Rusty (Part 1 of 2)

You wouldn't think a job that involved constant fighting and danger could be boring. But Magnifique could only describe her feelings as boredom. She soared down out of the clouds, heading at a very precise angle towards the gunboat in the water below. They fired at her, and she destroyed the shell with a burst of energy. And before they could fire again, she had reached the boat and, with a second burst, destroyed the mortar.

Exactly like every other time.

The Toledan soldiers on the boat began panicking as she landed. One fired at her, but she generated an energy sphere that absorbed the bullet.

About a dozen soldiers stood on the deck, armed with ordinary guns. There was no way they could win against her.

The boat rocked wildly as, with a thud, another figure landed on the deck. “Need some help?”

She didn't, but she wasn't going to say that. “Thanks for the assist. Check under deck for other weapons; I'll handle the men on deck.” It was unlikely that there was anything else of note on the ship except perhaps some records. These mortar-ships were always the same.

Her companion grunted and headed towards the hatch that led downward, casually knocking one of the soldiers overboard as he passed.

Splitting up hardly mattered. The other had barely disappeared below deck before she had incapacitated the last of the soldiers. Then, after a moment of thought, she flew over the railing and fished up the soldier who was flailing in the water below. They didn't need another captive, but she didn't like watching someone die unnecessarily.

She had been raised in war her whole life. Therefore, she had neither the squeamishness nor relish regarding violence that often infected civilians when they became heroes. Magnifique could not remember a time when she wasn't involved in conflict. At fifteen, she had seen more of war than many of the adult heroes.

Her mother was Prima Donna, the woman who founded the Hero League and began the resistance against Toledan occupation. Magnifique inherited her mother's power and fought at her side almost from infancy.

She sighed as she glanced around the ship at the bedraggled, defeated soldiers. Things had been different when her mother started the League. There had been real danger and real conflict. Now, the League was strong enough and Toledo was weak enough that the war was routine. Really, it was only a matter of time before a surrender was reached. Some of the more hot-headed of the League wanted to capture and occupy Toledo—some even had mad dreams of restoring the glories of the North American Confederation. But most just wanted peace and to see Detroit free and independent.

Magnifique couldn't wait for that peace. Not so much because she was afraid of or even disliked war—peace just sounded so much more interesting. At least, it would be something different.

“All clear below. That's another one down.”

Magnifique glanced at her fellow-hero as he clomped up from the inside of the ship.

Critical Strike was one of the strongest heroes in the League, and he had been one of the first to join. He was a tall, beefy man with dirty blonde hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He wore a domino mask—most of the League did. Back when Detroit was still occupied by Toledo, the heroes had been risking everything to resist. They had hidden their identities to protect their family and friends. These days, there was no more need for secrecy, but many heroes kept wearing their masks as a tradition.

The main thing that always struck Mag was how shiny all the metal on his suit was. He must spend hours when off-duty just polishing it and cleaning off the rust. But the suit was not just decorative; like most heroes, his powers came from the suit. (Magnifique and her mother were some of the comparatively few who had innate superpowers.) His bulging muscles were natural, but the suit turned them into super-human strength and endurance. He also had the power to detect and decode electric signals. He was using that power now.

“I'm not picking up signs of anyone else out here. Do we head back?”

Mag shook her head. “Dr. Stella wants us to do a thorough search. With the Gala tonight, she wants to make sure there's no danger of an attack. So let's run another check.”

Crit shrugged. “You're the boss. Or you will be tonight.”

Mag didn't respond as she worked to secure the prisoners. It was still strange to think that her mother was gone—and stranger to think that she would now be officially stepping into her mother's shoes as the head of the League and the chairwoman of Detroit's governing committee. She was used to responsibility, and she didn't mind it exactly. It was just hard to get used to the idea.

But if she didn't mind the responsibilities, she was far less enthused about the Gala. Dr. Stella thought it was important to help people accept the transfer of power, but it was also a celebration of the war's progress and the coming victory. Mag didn't deny its importance, but that didn't mean she would enjoy it.

“Half of the city's going to be there.”

“I'm sure they will.” Mag soared upwards and landed on one of the watch towers scattered around the perimeter of Detroit's border. From here, she had a good view of the lake.

