Graham has the most hilarious expression on his face. I know I shouldn’t laugh – and I don’t – but I haven’t worked with him long enough for this to stop being funny and start being just, you know, uncomfortable or pity-evoking or whatever. I know he has to be just so over doing this for people, and he was perfectly game about checking the locker room over, but there’s something pretty priceless about him pointing out every single message to see if we can see them, too.
I mean, we can, they’re all there plain as day; there aren’t even any I can see that the other two can’t. I’d hope I wouldn’t find it funny anymore if he had to actually go and rewrite all the labels on the evidence bags. I mean, maybe if it were only one or two.
I’ve been sketching out the patterns the cameras move in, because they didn’t shell out for the specialty kind, just the kind you can’t see. I mean, they offer pretty good cover, and I’d guess unless you had a power specifically adapted to that you couldn’t avoid all of them completely, and you’d need a lot of practice just to keep your face off them, but it’s not like a professional thief couldn’t have a problem with the Lakers.
I would rather a cat burglar targeted one of the cat-named teams, because that would be hilarious, but you go with what you’ve got. (Not hilarious – crime is serious business, kids!)
He probably isn’t a cat burglar anyway. He’s probably a run of the mill deranged fan.
Then there’s a yelp from the showers, and before any of us can make a joke about walking in on someone, there’s the guy, sprinting past me, catching me – and I swear, this is not even on purpose – in the eye with his elbow, and across the nose with his forearm. He’s some white guy, looks a little like the kid from before, and I almost confuse them for about as long as it takes him to run past me.
(I fall into an open locker, which digs into my back, and damned if that isn’t a familiar feeling golly gee I do not miss summer camp.)
My nose is definitely bleeding, but at least not broken, and I can’t feel my eye at all, which throws me into a panic until it fortunately starts throbbing at me, after which point I decide maybe I would’ve been okay with a severe injury after all.
Also, I yank out at him and grab him by the ankle while he’s running out the door, and he trips and falls right on his face and I feel a little vindicated by that.
Of course then he whips out a field neutralizer and runs off again, but what can you do. It’s not like you can ban people from using military surplus stores.
(I wonder if it’s one of the home security versions. That would narrow the pool.)
Chen gives me a hand up, sporting a brand-new bruise all the way across the side of his neck; it looks like he got shoved down onto a bench or something. Also, wow, he bruises quick. That’s got to be annoying as hell.
“You okay?” I ask, instead of answering his question, which I think was the same one, actually.
“So I found an invisible guy,” Graham says, limping towards us with his arm clamped firmly to his chest. “Someone explain to me why he had a hockey stick.”
“No idea,” Mason, with said hockey stick, tells us, “but he wasn’t invisible.”
“Ok, let’s just go over the footage before we declare that,” Graham says.
“We can do that, we should do that,” Mason says, “because that’s the guy, there’s no way that’s not the guy, but I’m telling you, I could see him before you tagged him, Graham.”
“Tagged him,” Graham repeats, bitterly.
“Well, how should we know, your power pretty much goes off even when you hit his foot with your abdomen, right?” Chen asks.
Graham sighs. Shrugs. Nods.
“Fox got a look at him,” Chen says.
The other two turn to look at me.
I shrug, too. “White guy.”
Graham glares at me. “Thanks, Travis.”
I forgive him, because I think his arm is broken, or at least sprained. “Blond. Five-nine-and-a-quarter, slight build, callouses on his hands –”
“Hockey callouses?” Mason asks.
“Certainly could be,” I say.
“Slight?” Chen asks.
“Bulky sweatshirt,” I explain. “One thirty, one forty. Late twenties or early thirties.”
“Blue eyes,” Mason adds. “Blue or really light hazel.”
I tap out a short message on my phone.
Mason glances over. “Description or medical?”
“Medical,” I say, and she nods, typing out the other one.
Then a neat little portal opens up. I take a moment to reflect on how nice that is, because now we can all get checked out soon as, then take a minute to reflect on how annoying it’s going to be for that intern kid to find a way to get rid of the car. Mason hands me the hockey stick while she writes up an evidence tag as quick as she can, then helps Graham through. We’re going to have to send someone back to look for DNA, I think; he’s got to have bled on something. Chen and I pick up the rest of our stuff and hurry through after them.
Not that it’s much of a big deal because this guy – Will, that’s right, can open up a portal a hell of a lot bigger than this over a hell of a lot farther for a hell of a lot longer.
I mean, he’s done it before. I’ve read the articles. He is definitely famous. I knew I knew about that guy from somewhere.