But light would shine through. If things were left as they were, then the building collapse would cover the foam. The occupant would lose the last attachment to the outside world. The dull glow of the sunlight through the foam, the darkness of night, or the sound of rain. Everything would be muffled.

Things would not be left as they were.

He undid the clasp that connected a metal canister to his hip. He gave it a bit of a shake. This particular canister had been a purchase from the black market on Gimel, for twenty-seven new dollars. This same canister, or the canister’s contents, at the very least, would have cost a minimum of one hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars before Gold Morning, often twice or thrice that amount. To let it slip from the armories that held it was to lose one’s job and career. When they were requisitioned and sent to the field, cameras watched to ensure they were being used appropriately and to the point of being emptied.

He began spraying. That foam with its void fraction of ninety-one percent began to melt away as if it were candy cotton. They’d put so much on that it was still a long process.

The foam was impractical for use in the field. The balances were hard to strike—the kind of individual with the ability to use it confidently often had other capabilities that were more effective, himself included. His ‘father’ included. The machines that dispensed the foam were large, heavy, and prone to leakage. One stray smack with a wooden bat or the puncture of a gunshot, a sharp tug of the hose, and fluid would begin to leak out, before ballooning into a viscous mass half as large as the person carrying the tank, often incapacitating them or gluing them to the ground. Any reinforcement of the tank or the hose added weight and bulk.

The PRT had struck its precise balances, weighing need with practicality, vulnerability with volume. It had decided for each potential target, was this something the containment foam qualified for? For minor threats, it was a question of expense—the chemical to melt the foam and bring the target into custody had to come from specific armories and depots. If it were too freely available as a fix, then they ran the risk that the true threats would acquire the countermeasure. For major threats, they had to ask if they could sanction sending one brave man with a PRT uniform and a fifty-pound tank on his back into the fight, knowing one wrong move or accident might trap that same individual in proximity to the monster they were supposed to stop.

Who, then?

The foam peeled away as the spray ran down the invisible wall of the warped timespace, and Five could see the man’s face.

Jacob, apparently. Jack Slash.