A moment later, Crit landed beside her. (Even with his suit, he couldn't fly, but he could jump high and far enough to keep up with her.) “Of course, I'll be there. It's a great privilege to help in the transfer of power.”

“I'm happy to hear that.” Mag was only half listening. Her focus was on the smooth, blackish surface of Lake Erie.

“You know,” he said after a pause, “my boy's going to be there too. I'd love to introduce you.”

“That sounds lovely.” Magnifique knew Crit's son by sight. He was a member of the League, went by the name Railgun, and was a year or two her elder. Mag wasn't opposed to getting to know him better—maybe she even liked the idea. Certainly, he was a good-looking boy. But at the present, she wasn't interested in talking or thinking about that. “There's something else out there—dead ahead. I'm going to check it out.”

He shaded his eyes. “That's too far for me to jump. Give me a minute or two, and I'll catch up.”

“Right.” Mag soared off her perch and shot out over the water. As she came closer, she saw the object was a Toledan gunboat, but bigger than the last one she had tackled. It looked newly built. The Toledans had to know that they were losing the war, but clearly, they were still trying to make one final push.

She landed on the boat, generating an energy sphere as she did. “Do you want to surrender now or later?”

There were only a few soldiers on the ship. They were surprised—more surprised than scared and more angry than either. The leader stood at attention, his weapon at his side. He spoke in a calm, pointed voice. “If it isn't her ladyship—the queen of Detroit.”

Magnifique rolled her eyes. “Is that a surrender?” She casually tossed her energy sphere in the air and caught it.

“What is surrender?”

There was a dull roar in the background, and then Critical Strike plopped onto the boat beside her. (He had borrowed a jet pack somewhere, which, combined with his super-jump, allowed him to reach the boat.) “Surrendering means you get to be locked up while still in one piece,” he explained.

The Toledan gave a bland smile. “A few captives or corpses will do no good to you. But perhaps we have already done our harm to you.”

Mag saw it just a moment too late. She had been so focused on the soldiers that she had ignored the gun. Even as the man spoke, there was a rumble, and the mortar fired. It must have been on a timer. Mag threw her sphere forward, but the shell wasn't aimed at her. It arced up and away—it was a huge shell but moved with incredible speed.

“Crit, take the ship,” she shouted and blasted up after the shell. It was clear where it was headed—it was aimed at Detroit. She fired another energy blast, but it broke apart in a shower of futile sparks.

The Toledans must have really souped up their technology.

Mag paused and hovered in the sky for just a second. She had to calculate the exact trajectory of the shell.

And then she raced upward, the wind whistling around her. She was moving so fast that the shell almost seemed to be standing still as she passed it.

A few seconds later, she landed lightly in the middle of a street a couple blocks within the walls.

“Everyone back!” she shouted at the people who were milling around. Then she glanced around and spotted a heavy metal beam sticking out of a pile of rubble-- a symptom of a previous attack.

She wrenched the beam out and held it as she stared up at the distant speck which was already getting bigger. Putting all the force of her super-strength behind it, she threw the beam upwards.

She tensed as she watched the missile. Hopefully, the counterforce would destroy the shell or knock it out of the sky before it reached the city. If not, the only other option she could think of would be to try to catch the shell herself. Even with her powers, that probably wouldn't end well.

She couldn't help smiling grimly. At least then she wouldn't have to go to the Gala.

In the moment, she was aware of many things at once. She knew the shell and the beam were speeding towards each other. She could feel her body tightening and crackling with energy as she braced for a possible impact. And she could hear (and, in her peripheral vision, see) the people around her scurrying in panic. If she had a few seconds to spare, she would have helped them evacuate, but she didn't.

And then it happened. With a crash, the two projectiles met. There was a strobe of light and a dull roar.

Mag relaxed. She hadn't been sure whether or not the shell had an explosive charge. But it had, and the impact had detonated it early. There was some shrapnel, but it wouldn't reach the city.

Now that the crisis was past, she glanced around and took the time to observe the people in the street---the people who would have been dead center in the impact if the shell had hit. These were the people they were working for; these were the people they were fighting for. She wished she had more time to work directly with them and get to know them. If it were up to her, she would have put Crit or one of the other heroes in charge of the war with Toledo and focused on working with the people of Detroit—but as Prima Donna's daughter, there were very specific expectations for her.

