Briggs had heard every word of Steve's conversation. The kid never even knew he was bugged. He never saw the plainclothes officers scattered at strategic locations through the crowd, either. But then the cops didn't know who they were supposed to be watching, just that they would know it when they saw it.

As soon as de Bouchard left the table, Briggs had officers trailing her. They followed her for about a block, and then she was gone. She had officers posted on her home and her office, but there had been silence on both fronts for the last 48 hours. Over those past two days she had doubled her strength training regimen and all but disassembled a combat training dummy.

She was showering off after a particularly brutal session, staring down at her bare feet as drops poured down over her. She let out a long, deep breath, trying to force out any thoughts of murderous animal men or ancient transforming superheroes. She was starting to regret never going through a phase in college of experimenting with meditation, recreational drugs or alternative rock. It was hard to build inner peace on a foundation of relentless self-analysis. All she knew was that there were two dozen of those monsters, they could walk down the street in broad daylight and nobody would suspect a thing, and they had no idea if she could even kill them.

No, scratch that. She knew that she couldn't kill them. What she didn't know was if Steve could kill him. Or if the Rider could.

The Rider. She sighed. It was bad enough they literally had a Spider-Man and a Batman running around killing people. Now the closest thing they had to an action plan thought he was some kind of superhero too. She didn't know what else she expected from a kid. Maybe the beating he took would wind up tempering him into shape.

Briggs cut the water off and stepped out into the safehouse's tiny bathroom, wrapping a towel around her body. She ran a hand over the foggy mirror and furrowed her brow. Her heart still caught in her throat whenever she saw the scar. In two weeks it had changed from an ugly blackish-green gash across her face to an ugly brown gash across her face. The most she could say was that her horrible facial scarring was a little less noticeable.

She threw on a dress shirt and slacks and walked into the living room. The safehouse had been taken over by the detritus of the investigation. Briggs had managed to turn a small desk in the corner into a small refuge of order, but the rest… roughly half the room was covered in documents, stacks of papers, dossiers, police reports. A whole wall was plastered in the photographs of the dead members of the expedition, the ones found impaled with their faces peeled to the bone. Frank Nelson's bio had a blurry photo of a bat shaped like a man stapled to it, and a few others had equally indistinct pictures, captures from security cameras caught in the middle of the night. Jimenez had been studying as much data as he could get his hands on, but they weren't any closer to making sense out of all this.

The other half was covered in X-Rays, shots of Steve's armored body from as many angles and as much detail as possible. In an attempt to liven up the place, Johnny C had assembled some of them into a life-size full body diagram that he called "Masked Rider Vitruvius." A few pictures of Steve's human form were scattered here and there, some of them highlighting his rapid healing over time. Others were X-ray shots of the rider's jeweled belt buried beneath the skin of his abdomen. Charts and papers covered every flat surface, the results of the few tests Johnny had been able to convince or bribe his colleagues to run.

In the middle of it all was Steve himself, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hands clasped together, the first two fingers on each hand extended and pressed against each other. The Beetle was hovering about his head in a manner similar to an aircraft carrier floating in a bathtub. Briggs shook her head and tried to pretend like all of this was normal.

The safehouse was empty save for the two of them, John and Jimenez had gone off on an evening food run. Briggs thought about talking to Steve, but knew it was pointless to try and interrupt his meditation. She hardly knew what she might say to him. Instead, she sat down at her desk and poured over the documents that Professor de Bouchard had delivered, trying to find even one thing that made this whole mess less confusing.

You are troubled?

Briggs looked up. The beetle hadn't spoken to her since the battle with the Bat. It hadn't moved from Steve's person, but she could tell its attentions were fixed on her.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she said, rubbing her fingers at her temple. "It's eager to ignore you if you ignore me first."

Why would you ignore your own eyes?

"…can Steve hear me?" Briggs asked, her voice low.

Steven Tooms's perceptions are… elsewhere. He is searching for the enemy.

"Good… I know he looks up to you," she said. "But personally, unless getting in touch with my inner dung beetle is going to teach me what kind of gun can hurt these bastards, I have more important things on my mind than enlightenment."

Do you think the answer lies in weapons?

"Why not?" she said, looking back down at her sheaf of papers. "Isn't that why you have Steven?"

I… what?

Briggs allowed herself a grin. It wasn't often one renders a sentient piece of the universe speechless.

"You're an ancient spirit of wisdom, aren't you?" she said without looking up. "Or some kind of mystical connection to the natural world? I'm not up on the terminology, but I know you're supposed to be here to help him. That's what you say, isn't it?"

That is what I am.

"Then why do we need goddamn translators?" she said, throwing the documents on the floor. One sheet floated through the air and landed on Steve's head, balancing there like the world's laziest paper hat. "If you're a direct lifeline to the wisdom of the universe, why do we need outside consultants? Hell, weren't you there when this Blue Jay was alive?"

I am NOT here to deliver answers! I exist to help Steven along his journey, not to lead him like a dog on a leash!

"Just like a dung beetle to spin crap," she said, standing up and advancing around the desk, walking up to the beetle like a wolf stalking a cornered lamb. "You think I don't know what this is? You think I don't know when I'm being screwed?"

I assure you-

"I don't know if there's anything I can do to a magical spirit insect," she said. "But if you have any interest in actually helping us, if you actually want Steve to listen to you then you had better tell him everything he needs to know before those monsters kill us all."

…my perceptions are limited in this world. I can provide wisdom, clarity, a voice of reason, but I cannot know more than Steven does. This land of humans is far from the realm of the spirits. Were our places reversed, your strength would be every inch as feeble.

Briggs was silent, but her glare was burning.

I was not expecting to interact with you, Helen Briggs. Steven was my guide as much as I am his, and our link is becoming undone. I find there are things even I do not know that I should. You are as unknown to me as I to you. My own self feels more and more a mystery.

Steve opened his eyes, and the beetle vanished like a fading dream. He got to his feet and looked about the room with wide eyes, as though seeing it for the first time.

"Tooms," Briggs offered an arm to him, but he drifted away from it. "Are you… are you all there?"

"I… I found one," said Steve, rubbing his eyes. He squinted like he was looking into the sun, even though only darkness was outside the window. "I reached out with my mind and… I found one. A new one. We need to move."