Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close.

With every flex, a new observation: the first joint on the index finger kept biting into his hand, there was a popping noise in the base of the middle and ring fingers, and the motor assistance on the wrist was lagging.

The gauntlet was in horrible shape, yet somehow it was the most intact piece of armor he had left.

With a sigh, Dean reached for a button on the back of his hand, near the base of his thumb, and held down. Three seconds later, a series of latches clicked open, and he tossed the piece of armor into a pile with the rest of it, a metallic ping heralding his accuracy.

It didn't take his powers for Dean to know that the news would piss off Armsmaster. He wouldn't be mad at Dean himself; they both knew that anything could happen when dealing with new capes, and Dean couldn't have known any better, but still. The armor was in bad shape. It had to be in working order by Monday, or Dean would have to find somebody else to take his shift.

Not that any of his teammates would be adverse to the idea of an extra patrol shift. Money aside, many of them wanted an excuse to do anything with their time other than be where they should be.

In that sense, he was lucky. For Missy, the Wards provided a much-needed escape from her home life. With Dennis' father unable to work, what little income Dennis brought in from the Wards was important. It was similar for the others. With Dean, though, he was there because he felt he should be. He wanted to be a hero, and for that his powers were a dream come true.

Now with his armor unable to occupy his time, Dean began a dance he knew all too well. Grabbing his laptop from his school bag and taking a seat on his bed, he logged in. Business first; his Wards email and then his school one. He'd checked earlier in the day, and he knew there wouldn't be anything important, but he checked again anyway.

His father had drilled the importance of email in the business world into him at a young age. The communication tool of the modern man; anything else would be time consuming, inconvenient or, God forbid, both.

Once he'd made sure that nothing important had come up, he switched over to the more menial side of the internet. Parahumans Online, Facebook, and Myx.

Myx was his preferred choice for news aggregation, as it allowed him to keep the eclectic scattershot that was his life all in one neat package. Cape news, business insider updates, and all the latest on tech and gadgets all in one place. A quick scroll through showed nothing interesting. A Protectorate leader out on the west coast had dropped a slur in an interview. Some minor villains had gotten their identities leaked in LA, which no doubt meant the Elite. Down in Kansas City, a member of Haven had been declared missing after not appearing in the public eye for weeks.

PHO similarly had nothing interesting to say, but it at least offered him a more targeted brand of nothing. Local cape news rarely ever held anything of substance. The handful of dedicated cape geeks in the city would latch onto anything from a new haircut to strange sounds in a seedy part of the city. The conversation was menial, but that attention to detail was what he needed.

After all, it wouldn't be the first time that the internet had learned about a new cape before the PRT.

Small chance, of course, but it happened.

His first hit was a wiki page. The Red Comet. There were no pictures, and unfortunately the page was devoid of any meaningful information. The brief entry only told him three things: he was the leader of a team of ambiguous size, he carried a fully automatic weapon, and he was a suspected Tinker.

All but confirmed after last night, he supposed.

The second cape, Turismo, had a bit more detail. He produced a translucent dust with a slew of effects ranging from starting fires to shutting down electronics. In hindsight, Dean decided it was a good thing that Triumph had been the one to fight him.

Not for the first time, he couldn't help but wonder where this information came from. The way he saw it, there were three options.

Option A was that the information came from an observer, a civilian watching a fight through their window or from across the street. Given the level of information on Turismo's power, that seemed unlikely. Civilian reports had the tendency to be very good at describing how a power looked, but rarely what it did.

Option B was that the cape in question had either created or edited their own entry, a way to keep ahead of the game and make sure that they could keep something in their back pocket for future fights. Again, Dean felt that this was unlikely. The entry on Turismo's power matched up too well with what Triumph had described after the fight.

And that left option C, that some victim or enemy cape had put the information out there, either looking to help out other people who went up against them, or to deliver one last spiteful 'fuck you' over an embarrassing defeat. Not an uncommon story, but it was telling. It meant Solomon had been operating under the PRT's noses for enough time to rack up at least some experience. That, combined with the presence of Rune, painted a picture that Dean wasn't sure how to interpret.

The team was discordant. A mess. With his power, it didn't take him long to see things like that. From there the question was why they existed in spite of the chaos. Was it the Comet, or was it an external factor? And if so, who? Dean didn't like being in the dark like that, but he also knew that he didn't have many options to do anything about it.