Though she had been preoccupied, she had taken in some of what was going on. While most of the people had merely been scattering in panic, she had noted one figure who had remained calm. She had noted (out of a corner of her eyes) that he had stopped to help an old man out of the street—unusual behavior in a time of crisis.

He was a boy about her own age with a dark complexion and short, coal-black hair. Two things about him caught her attention. One was the pronounced scar that ran across his right temple and forehead—probably a byproduct of war, though Detroit also had its share of internal conflict. The other thing she noted was his ragged shirt that was so badly stained that she couldn't tell which was the original color and which the stain.

What was life like for people like him? If peace did come, what would it mean for the ordinary Detroitites?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Critical Strike landed in the street, kicking up a cloud of dust. “The danger's over,” he barked gruffly as he glanced over the civilians. “Get home—there's nothing more to see here.”

Mag sighed internally. Clearly, most of the other heroes didn't feel the interest in ordinary people she did. Maybe she would be the same way eventually.

She put her thoughts away and turned to him. “Did you take the ship?”

“It's under control. And there was nothing of interest on board. Checked all the files and data—there's nothing.”

Mag hadn't expected there would be, but she was glad of his thoroughness. “We'd better do another sweep. Clearly, the Toledans are getting desperate.”

He shrugged. “Then let's make it quick. It's a big day, and you don't want to spend it all working.”

Mag wouldn't have minded spending the whole day working, but as always, she kept her thoughts to herself.

*

Several minutes later, the black-haired boy slipped into a house several blocks inward within the city. He had been buying groceries when he got caught up in that incident and lost his bag. He was going to be in big trouble, but for once, he wasn't thinking of that.

He had heard of Magnifique all his life, but today was the first time he had seen her in action. She truly was magnificent. He couldn't forget how she had looked, tensed, ready to catch the shell out of the sky. She had saved them all. If it weren't for her, he would be a broken, bleeding mess.

Of course, that might still happen before the day was over, but at least he was still alive.

His real name—in so far as he had one—was Reagan, but nobody called him that. Everyone simply called him Rusty.

But no one was calling him anything at the moment. The house was empty. The others would be back soon, but for the moment, he had a space of peace to think about the events of the day. He had a moment to contemplate his good fortune, and he had good fortune to contemplate. These were both rare events for Rusty. It was a pleasant experience, pleasant enough that it almost made him forget what was probably going to happen soon.

Almost.

Not that, even with the house empty, he had time to stand around. There was always so much to do around the house, and he could never quite keep up with it.

He was sweeping the front room when it happened. The door slammed open, the knob sinking into the hole formed by long use. Rusty braced, but it didn't help as he found himself tumbling and skidding and hitting the wall with a dull thud.

He blinked and tried to clear his vision. The huge figure standing over him was only a red and gold blur, but he knew it too well anyway.

“What were you doing out there today?” The man grabbed Rusty by the shoulders and hauled him up, pinning him against the wall. “Were you trying to embarrass me in front of Magnifique?”

Rusty swallowed to clear his throat. “Sorry, Crit,” he said, not looking the other in the face. “I was buying groceries.” He swallowed again; he might as well get it all out of the way. “But I lost the groceries in the confusion.”

Critical Strike gave a laugh that had more anger and bitterness than humor. “Of course you did. You've never been good for anything; why would it be any different today? But why did you have to do it in front of her?”

“Sorry, Crit,” Rusty mumbled again automatically. He knew better than to argue.

It might seem strange that he referred to Critical Strike by his hero name. But Crit had thrown himself so thoroughly into his role as a hero that he hadn't used his real name for years. And no more familial title would have been appropriate for their relationship. Crit might have been Rusty's mother's husband, but he wasn't his father, either by blood or affection. Even 'step-father' would have sounded far too congenial.

“Oh, I'll make sure you're sorry, all right.” Still pinning him to the wall with one hand, Crit pounded his other hand into the side of Rusty's head. “After everything else, today you had to humiliate me in front of HER, you worthless little punk.”

The part of Rusty's mind that wasn't too dazed to think was surprised that this was the thing that Crit was harping on—not the lost food. But he was used to Crit being irrational, especially where he was concerned.

Crit had pulled his hand back for another punch, when again the door slammed open with a crash, and another figured cannoned into the room.

“Hi, dad,” called an excited voice.

