One leg folded under me, the other dangling off the edge of the roof, I poised the laptop on my knee and dug for what I could find on costumes and branding. I created seven folders, one for myself and one for each of the six members of the team, and began copying files over to each, where relevant.

The pepperoni sticks were stale, brittle and tough enough I had to gnaw on them to soften them enough to bite through. Tasty, though.

A small truck beeped with surprising loudness as it backed into an alley. One person got out to guide it, waving and gesturing, as the headlights of the truck illuminated him in the fog.

The truck fully backed in, he turned around. Pausing, he looked up at me on the rooftop. He raised an arm.

I packed up my laptop and hopped off the roof. I landed silently behind him. He wore a jacket with a lime green reflective vest over it, and the combination made him look much bulkier than he was.

“You’re the one who knocked Moose on his ass,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Just… hanging around with your computer?”

I shifted my bag at my shoulder.

“I saw the glow of the screen,” he said.

“Felt like I should make a stake. It’s easy to show up during the daylight hours, but it means something else if I could be here at midnight or at six in the morning. It’s interesting that it seems like the people who keep watch haven’t responded to me yet.”

“Yeah?” he asked. “Huh.”

“What’s in the truck?”

“Produce,” he said. “It’s not a good haul. My buddy back at the depot picked up a box of melons, it was liquid. Sloshed himself in watermelon juice, shoulder to toe. Long day of work ahead of him.”

“Just shipping it out, leaving it to the stores to complain?”

“I guess they hope enough people won’t bother that it balances out.”

I nodded.

“What do you think?” he asked. He extended an arm.

I drew in a deep breath.

“About Cedar Point,” he clarified.

“I think this place is going to get wrapped up in a war,” I said.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Because of the heroes coming through?”

“Because it’s building up to something, whatever the people in charge seem to want,” I said. “The war is going to start here or it’s going to come here.”

“Should my buddy and I get out?” he asked.

“You might want to,” I said.

“We pay a fee to do business here, our manager covers that, but we have to face down the people in costume who collect the fee and give us a hard time, too. Boss can’t handle that. Stuff off the boats and trains hasn’t been as good lately, profit margins are getting slimmer. Maybe we’ll try telling the manager it’s not worth it.”