Besides, Dean didn't have too much time to think about it. He knew that he didn't have much time left till—

"It is: 6 o'clock. Get dressed Dean! Get dressed Dean! Get dre—"

"That's enough, Ora." Responding to his command, the digital assistant ceased its function. It was a good thing that his phone responded to voice commands, because he certainly didn't know where it was. Under the blankets, maybe.

Ora was a curious case, designed by Hero in 1999 to operate as a semi-intelligent pager. It had been expanded since then, and although more modern technology made Ora seem crude, at the time of his creation it was a different story. Of course, Ora had run into more issues than production feasibility. While Ora hit it off immediately with families and children, the intended audience of PRT troopers and Protectorate capes never took to him. 'Condescending' was a common complaint, 'annoying' another.

"Ora, any messages from Vicky?"

"You have: no new messages from 'Girlfriend'. You have: 4 unread messages from 'Tom Stansfield'." Dean could guess that second piece on his own. His father was a perfectionist, a trait that made him a dangerous business adversary, but left him lacking in the interpersonal department.

"Mark as read."

"Roger! Roger!"

"Thank you, Ora."

"Dean is welcome!"

That was – to Dean, at least – the big draw of Ora. Not the cutesy attitude, but the fact that Ora made everything simple. He would never find out that Ora wanted to sleep with him, or that the cutesy persona was a front to hide a genuine depression. Ora was simple. Other things... not so much.

He heard a hard, rapid knocking at his door, a small hand working extra hard to sound louder.

Speaking of not simple.

"Come in!" he called.

The door slid open to reveal Vista, still in costume.

"You said you had to leave by six," she said. "It's after six. So..."

Unlike his own costume, hers wasn't any worse for the fight. Her white and green armor, skirt, and visor were all pristine. There were other colors around her, though, floating in the air, forming a fuzzy aura that clung to her, just above her skin. His power, to see the emotions of the people around him.

As usual, hers were mostly a mix of pink and blue, infatuation and nervousness, pulsing and changing the longer she was around him. Right now the blue was overtaking the pink.

He gave her a smile. She returned it, and he didn't need to see the nervous relief in the expression or the way her posture relaxed to know what effect it had on her. The blue was overtaken by the pink, and a bit of a deeper red. Something he didn't really want to think about. Something far from simple.

Vista steeled herself for a moment, then stepped through the door, looking around.

"This place is a mess," she said. "Do you ever clean it?"

He shrugged. "Not if I can help it. It just gets messy again, anyway."

She huffed, walking over to a pile of clothes beside his hamper, picking them up and dropping them inside. "You never even sleep here. How does it get this bad?"

He shrugged again, looking around. He had to admit, his room was a mess. The bed was rumpled – despite not being used – with the blankets thrown around and a bunch of half-assembled electronics scattered over them. The floor was similar, but with clothes – both dirty and clean – mixed in. The garbage bin by the door was buried under a huge pile of empty takeout cartons, an avalanche waiting to happen. His desk was, if anything, worse, cluttered with paperwork, USB drives, CD cases, and no less than seven keyboards, just for a start.

Considering that he was one of the few Wards that never slept at the PRT building if he could help it, he did have to admit that it might be a bit... extreme.

He watched as Vista moved over to the pile of cartons, picking them up and slotting them together, moving efficiently. In under a minute she had the pile condensed enough that the entire thing fit in the bin. It was impressive, even if he could see by her aura that most of her attention was on him, rather than what she was doing.

"I suppose it is pretty bad," Dean said, spinning his chair around and standing up. He walked over to Vista, and took her hands, ignoring the way her cheeks and aura both flared pink as he did. "Thank you for looking out for me, but I do have to get going, which means I should probably change."

A bit more red in her aura as her eyes flicked over the skin-tight armored undersuit he was still wearing from his armor testing.

"Of course," she said, stepping back. He let her hands go, and she brought them together over her chest, clasping them together. "Sure."

He smiled at her again, the expression carefully crafted to show a mix of fondness and gentle amusement. It helped that the emotions were genuine. Complicated as it could be to deal with her, Vista was a wonderful person. The care she showed wasn't just because of infatuation. It was real, and the least he could do was respond in kind, show her the same consideration she showed him.

She took another step toward the door, then stopped, her aura changing again, a bit of darker blue blending into it.

"Dean..." she said.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said, shaking her head, once, sharply. "Not—not really, I guess."

"The fight?" he guessed.

She nodded, her mouth twisting into an unhappy frown, reflected in her aura. "Did I... mess up?"