“You're back. Good.” Crit let go of Rusty, who fell to the floor. While he ran his tongue over his mouth to see if all his teeth were still there, Crit turned to greet the newcomer.

Railgun, at sixteen, was as tall as his father and nearly as muscular, though his build was looser and less bulky. His hair was darker and worn in the style which, a few hundred years before, had been called a mohawk. His suit was black and silver, with guns mounted to both arms.

Crit actually smiled just slightly and squeezed the boy on his shoulder. “Did you have a good patrol?”

“Do you even have to ask? The most promising cadet hero in the League?” He paused and then asked: “Did you work with Magnifique today?”

The smile vanished, and Crit gave an inaudible grunt, which Railgun took as an affirmation.

“And she was as lovely and lonely as always? Still waiting for some strong, young hero to come into her life?”

Crit was busy taking off his armor and didn't answer.

“I can't wait for tonight. It's about time I swept her off her feet. And I know--”

By now, Crit had stripped off his armor and dropped it in Rusty's lap. “Sit down,” he barked, cutting into Railgun's monologue.

Even Railgun didn't dare argue when Crit used that tone of voice.

He quickly pulled off his armor and dropped it on top of his father's. “This is a special privilege today, Rusty. This armor is going to be at the Gala. I'm going to be the star of the scene in that armor.”

When the boys were younger, Railgun had tormented Rusty as much as Crit. But these days, his half-brother treated him with a benign condescension as if he were offering a favor merely by being there. It was annoying, but there was no special rancor in it; it was the same way Railgun treated everyone.

“There's nothing to eat because the runt lost the food,” Crit explained as he sat down at the table, “But we'll have plenty to eat at the Gala.”

Rusty gave an inaudible sigh and pulled off his shirt; using it as a rag, he started polishing Crit's armor. One of his main jobs around the house was to keep Crit's and Railgun's armor shiny and free from rust. This was how he had first gotten the nickname “Rusty.”

“What's up, Dad?” asked Railgun, leaning forward across the table.

“We need to talk about the Gala.”

*

Magnifique looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing her normal white and blue uniform, though this was a new suit. It was important to remind people of who she was.

“You could at least try to look excited,” commented a voice behind her.

“I'll play my part tonight.” Mag turned to look at the source of the voice. Dr. Stella Escallinor was Magnifique's aunt and had played a major role in the resistance. She had provided the brains much as her sister had provided the strength and military leadership. Though she was strong as a fighter, that was not where her main contribution to the war had come. Most of the heroes within the league had the powers because of suits that Dr. Stella had designed. “But do I need to put on my mask this early?”

Dr. Stella walked forward to stand beside her. She was a tall woman, with short-cut hair of a vibrant purple. She wore a long white lab coat and always carried a large blaster strapped to her waist.

“Mag, I realize that you don't like this. But this is essential. We need to ensure all of Detroit knows that we are still strong, that nothing has changed.”

“Don't worry. I'll be what you need me to be.” She turned away from the mirror and deliberately changed the subject. “But what about our defenses? This would be a prime opportunity. I saw today that the Toledans are getting desperate.”

“There will be over fifty heroes here tonight—I doubt the Toledans would dare do anything. But I have taken every precaution. There is no chance that they'll strike tonight.”

*

“They're going to strike tonight,” Crit said in an even voice.

Railgun fell back in his chair. “What?”

“That motarship we took this afternoon—they hadn't scrubbed all their data, and there was info about the plan. There will be a couple of Toledan agents at the Gala in disguise.”

Railgun opened his mouth and then shut it again. “They're going to attack the Gala? I'll be there—they'd have to be crazy to think they could get away with anything.”

“It's not going to be a direct attack. Hence coming in disguise.”

“But what are they going to do?”

“They're going to kidnap Magnifique.”

“WHAT?” Railgun moved so abruptly that his chair fell over.

“I think,” Crit continued laconically, “the plan comes from desperation and vengeance more than anything else. But they may think that her loss at this point will throw Detroit into confusion.”

Railgun had righted his chair: “So—so what are we going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Crit slammed his fist into the table, cracking it and almost causing Railgun to knock over his chair again. “Why did Prima Donna choose that little girl as her successor when people like me had been fighting alongside her since the beginning? I have more experience, more knowledge, more power—and now I've just been brushed aside. You should have seen the way that girl just ignored me and everything I said today.”

