens schedule-wise with holidays? Church?

Ask, damn it! Ask or swap so I can ask! You’ve only talked about money and costumes!

“Any more questions?” Mr. Vaughn asked. The man had shaved head, light brown skin, and both a mustache and beard that were trimmed down to a series of lines, the beard being little more than a narrow arrow that pointed down. His jacket hung on his chair, and the sleeves of his button-up silk shirt were rolled up, showing only hints of the tattoos at the upper edges of his forearms.

Byron knew because Tristan kept glancing at the guy’s arms.