It wasn't an easy question. While the fight couldn't really be called a loss – they'd prevented the robbery and driven away the villains – it wasn't a victory either. All of Solomon had gotten away, more or less clean. Worse, given that by all accounts the Wards had the better powers, it could be said that they should have won.

"No," he said. "I don't want to look at it that way, and I don't think you should either. We were up against a new team, with unknown powers, and we still forced them to retreat. More, we got a lot of information. No matter what anyone else says, I'm calling that a win."

"It wasn't... my fault, then?" Vista asked.

Dean smiled again, with a bit more effort. Normally Vista was, if anything, a bit too gung-ho. Too eager to enter the fray and prove herself. The exception was, unsurprisingly, when she worked with him. Understandable, of course. She was still a thirteen-year-old girl, and she craved approval and validation. Her desire to be seen as mature and capable didn't let her seek it from anyone else, which left him.

"It wasn't even close to your fault," he said. "You did great. It's just bad luck that you were up against a thinker that could counter you." He reached down to rub his knee. "And, I mean, it's not like I did so great against him either. Whatever you want to say about the rest of Solomon, the Red Comet's the real deal."

Her frown stayed put, even as the worry in her aura retracted.

"If it really bothers you, maybe ask Aegis for some help with training. He's a tough flyer too, and he could throw some stuff to simulate the gun. I know he'd appreciate it. He's not too happy with how the fight went, either."

Her frown shifted, from unhappy to determined. "Right," she said. "I'll do that."

She turned without another word and marched away, her stride and her aura equally determined. It wasn't the optimal result, but hopefully it would help her feel better. If nothing else, the training would let her be more confident if they ended up going up against Solomon again.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, turning to survey his room. "I'm sure I left my pants around here somewhere..."

He pulled up in front of the Forsberg Gallery and hopped out, then tossed his keys to a valet, giving the guy a quick smile. There was a cold blue annoyance, coupled with the royal purple of indignation, but there wasn't any time for him to apologize, running as late as he was.

The Forsberg Gallery was lit up, the multiple spotlights attached to the building shining, moving patches of color all over it, as they did whenever there was an event going on. It was an effect that Dean had always liked. During the day the building still stood out, an ultra-modern construction of glass and steel, like a traditional office block that had parts of it pulled partway out or twisted at odd angles. But night was when it really shined.

It honestly reminded him a bit of his own armor. Something old, but with a very modern twist.

The foyer was as done-up as the exterior, with smaller spotlights, mirror-covered columns, and a marble-patterned floor. Long, colored-coded carpets lead to various doors and elevators.

A few security guards and attendants were hanging around, waiting to be useful, but he'd been to enough art openings and fundraisers not to need the help. He walked past them, with smiles and waves for familiar faces, each returned with as little enthusiasm as he put in.

A quick trip up and the elevator doors opened on a riot of colors not dissimilar to the ones crawling over the building's exterior. Seeing one person's emotions was easy, in a number of ways. Seeing hundreds, all at once, all together? Not so easy.

Having powers was great. There wasn't a doubt in his mind about that. But sometimes they came with... quirks.

He stepped out of the elevator, head tracking, trying to separate individual auras from the mass. It was always a bit of a trick at first. People's emotions were generally fairly similar. Much like a computer screen, the human mind had a limited range of colors and tones it could produce, and at a distance it all tended to blend together. At an art opening, there was the expected curiosity and anticipation, a bright sharp green that emanated from nearly everyone, forming a general background for the rest and mingling together until he couldn't tell how much was from any one person. He knew from experience that it would fade over the course of the night, eventually replaced with dull gray boredom.

Other colors were present as well, flashes and tides amidst the background expectation, flowing around as groups formed and broke apart, people affecting each other, spreading their own emotions through conversation or observation. Positive emotions for the most part, or at least ones Dean viewed as positive. Different shades of green, as attention was shifted, people interested in different things. Bubbling yellow humor, usually following a joke, tracked by laughter. Fluttering pink as younger – and some older – attendees flirted, or exchanged different kinds of jokes. Slower, deeper oranges as friends met and drifted off into their own worlds of conversation, impenetrable from the outside. More. Too much to parse it all.

Dean smiled, standing there and taking it in, barely even noticing the art scattered around the room.

Well, with fireworks like this, who needs it?

Yes, having powers was great. No doubt in his mind.

"Son."

Dean blinked, looking toward the source of the voice, focusing something that definitely wasn't his eyes, looking past the colors that danced around the room.