“So you're just going to let the Toledans kidnap her?” Even Railgun seemed unable to take in what his father was saying.

“Maybe being held hostage for a few months will knock her down a few pegs. And we'll need some strong leader in the meantime.”

“But I was hoping we could get together.”

“If the Toledans don't kill her, we can rescue her later; she'd definitely fall for you if you rescued her.” Crit gave a smile that might have been sincere or ironic. But the next instant, he was serious. “That's why I'm telling you all this. If you can get together with her, you can distract her; make sure she doesn't get suspicious.”

“Once she's in my arms, she won't be able to think about anything else. But what am I supposed to do when they attack?”

“Put up a valiant fight and then get defeated. You can be heartbroken and swear to get stronger to rescue her. It'll be a nice arc.”

Railgun frowned. “I don't like it. But--” he added hastily as Crit's face darkened-- “I'm sure I can make it work. I've always wanted to be an actor. My heart is beating at the very thought.”

“Speaking of beating--” Crit moved in his chair to glare at Rusty-- “is that armor ready yet?”

“Just finishing it now.” Rusty quickly polished off the last speck of rust on Railgun's suit. Fortunately, they hadn't been too bad today.

Crit grunted as he picked up his armor and inspected it. “Guess it'll do.”

“I'm sure Magnifique is going to love it,” commented Railgun appreciatively as he started pulling his armor on.

“Let's hope so.” Crit turned back to Rusty. “It's going to be late when we come back, but you'd better make sure the house is spotless.”

“Yes, Crit.”

 

A minute later, Rusty had the house to himself. He pulled his shirt back on and slowly stood up. He glanced in the mirror; there was a dark bruise on his forehead. It looked worse than it was because it intersected with his scar. (One day, when he was six, Crit had been unusually bored.)

He had a big job to do, but for once, he didn't hurry to begin. Usually, he liked to keep busy. It helped make things manageable and gave him something to focus on. And the fact that he was so useful kept Crit from doing anything that would seriously incapacitate him.

Usually, anyway.

But today, he just stood in place. Thinking.

He was disturbed from his thoughts as the door opened slowly, and a man slipped in. He was a short, balding man with a patched and threadbare lab coat. “I saw Crit and Railgun head out to the Gala, so I knew it would be safe.”

Rusty sprung forward. “I'm so glad you came.”

Ben Reagan was Rusty's uncle and the only person who had ever been kind to him. Ben would even have been willing to take in Rusty if Crit would have let him, though as a mostly unsuccessful scientist, he was hardly in the position to care for anyone, even himself.

Ben took Rusty's chin and looked into his face. “Are you all right? I see that's a new bruise--”

“Oh... yeah, I'm fine. But you've got to help.”

“What's wrong?”

“The Toledans are infiltrating the Gala.”

Ben cocked his head but didn't say anything.

Rusty could barely get his words out quickly enough. “They're trying to kidnap Magnifique. And Crit is going to let them because he's jealous.”

“Jealous?”

As quickly as he could, Rusty repeated the conversation.

Ben nodded slowly. “I shouldn't be surprised. Crit has been fighting for Detroit for years. Of course, he feels betrayed--and he's never been able to deal with betrayal.”

“You've got to do something. You've got to warn Magnifique.”

Ben sighed and shook his head. “No one will listen to me—not with a crazy story like this.”

“What about Dr. Stella? You told me you two used to be friends.”

“That was a long time ago. Anyway, I couldn't do anything without accusing Critical Strike, and no one would take my word against his. And he would know that you had told me. Do you know what he would do to you then?”

Rusty flinched involuntarily. But he squared his shoulders. “That doesn't matter. We've got to save her.”

A strange look came into Ben's eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes.”

The scientist seemed to ruminate for a minute. “Then come with me. There may be something we can do.”

 

Ben's lab was in the basement of a dilapidated, old mansion a few blocks away from Crit's house. It wasn't often that Rusty could visit safely, but he always was glad when he could. It was a change and a contrast from his normal environment, but it was also an interesting place on its own. The lab was filled with screens and conveyor belts and other machines that Rusty couldn't even name—most of them half eaten by rust and held together by solder and tape.