It took a moment, but he made out a slender, narrow man with a sharp jaw, taller than himself. His thinning hair was dyed a dark color, a futile attempt to mask the onset of graying hair. He wore an old-fashioned set of tortoise shell glasses, and a brown suit jacket over a blue sweater.

Not fashionable by any stretch, but that wasn't the point. Tom Stansfield, never Thomas, preferred to stand out than fit in.

"Father," Dean said inclining his head slightly.

"Good that you're finally here," his father said, turning to observe the hall. No accusation or disappointment in his voice, but Dean still felt a twinge. "What do you see?"

"Not much yet," he said. "Everyone's still doing their due diligence, pretending to be here for the art—"

"More observation, less sarcasm."

"Sorry," Dean said. "Everyone's still admiring the artwork"—he noted a cloud of heavy yellow, near the buffet tables—"or eating. Or watching the room, like us."

"Hmm," his father said, then nodded to a patch of lighter green, streaked with orange and purple. "What about there? Max and Celia."

Dean focused for a moment, making out Max Anders and Celia Arno through the cloud of colors. Two of his father's biggest business rivals. They weren't in the exact same business, of course. Max was in pharmaceuticals and Celia ran Formula 90 Innovations, neither of which directly competed with V Operations, but they were still the three biggest companies in the city, and they were all focused on research and development. Despite their disparate fields, they butted heads more often than not.

"They're enjoying themselves," he said, before adding, "though Max seems satisfied, more so than usual anyhow."

"Worrying," his father said. "Suppose I should join them." He turned to Dean. "Your girlfriend's here. Suppose you should spend some time with her."

Dean's face lit up at that. "Victoria's here?"

"Somewhere," his father said, waving around vaguely. "Saw her come in with that Brandish woman."

"Carol," Dean corrected.

"Suppose so," his father said, but he was already walking away, hands in his pockets, threading through the crowd toward Max and Celia.

Not that Dean was about to complain. He was already headed into the gallery, on a different path from his father's.

He didn't hurry, though. After all, as much of a human spectacle as the art opening provided, it would be a shame to just ignore the actual art.

Adele Brodeur was, if he was remembering right, a French artist, though not a popular one until recently. She'd moved to the city... years ago, he couldn't remember exactly, when her parents had moved their company away from France's increasingly stifling laws. He'd met her a few times, though she'd been an adult when he was still a kid, so they hadn't spoken often. He knew she'd tried painting, and sculpting, and music, but never achieved much success.

So this time she'd combined all three. Statues with paintings on them, that played music on a loop.

It was the sort of thing that got attention, though probably not the kind that lasted. Original in that it hadn't been done before – that he knew of – but not really creative.

Though he had to admit, it was interesting, if only because each piece seemed designed to be tonally jarring. A sculpture of a deer with a city's skyline painted on it, playing classical music. A sculpture of a woman in a dress with a woodland scene and something kind of jazzy. A sculpture of a tree with something colorful and modern-looking painted on it, playing some pop music he vaguely remembered from years back.

The pieces probably had deeper meanings to them, of course. He was sure that later in the night, when they were auctioned off, Adele or someone else would explain them. And they would all sell, probably for good prices.

I really shouldn't be so cynical.

Something his father brought out in him, and something he was sure Vicky could help with.

He redirected himself, looking for her more actively. His eyes passed over people of all types. Businessmen and women in suits, all focused on each other; reporters with cameras, always hunting for a picture; socialites in dazzling fashion; regular people out for a taste of high society; even the occasional art lover.

And, of course, the children of all of the above.

He spotted Adele herself for a moment, in the middle of a group of reporters and well-wishers, the gallery owner beside her. She was smiling, talking and laughing, by all appearances totally confident. But her aura was a darting blue, with pulses of green throughout, surrounding a small ball of bright white. Worry and anxiety, mixed with anticipation, and a core of genuine joy.

He smiled to see the joy. That was good. If nothing else, she'd worked hard to get to this point, and she deserved to enjoy it.

Of course, he wasn't about to go over and talk to her. Another year or two and he'd have no choice, but for now he could still play Tom Stansfield's son, rather than his heir apparent.

Something caught his eye for a moment and he turned his head to catch it. A different aura to the rest. Dark green and brown. Dread and despair. That stood out enough, but it wasn't what drew his attention. The aura was... bigger than he was used to. Or maybe thicker. More real, almost close enough to touch, and solid enough that he could barely make out the blond hair and suit jacket of the aura's owner.

He hadn't seen that before.

"Dean!"

He turned and smiled, everything else forgotten as Vicky rushed over to him. She was wearing a white cocktail dress with a gold belt and bracelets, and a white purse was slung over her shoulder. She reached him faster than anyone in heels should have been able to and returned his smile, grinning as she brushed a curl of hair behind her ear.

"Hello, glorious," he said, holding out his hand to her.

"Such a gentleman," she replied, giving him her hand. He raised it to kiss, and her lips twitched, holding in laughter.

It wasn't a big thing, but they both enjoyed it, playing up the chivalry, taking it over the top. It helped that his costumed identity was what it was, as well as the fact that to the world he was a rich trust-fund baby dating the city's most beautiful super heroine. So in a way it was expected, but still a secret joke between them.

Did that make it ironic? Maybe post-ironic. He could never keep up.

"So, my handsome gentleman, what was it you were looking at just now?"

"Oh, nothing much," he said, then leaned in to whisper to her. "I just saw a strange aura around someone."

She blinked, her expression going serious as she searched his face. He smiled, to let her know it wasn't anything dangerous – or at least he thought is wasn't, the emotions hadn't been angry or violent – and she smiled back.

"Well then, should I be jealous?" she asked, her tone teasing as she took him by the arm and leaned in close. "You never compliment my aura like that," she whispered.

He smiled, a bit wry. She was in a mood, he could tell.

"You know I can't read your aura," he said. "But if you want me to call you strange, I can oblige."

She tossed her head, batting him in the face with her hair, but otherwise didn't dignify him with a response. Instead she tugged on his arm, leading him toward a bench near the edge of the room, well away from anyone that might overhear them. Not that the gallery's constant hubbub or the musical statues were all that conductive to eavesdropping in the first place.

"So, tell me about it," she said, leaning in close, still quiet.

"The aura?" he asked.

"No, dummy. Your fight. You fought some villains yesterday, right?"

"Ah," he said, glancing up at the ceiling. He should have guessed. The south end of the city was New Wave's beat, but it had been a long time since a new gang had shown up there.

"Are you jealous?" he asked. She frowned at him, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Alright. I'll tell you everything I can."

Her face smoothed back into a smile. "You'd better," she said.

He nodded, thinking. "It's kind of weird, actually," he said. "The leader of the team also had a weird aura."

"The same kind?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. His was... spread out, reaching all over the place. The one today was just... intense. Compact, and very sad. I kind of wish I could have helped, but it's not like I could have explained how I knew."

"Want to try anyway?" Victoria asked.

"Maybe," he replied. "There's always the chance they're a new cape or something, and adding a new face to the roster couldn't hurt,"

"And because you just like helping people, right?"

He laughed. "Right, right, of course. Anyways, the fight. There were five of them, and they seemed fairly well organized. That's not the interesting bit though." He paused again, organizing his thoughts.

"Well, don't leave a girl hanging like that," Vicky said, leaning over to bump into him, impatient.

"Right," he said. "Well, the interesting thing about them is the team dynamics, I think. I already told you that they had Rune there, right?"

"Yeah. That new Nazi bitch."

Dean chuckled "Somehow, I don't think that's the language I used, but you aren't wrong. The catch, though, is that two of her teammates are black, and one of the other members – Turismo – seemed to share her opinions. Lots of bitterness from those two. I'm not sure, but I think one of them was even happy when the black guy took a nasty hit."

"And I imagine their teammates aren't so hot on them, either?"

"The guy definitely isn't, that much is for sure. He didn't seem to care too much for any of his teammates though. The girl though… I dunno, she was like you."

"Smart, funny, and ridiculously attractive?"

"I was gonna say impossible to read, but if saying yes gets me a reward, then let's go with that."

Victoria laughed and leaned against him again, more gently this time, resting her head on his shoulder. The couple embraced, staying pressed against one another for several comfortable moments. However, something took Dean's attention away.

A fluttering aura, floating over the crowd. Person-shaped, but with no person inside. Like a floating yellow dress, riding the waves of emotion around it. It took Dean a moment to notice that the yellow of the spectre wasn't a shade of its emotion, but instead the color of its attire.

The ghost was a dark-skinned young girl, hair done up in twin buns. Dean could've sworn he recognized her, but he couldn't say from where.

Her eyes were trained on someone in the crowd, whoever – and for that matter whatever – she was, she was there looking for someone. Then, as though she knew she'd been spotted, she looked Dean dead in the eyes, and a startled look was all the warning he got before she vanished entirely.

Three abnormal auras in two days.

"What on Earth is going on?" he asked.