Usually, once he was in his lab, Ben was overcome with enthusiasm and would bustle around checking his machines and taking notes. But this time, he walked straight to one of the largest monitors and began clicking away at an old, noisy keyboard with a sober expression. Finally, he stopped and glanced back at Rusty. “Did you really mean what you said earlier? That you were willing to risk your own safety to save Magnifique?”

“Of course.” Rusty couldn't have explained why he felt that way. Maybe it was concern for Magnifique. Maybe it was gratitude—she had saved him during the attack. Maybe it was anger at Critical Strike for his treason, though he had always had plenty of reason to be angry at Crit, and it had never driven him to action before. He didn't know why; he just knew he couldn't face the idea of doing nothing.

“Well, then.” Ben worked at the computer again for a second and then detached something that had been plugged into the machine. As he stood up, Rusty got a better look at the objects he held. There were two of them, and in color and shape looked almost like a tin can with both ends cut off. However, the metal was slightly thicker and had some sort of mechanical or computer component embedded in it, though Rusty couldn't identify further than that.

“What are those?”

“I guess you could call them cuffs.” Ben touched a catch on one of the objects and caused it to open into two halves. “Slip it on over your wrist,” he instructed as he opened the second one.

Rusty obediently fitted the cuff around his wrist and snapped it shut. It felt cold and hard and reminded him of how Crit used to chain him up whenever he left the house.

Ben pulled a cord out of another part of the machinery and plugged it into the right cuff. “Now--” he looked up at Rusty-- “activate them.”

“What?” Rusty had never even tried to understand his uncle's scientific research. Now he wished he had since this was clearly important—though he still didn't see how any of this related to saving Magnifique.

Ben seemed to ruminate for a moment. “Imagine you're trying to move the cuffs but without moving your arms.”

Rusty still didn't understand, but he tried to concentrate, tried to force his will into the cuffs, tried to imagine them as part of his body. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then there was a soft whining sound like a distant wind, and Rusty felt his whole body wrapped in a sensation of soft warmth. Glancing at Ben, his eyes caught on the dusty, cracked mirror on the wall—and he saw a stranger in the reflection.

“Is that me?” Rusty glanced down at himself and then back at the mirror.

He saw a figure dressed in a glossy black suit accented with bands of white, which came together to form a star-like symbol on the chest. The suit covered all of his body except his eyes, mouth, and chin. Even with the mirror, he could barely believe that the person he saw was himself.

Ben was making an excited clicking noise in his mouth as he examined the readings on the monitor. “Well, it did work. Everything looks fine. How do you feel?”

“I don't know. Is this...”

“It's a functional power suit, like those worn by the heroes of the League; not exactly like them, of course—it’s made with nanometal and, well, never mind all the explanation. We can go over all that later. With it, you should be able to infiltrate the Gala—from there, you'll have to come up with some kind of plan to stop the Toledans.”

Rusty opened his mouth and then closed it again. “But—why me? Why can't you go?”

“Because this suit is specifically made for you. It's keyed to your DNA and neural patterns. Only you can use it.” He sighed thoughtfully. “I've been working on this for years. I didn't want to show you until I had worked out all the kinks, but this is an emergency.”

“But why would you make something like this? Why for me?”

“Well, do you really want to live the rest of your life the way you are now?”

Rusty didn't know how to respond to that. The future wasn't something he ever thought about.

“Anyway--” Ben gave a smile that looked somehow sad-- “I think your mother would have wanted this.” He glanced at another monitor and shook his head resolutely. “But we don't have time to waste. One of the kinks I haven't worked out is energy efficiency. You only have enough battery power to last four hours. It's just 8 now, so let's hope that's enough time.”

Rusty was finally getting a grasp on the situation. “But what do I do? How do I even get to the Gala?”

“You can fly with the suit. That should get you there. It may be hard to infiltrate the building, but once inside, there will be so many heroes that you should be able to blend in. You also have greater strength and resilience than you have now. The main strength of the suit is heightened agility. You also should be able to generate a shield. But since you don't have experience, I'd advise you not to engage in combat if there's another option.”

“But Crit and Railgun will be there.” As he considered the situation, more and more things were coming into Rusty's mind.

“Crit won't recognize you in this suit, though it would be better if you don't talk to him. Railgun probably wouldn't notice you even if you were wearing your regular clothes. Now—as I said—we are on the clock. You go to the Gala—I'll go over and finish your chores, so Crit doesn't know you were gone.”

To be continued...